Chapter 28: Bereft

Word Count : 12418

An agonizing headache the likes of which he had not felt in a long time was what roused Keled from his slumber. Behind his gasmask, a weak groan escaped his throat as the scorching sun shone through the lenses and the warm sand moved under his- wait WHAT?! Sand? Sun? Heedless of his throbbing headache, Keled was on his feet in a heartbeat, startled and very much confused eyes gazing at his surroundings. Sand, everywhere he looked there was sand, in such quantity the likes of which he had never seen before. And it confused him to no great end, because last time he checked, there was not supposed to be any deserts anywhere close to Helsink. Speaking of Helsink, where was the Hive City? That towering construct should be visible for hundreds of miles in any direction. And where was everything else? Where were the trenches, the foxholes, the artillery emplacements, the bunkers, the minefields? Where was his regiment, and their allied regiments? Where was everybody? Or perhaps a better question to be asking was…

"Where am I?" he wondered out loud, at a loss of what to do. His ruthless training had prepared him for many battlefield situations, but never something like this, and it left him feeling uncertain. But he quickly buried that feeling under iron hard discipline. The Death Korps were never uncertain, they never hesitated, the Death Korps always held the line no matter what. And when the order came, they advanced. Never retreating, never resting, never slowing, but always advancing. And so he would advance now, advance until he found his way back or until he was dead. Either one worked just fine for Keled. So he grabbed his lasgun and began to advance. He took two steps before he noticed a glaring problem with the lasgun in his hands; it was not an actual lasgun.

"What kind of contraption is this?" he asked himself in bewilderment, turning the weapon over in his hands as he inspected it with eyes well accustomed to the sight of standard-issue Guardsmen equipment. This thing looked nothing like anything he had seen before. Obviously a firearm of some kind, but it was lighter than what he was used to wielding, and it lacked the obvious parts of a las-weapon. Autogun, perhaps? But where was the ammunition being stored? And now that he felt it up a bit more, why could he move parts of the barrel? Giving it an experimental back and forth tug, Keled watched as what obviously had to be a casing was ejected from its side and landed in the sand. Curiosity dominating his current mindset, Keled picked it up and inspected the ammunition. Obviously a solid projectile, but not of a caliber he was familiar with. It was too big for an autogun, yet it was also way too small to be bolter ammunition. Shotgun? Possibly, but he had never seen casings like these before being used, and he had seen plenty while working with engineers to breach enemy fortifications.

Speaking of which, why did it have this weird coloring to it? Black markings? Did they signify an importance of some kind? That question made him inspect the rest of his gear, which only brought along even more confusion. Color coded ammunition? Metal gauntlet on his right arm? A wrist-mounted gun on his left? A strangely curved knife? Unknown objects that he believed to be grenades? Flak armor of unknown material composition? An object vaguely in the shape of a gun with a grapple claw? NO COPY OF THE IMPERIAL INFANTRYMAN'S UPLIFTING PRIMER?! That last part almost gave Keled the closest thing to an aneurysm that a Death Korps guardsman would ever experience.

In short, absolutely nothing he carried looked familiar to him. Vague similarities were there, but nothing in his current arsenal would even come close to being classified as standard guardsman equipment. What in the name of the Emperor had happened to him? That was when he heard it, the growling sound of an approaching vehicle. Turning towards where the sound was coming from, Keled could see something rapidly approaching, kicking up large clouds of sand in its wake. Without hesitation, Keled set off towards the vehicle at a very calm and sedated pace. If they were human and loyalists, Keled could hopefully get an explanation and a way to rejoin his regiment. If they were xeno or worse, heretics, then he would dispense the Emperor's justice upon their unworthy lives. As the distance rapidly shrunk between them, Keled's grip on his gun tightened. While he could not confirm them as enemies, he was beginning to doubt them being loyal servants of the Emperor.

Biggest tip-off was the lack of an Aquila anywhere within eyesight. Their mode of transport also looked far too flimsy to be military grade. Civilian construct mayhaps? If so, were they then rebels? Would make sense for them to scavenge whatever they could use. But maybe they were Elysians? He had seen enough of their lightly armored vehicles to maybe compare this to a scouting vehicle. But those inside looked nothing like Elysians. They looked more like PDF soldiers from some backwater world. By now, the strange vehicle had come to a stop before him, with its occupants climbing out with vaguely autogun-shaped guns gripped in nervous hands. Another sign that made them suspicious in Keled's eyes. Four of them in total, spreading out in a loose semi-circle while eyeing him warily. Yet another sign that put Keled even further on edge.

"In the name of the God Emperor of Mankind, identify yourselves!" he loudly called out, remorseless eyes glaring at the four strangers as he waited for a response. It did not take long, as a string of gibberish poured out of the strangers as their guns were raised. That was all the explanation Keled needed as he sprang into action. While the enemy still tried talking, Keled had already raised his gun while charging headlong at the enemy, four shots fired before the enemy even had time to react. Two hostiles fell, but the last two managed to fire back. Bullets whizzed past Keled, some slamming into his chest. It felt like being hammered by an angry drillmaster, but the unknown armor held and Keled pushed on despite the pain. First hostile was stunned by Keled's gun as it was swung like a baton into his face. Staggering back with a bleeding nose, he only had time to blink before Keled was upon him with a drawn knife, plunging it into the hostile's throat before ripping it out in a spray of blood.

Final hostile let out a scream of fright and tried to put some distance between them. Keled was faster as he leaped onto the hostile, pinning him to the ground beneath his weight as he grabbed the knife in both hands and plunged it straight through the hostile's eye and into his skull, ending his screams of terror. Hostiles neutralized, Keled wiped his knife clean on the enemy's uniform. Now that the situation was calm again, he began to wonder what- wait a minute, did he just hear a groan? Instincts took hold as he spun around with knife raised and ready, to find both hostiles he had previously shot feebly writhing on the ground. Very suspicious, considering he was very confident he had put those shots into very vital parts of the human body. Grabbing his shotgun, Keled approached the two hostiles, inspecting their wounds while they lay helpless before.

Or at least, he would have inspected their wounds, if there were any wounds to inspect. Instead, he was met with two hostiles who looked more like they had been clocked with the butt of a lasgun rather than getting shot by a projectile designed to rip and tear through flesh like it was jelly. Something was very wrong with this picture, Keled could quickly tell. Testing a theory, Keled aimed his shotgun at the closest hostile and pulled the trigger. There was the bang, there was the ejected cartridge, there was the scream of pain, but there was no blood, or even a hole in the target's clothes. What manner of foul trickery was this? And where was the damn bullet? It took him a moment to find it, lying in the sands next to its intended victim. And that one bullet just raised even more questions.

"What kind of ammunition is this?" he asked himself in bewilderment as he held up what was obviously not standard issue ammunition. Not only was it weirdly shaped, it was not of a material Keled could immediately identify. Definitively hard enough to hurt if hit, but too soft to be a reliable way to kill hostiles. Now that he thought about it, the bullet almost felt like… rubber? Okay, what was going on here? Why was he in an unknown desert carrying the kind of weaponry that no sane commander would ever issue to Guardsmen? By the Warp, he had seen PDF forces with better weaponry than this! All these questions, and no immediate answer in sight. It aggravated him to no end. Then another question creeped into his mind. Did he have any useful ammunition on hand? Quickly, he set about testing his assortment of ammunition on his very much unwilling guinea pig. Green ones just let out a puff of strange smoke. Useless. Yellow ones simply attached themselves to the target without doing much damage. Useless. Blue ones made the target spasm and obviously caused great pain, but very little else. Useless. And then he finally tried a red colored one, and the shot blew the target's balls right off in a shower of blood and piss. Useful.

Satisfied with his discovery, or at least as satisfied as a Death Korps Guardsman could ever be, Keled swiftly dumped all the useless ammunition and loaded the shotgun up with the useful ones. Almost as an afterthought, he spent two to silence the last two hostiles present, scattering their brains across the sand before moving on. Everything he had seen so far, everything he had experienced so far, it all confused him greatly. But that confusion was not going to stop him. He would push on no matter what, he would advance until every piece of flesh had been stripped from his bones, and then advance even further, all in the name of the Emperor.

Being a Metahuman was never easy. Being a Metahuman with iffy controls over your own powers was hard. Being the bastard daughter of a European monarch was brutal. Being all three at the same time was a nightmare for one Tara Markov. Booted out of her own country of birth by a paranoid father not wishing to see his country in ruin, from either earthquake of civil war, she lived on the run, moving from place to place with no clear destination. She slept wherever she could find shelter, she ate whatever she could scrounge up, and she did the odd good deed here and there. By now, the petite blonde had even designed a costume for herself, more to feel special than out of an actual need to protect her identity. There really was no need to protect something she no longer possessed anyway.

So she went from a super powered vagabond to a drifting superhero, kicking butts and taking names from the east coast to the west coast. Some called her a hero, some called her a menace, but Tara cared not one bit. She cared not for the collateral damage she inflicted, she cared not whether innocents got caught in the crossfire or not. In truth, she did not even care about things like justice or protecting the innocents. No, crime fighting was not a duty to her, it was just a convenient way for her to vent years of impotent rage. Every crook, every rapist, every drug dealer, every thief, they all wore the same face, the face that she hated above all else. In the night, she dreamt of watching him suffer at her hands for all the shit he had thrown at her. In the day, she fantasized about it.

One night, dreaming did not satisfy her urges deeply enough, and so she needed someone to take her frustration out on. Unfortunately, Metropolis had a very sparse collection of ne'er-do-wells which she could kick around with impunity. Really, what had she expected when barging into Superman's neck of the woods? Only the truly desperate or the truly powerful dared cause a ruckus in the same city as a guy who could shrug off artillery barrages, fly faster than a freaking bullet, and melt you with just a look. That did not mean that crime was nonexistent in the city of tomorrow, it just meant you had to look harder than usual to find it. And what Tara found was enough to set off alarm bells in her head.

The gangs, the small-time gangstas that squatted around in rundown parts of the city like their own fiefdoms, they were coming together. No seriously, she had seen gang members who but weeks previously were trying to murder each other now shaking hands and come together for whatever crazy shit they were up to. Digging deeper also showed a new set of strange tattoos circulating among the gangs, chief among those was some weird circle with eight points. But even when joined together in a single gang big enough to even give the likes of Intergang a bloody nose, they did not attempt at expanding from their rotten piece of the apple. In fact, petty crimes were gradually decreasing in number, but drug traffic was skyrocketing like never before. The bastards were filling their collective pockets, and then quickly emptied those pockets to stockpile on weapons and ammo. All this smelled way too fishy for Tara, which was why she did not just smash them into the pavement. She was curious, and she knew that brute force would not get her the answers she needed.

Instead, she played it real sneaky, stalking individual gang members to see where they went, keeping track of large gatherings of gangbangers, eavesdropping on drunken thugs bragging about whatever the hell they felt like sharing. It took her a few days, but finally it had paid off. A big gathering for new recruits was supposed to take place soon. A small part of her tried to argue that maybe it was best to bring it to the police or even Superman. But the larger part just gave that idea the finger. Like she cared what those morons did, she was playing detective purely for her own selfish curiosity. Now night had fallen, and it was time to sate her curiosity as she approached the gathering. Some old chruch that had stood abandoned for years, complete with Gothic looks and graffiti all over the exterior. Real cozy. Instantly, she could tell it was way more than just a gang thing, because she saw people from every nook and cranny gathering like flies to a carcass. Prostitutes, gang members, taxi drivers, shop owners, homeless, orphans, immigrants, drug addicts, janitors, even cops! They all came together with no sign of hostility.

Wariness battled with curiosity within Tara as she watched all these people come together under the same roof. Why would these people want to throw their lot in with common street thugs? Short answer, they would not. Unless there was something greater going on behind the scene. But in the end, her curiosity won out and she pushed on, the guards barely gave her a second glance as she joined the steady flow of people. Inside, she found a cathedral. Really, that was the best way she could describe it. The inside of what was supposed to be a half-ruined church had been renovated from top to bottom, complete with candles, religious icons, angelic statues and even stereotypically dressed priests walking among the masses. Had she stumbled upon a Christian sect or something? For crying out loud, they even had a massive painting of the last supper hanging above the altar at the far end of the Church. She was about to throw in the towel and leave, but something compelled her to stay. Something did not feel right, something hidden yet obvious at the same time.

Honestly, she had no idea what was wrong, everything looked good to her, nothing worth being worried about. That was when it hit her. It did not just look good, it looked perfect. Too perfect. As if a wool had been pulled off her face, Tara saw the place for what it truly was. Latin scriptures turned to foul scribbles that hurt the eyes looking at for too long, the wax candles looked way too much like human parts for her liking, the beautiful angelic statues were more akin to twisted mockeries, and the disciples around Jesus now had more in common with beasts than men. Tara did not even dare trying to describe the abomination that was supposed to be Jesus himself. The whole place, it was a den of evil and debauchery, hidden behind a veneer of beauty and kindness.

Why did Tara get the feeling that it was all meant to symbolize something?

Suddenly, it grew silent as every pair of eyes turned to the front altar, where a single hooded man had stepped forth. Thin, frail, with a staff as support, a massive book hanging from his body by chains, he hardly looked the intimidating sort. And yet, like everything else around her, Tara had the sinking feeling that something was not entirely right with him. If anyone else felt it, they obviously cared not as they beheld the man with open admiration. It was even a bit freaky just how enamored they appeared to be.

"Brothers! Sisters! True believers!" the frail man's voice suddenly boomed out with a strength no one of such physical frailty had any right to possess. "Tonight, we gather to give thanks to the true Gods! We gather to welcome the new blood into the flock, and to remember those lost to us! We gather to further the plans of the great Prophet, and bring about a new age!" okay, what crazy shit had she landed herself into now? Acting as nonchalantly as possibly, she began scanning for an exit, with little luck. More people had already filed in, she was now surrounded by fanatical lunatics on all sides. She would need to use her powers to get out should the situation call for it.

"We all come from different backgrounds, carrying different burdens on our backs! But none of that matters, for in the end we are all the same! We are the forgotten, the oppressed, the discarded, the shunned, and the hated! We are all those that society has left behind, that has dumped us into the filth and squalor to fester like unwanted garbage!" with each word spoken, the more animated the old man became, and the more fired up the crowd became. Anger, hate, resentment, jealousy. Emotions long buried in these people were bubbling back up to the surface, drowning their minds with a desire for retribution. Tara could most definitively sympathize with the lot of them.

"For too long have we kept our heads down and accepted our lot in life! For too long have we endured the boot of society's elite grinding into our backs! Today, I say this to you! NO MORE! No more shall we be oppressed, no more shall we suffer in darkness, no more shall we live and die as garbage! Soon, our great work shall be accomplished! With the guiding hand of the Prophet lighting the way for us, we will blaze a path through the darkness towards a new age! An age of freedom never seen before!" the wild proclamation had the crowd roaring in agreement, years of hate and bitterness boiling to the surface amongst the hundreds of spectators. Tara would be lying if she denied that a small part of her was actually agreeing with what the insane zealot was shouting.

"But before we join together in prayer, there is someone very special who has graced our humble gathering with his presence," as the priest spoke, footsteps could be heard approaching. Big and heavy, like a metal golem, with the accompanying clang of what Tara interpreted as a metal stick slamming into the ground. Then he stepped into view, and Tara felt her heart leap into her throat in shock.

"Please welcome the Prophet himself, lord Azkillon of the Word Bearers," holy shit was that dude big! Towering over everyone present by several heads, clad head to toe in dark red armor that looked thick enough to shrug off tank fire, with priest-like robes and a weird staff that was giving Tara the creeps, the stranger had her on edge. But everyone else seemed to be in awe at this armored behemoth. Must have been quite an important figure.

"Thank you for your kind welcome. It truly warms my heart to see you here today," Azkillon spoke at last, his voice carrying a slithering yet at the same time enticing touch to it as it reached every corner of the great hall without ever having to raise it. Each word spoken was enough to send chills down Tara's spine, though not even she could tell if they were of fear or excitement.

"You have struggled in your life, alone and forgotten. Handed a heavy hand by blind fate and cruel gods, you have endured its many hardships," as Azkillon continued to speak, he stepped down from the altar and began to walk amongst his faithful, who crowded around him like children gathering around Santa at Christmas. Their adoration and blind faith all but oozing out of their very bodies, and Azkillon seemed to almost bask in it. Not that Tara noticed these tiny details, she was hooked on every word he spoke.

"Through no fault of your own, you were abandoned by all you held dear. Your parents, your siblings, your friends, all turned their backs on you, leaving you alone in the cold world," his words were like spells, entrancing all those around him as they pushed and shoved to get closer to their beloved prophet.

"Now here you stand, in a place unknown to you, before a power unheard of. No doubt you are confused, afraid, and uncertain of what lies ahead. Instincts and morals ingrained into your very being since childhood is probably telling you that this is dangerous, that you should leave," by now, Tara did not care about the rest of this weird cult, she was solely fixated on this giant of a prophet, still walking amongst the masses like a shepherd inspecting his flock.

"But this is not a danger, but an opportunity. An opportunity to claim what is rightfully yours, to gain power beyond your wildest dreams and to exact your just revenge. This is your chance to not only make your wrongdoers pay for their transgressions, but to take that which has been denied to you for so long," at the end of his intricate speech, Tara was in no shape or form surprised to find that the great Prophet had come to a stop right before her, like he had intended all along ever since stepping down from the altar.

"The question is, Tara Markov of Markovia, do you have the courage to take this opportunity, and the resolve to make the necessary sacrifices to see it to the very end?" as he asked this, a gauntleted hand was extended in invitation. Tara hardly even needed a second to think her decision through.

"I do," she answered as she accepted the offered hand.

If Psimon was to be honest with himself, simple guard duty over a research outpost in the middle of nowhere did not feel like the most practical usage of his unique talents, regardless of how valuable the research material was. Still, recent events had proven that his presence was quite prudent. Who would have expected a Martian to come stumbling into his grasp like that? And who would have expected said Martian to be the focal point of a mind link between multiple individuals? A small part of him felt like applauding such an ingenious way of communication. A far larger part of him felt like scoffing at its amateurish defenses that let him all but mindwipe the whole lot of them. That girl had obviously been in possession of quite a bit of raw power, but raw power alone was not enough to beat decades of gruesome experience.

No matter, the Martian was gone now, and if she knew what was best for her then she would stay away. Still, her ill-fated venture had brought another unexpected boon to Psimon, and by extension his benefactors. The return of their wayward weapon, the Kryptonian clone. Said clone was currently strapped in tightly and subjected to regular voltages of electricity that even a Kryptonian would feel, exemplified by the clone's screams of pain.

"Sir? Is it really wise to keep a Kryptonian here, regardless of its mental state?" a very nervous scientist asked while eyeing the howling Kryptonian like it would tear itself free from its restraints at any second and squash him like the insignificant bug he was.

"Do not concern yourself with the clone, just focus on your assignment," Psimon dismissed the useless bag of flesh with a wave of his hand, and the scientist swiftly scurried away like a frightened rat. Still, Psimon agreed that there was a modicum of valid concern in the scientist's question. Fortunately, his much superior mind had already thought of it well in advance. Which was why he had sent a request to his masters the second he knew of the clone's presence. And the object of said request was even now resting in his pocket, waiting to be used. And as the clone gained enough of a cognitive function to try freeing himself, Psimon figured now was a good time as any.

"Down, boy," he spoke mockingly as he held up a fist-sized kryptonite in the air, allowing it to shine its toxic light upon the hybrid clone. As predicted, the clone ceased its struggles as its strength was drained from it. Psimon would have been happy to continue like this, tormenting the defenseless clone for his own amusement, but something else suddenly caught his attention. Something far more amusing.

"Well, someone's certainly a glutton for punishment," he said with a taunting smirk as he turned to stare at what looked to be nothing. But Psimon knew there was more hiding there than what mere eyes could perceive.

Ever since he could walk, Keled had trained in the most hellish of environments imaginable. Like every other new recruit of the Death Korps, the drillmasters had often literary beaten into him a determination most others would call suicidal to see things done to the end. Come hell or high water, Keled would march on. Through the coldest nights, through the hottest days, he would march. Through snow, through sand, through ash, through corpses, he would march. Nothing and no one save the Emperor himself would ever make him stop. Nevertheless, he was still mildly grateful when the sun went down and the vast desert was plunged into a chilly night, cooling his sweat-drenched body. Marching through a scorching desert in full gear was not a pleasant experience. In hindsight, maybe it had been a bad idea to abandon the rebel transport. But in his defense, Keled had little to no training on how to handle vehicles.

But those were concerns of the past and should not affect him in the now, especially when he had finally caught up with the rebel force. He had stumbled across them hours earlier, arriving just as they had packed up and left after having fought a vicious battle. What they had fought, Keled would probably never know. But whatever it had been, it had possessed the strength to tear armored vehicles apart with its bare hands, as testified by the mangled turret of a rebel tank of unknown design. Questions such as how and why were asked, but Keled discarded them quickly enough. He had no need for questions, only actions. And those actions called for the destruction of all enemies of the Imperium. So he followed the rebels. On foot, through the blazing heat, he marched on in the tracks left in the sand. Now here he was, a dune away from the enemy encampment. And he was not impressed. From what he had seen earlier, there must have been well over fifty soldiers that left the battlefield. Now, he counted only a dozen or so gathered around a single tent. Where had the rest of them gone? No matter, Keled would just deal with these ones first and then find the others. A decent enough plan, if you were to ask Keled. Only one thing left to do then.

(Quick tip; if you're able, put HMKid's song Death Korps of Krieg on a loop throughout the following fight scene for maximum awesome)

"In life, war. In death, peace. In life, shame. In death, atonement," he quietly recited as he made the sign of the aquila. 'Emperor of Mankind, look upon me favorably as I purge the galaxy of the traitor and the heretic,' then, he drew his shotgun and charged down the dune in total silence. Through a combination of poor visibility, a lack of solid ground for Keled's boots to slam into, tired guards, and sheer dumb luck, Keled managed to get close enough that he could almost see the whites in his enemies' eyes before an alarm was raised. And by then, it was too late. A snapshot from Keled on the run blew off the cheek and a third of a head from one guard, a second shot blew a kneecap apart in a shower of bone and blood, a third shot sent its victim screaming to the ground with a ruined shoulder, and a fourth shot struck right between the eyes of its victim, causing his brain matter to explode out the back of his head.

Then Keled was in close quarters as he ducked under a rifle butt before ramming his shotgun into a stomach and pulling the trigger. As the target fell over with a bleeding hole straight through his guts, Keled spun around to slam his gun into the head of his next target. As he staggered back in shock, Keled put his last shot right into his throat, blood gushing out like a geyser as Keled knocked him over and spun to face his next victim. Said victim was charging him with a bayonet-equipped autogun while screaming what Keled guessed to be curses in his foul tongue. Keled met his charge head-on in stoic silence, holding his shotgun by the gun barrel with both hands like a club. 'Undisciplined brute,' was Keled's assessment of his opponent as he batted aside the autogun and gave him a good whack to the head that left him stumbling about in a drunken stupor, allowing Keled to yank the autogun out of his grip with laughable ease.

With the practiced ease of a man born and bred for violent close quarters, Keled the rammed the bayonet into its formers owner's gut and gave it a few extra twists and turns to really mess things up. Then, with a kick and a wet squelch, Keled withdrew his new weapon from his screaming victim, right as he came under enemy fire. Instincts had him diving into cover behind a pile of wooden crates, a temporary shelter at best as bullets began chewing through the flimsy constructs. Not that it mattered to Keled, he just needed a moment to identify his next set of targets. He found them huddled around another one of their vehicles, one with what looked like a heavy stubber mounted on its roof, which was currently spitting out rounds as fast as it could. With calm and precise movements, Keled grabbed a grenade he had scavenged from the enemy patrol and hurled it at the vehicle.

It arced gracefully through the air, before striking the vehicle's roof and rolling inside. A mad scramble ensued as the heretics tried to flee the blast radius. Few were successful, and the vehicle went up in flames with a violent boom. The man inside simply vanished in a ball of flame before his scorched and mangled upper body flew high into the air. Those around the vehicle were knocked over by the explosion, many writhing around in the sand and moaning in pain from shattered eardrums or shrapnel wounds. Keled only gave a light grunt, ears ringing from the explosion, and charged headlong into the enemy. His first victim valiantly tried standing his ground, but Keled batted his autogun aside and rammed his bayonet into his stomach. Then, with a mighty heave, Keled hoisted the man into the air and threw him over his shoulder as he charged on.

Second target in sight. Keled gave him a smack to the face with the butt of his weapon, sending spit and teeth flying, before coming back with the rifle butt again to crush his Adam's apple. But Keled did not allow him to fall over coughing up blood from his ruined throat, hoisting him up and throwing him onto the bayonet of another charging hostile. Unbalanced by the unexpected extra weight on his bayonet, the hostile was easy pickings as Keled gave him a quick burst of fire straight to the face. More hostiles were charging, but Keled was undaunted.

"Come and taste the Emperor's judgment, heretics," he muttered quietly to himself as he charged right at him. Stunned by the brazen move, the heretics faltered. Keled did not. He barreled straight into his first target, bayonet disemboweling the heretic as they both went tumbling to the sand. But while the heretic stayed down, howling in pain as he futilely tried to keep his entrails from spilling out onto the sand, Keled bounced back up on his feet and went after his next target. The heretic desperately tried striking his target, but Keled knocked the clumsy thrust aside and came upwards with his own thrust that pierced the underside of the heretic's chin and burst out the top of his skull. A quick burst from his autogun at point-blank range all but shredded the skull before he kicked his bayonet free.

A sudden pain in his back alerted Keled of the fact that another heretic had snuck up behind him, his bayonet currently stuck in Keled's flak armor. Gritting his teeth, Keled spun around and slammed his rifle butt into the heretic's head hard enough to send his helmet flying away. Dazed and defenseless, the heretic could only lie in the sand as Keled came down with a vicious bayonet thrust straight into his throat. Keled twisted and tugged, ripping the throat wide open and drenching the sand red with gushing blood. Threat neutralized, Keled yanked out the bayonet still stuck in his back. He could feel blood drenching his uniform, and it hurt every time he moved too much, but nothing vital seemed to have been damaged. Good, meant he could keep fighting.

Bullets began whizzing past him. Seemed like the last few heretics had managed to regroup and form a firing line. Too bad they were so terrified by now that their shaking hands could not aim properly. One bullet ricocheted off Keled's helmet, another bounced off his shoulder plate, about three slammed into his chest, one lucky bastard snagged a piece of his thigh. But the rest just flew harmlessly past him. With a calmness no one caught in a firefight out in the open should feel, Keled kneeled in the sand, took aim and opened fire in controlled bursts. First target fell over dead with multiple holes in his head, second was still alive but rendered combat ineffective if his screams were anything to go by, third one was mortally wounded, but would not last long with a lucky bullet lodged in his lung, fourth one could expect a very slow and painful death with those bullet-riddled entrails leaking shit into his body, and the fifth one took a good spray of bullets to the chest and throat.

Then, Keled was out of ammunition. Luckily, so was the last three enemies. But while they wasted time trying to reload, Keled did what every Death Korps was taught and charged. First one at least had the common sense to abandon his attempts at resuming ranged combat and instead made ready to receive the charge, even though his whole body was shaking with fright. Keled came in with a feint to the left, but then switched to the right at the last second and found a soft spot between the ribs for his bayonet. Probably punctured a lung judging by how the heretics started spitting out blood. A scream of rage and terror alerted Keled of his next target rapidly approaching with a drawn knife. Keled quickly brought his autogun up to block, the blow glancing off the weapon and striking Keled's left hand. He lost a pinkie finger, but Keled barely reacted to the pain as he pushed the target back before coming down with an overhead blow with his rifle butt to the target's shoulder.

There was an audible crack, and an even more audible scream, before a blow to the face shut his mouth and a bayonet straight through the neck silenced him for good. And then there was only one left, and he tried a desperate charge against Keled's unprotected back. Instincts he did not even know he possessed kicked in as he dodged under the attack, grabbed the heretic by the ankles, and threw him right over his shoulder. The bewildered heretic landed flat on his back, he weapon flying out of his hands. Keled was on him in a heartbeat, boot firmly planted on his chest to prevent escape as his bayonet hovered right over his head. But just as he was about the deliver the final blow, the heretic started babbling in his foreign tongue while raising his hands in what Keled guessed to be a pleading gesture. He did not understand a single word uttered, but he understood the meaning behind it all. The coward was trying to surrender. He obviously did not know much about the Death Korps if he thought that would work. So Keled silenced his futile pleads with a single bayonet thrust straight through his right eye and into his brain.

Then, it was all silent again, with naught but sand and corpses surrounding him. A stinging pain on his left hand then reminded Keled that he had sustained a few wounds as he raised the hand to find his pinkie finger still attached by a few tendons. Keled promptly tore it loose with naught but a flinch as an indication of the pain. Now all that was left was the tent these heretics were guarding, so Keled threw his useless finger aside, pilfered a few extra magazines from the dead, and then marched towards his target. Or at least, he would have, if not the whole construct had not suddenly exploded in a violent tornado of unknown origin that sent Keled sailing through the air like a ragdoll.

It was over. Psimon was defeated, Superboy's mind was restored, the unknown tech was liberated, and the research station had been wrecked. Despite disastrous setbacks at the beginning, M'gann felt like this was a much successful mission. In fact, there was only one last thing that would make this perfect. And as they embraced in the sand, M'gann being tenderly held in Superboy's arms, their lips drawing closer towards one another, she felt that this last part was about to come true as well. But then, Superboy halted, his wonderful eyes tearing themselves away from hers to gaze ahead.

"Someone's coming," he answered the unasked question, and they both rose to face the potential hostile. But they quickly relaxed once they saw the all too familiar gasmask and white skull of their teammate.

"Took you long enough to get here, Krieg," Superboy called out, half jesting and half mocking. Of course, then they saw the state he was in. Ragged suit with mud and blood staining him from head to toe, he looked like he had just come out of a war.

"What happened?" M'gann found herself asking in concern. Krieg said nothing, simply staring at the two of them. No, only at M'gann, with a look that made her very much uncomfortable. Why did he have to stare at her like that anyway? It was almost like he had never seen… oh. Oh!

"Superboy, I never restored Krieg's memories!" she shouted in alarm, just as Krieg raised his pilfered gun and opened fire on the duo. Multiple rounds tore through Martian flesh, sending searing bolts of pain racing through her nerve system to her brain. She screamed in both pain and fright as Superboy threw her to the ground and stood before her like a living shield, bullets bouncing off his Kryptonian skin like acorns thrown by a squirrel. Undaunted by Superboy's obvious invulnerability, Krieg emptied his entire magazine into him before charging headlong with a bayonet. Superboy did not move, did not attempt to block or dodge the attacks, but stood his ground and took it straight to the chest. And it bounced right off like it had struck a tank. But Krieg would not give up as he struck Superboy in the face with his rifle butt, knocking the clone back a few steps but doing very little else.

"Enough!" Superboy barked out in anger as a backhanded slap shattered Krieg's gun and knocked the nutjob flat on his back. "We're trying to help you here!" but his words did little to stop Krieg as he leaped back on his feet with a drawn knife.

"Suffer not the xeno to live," Krieg responded in that dead and monotone voice of his before attacking, slashing wildly at Superboy. The clone for his part did little to defend himself, letting his crazy teammate tire himself out in his futile gesture of defiance. In a way, it was almost strange seeing Krieg like this to Superboy. Sure, Krieg had always been tenacious, never giving in no matter the odds, but this fanatical single-mindedness was something else entirely. To keep attacking again and again with the same tactic, as if expecting a different result from all previous attempts, this was beyond foolish. The Krieg Superboy knew would have at least paused to assess the situation for more favorable terms before going at it again. This on the other hand, this was just pathetic.

"Enough already!" Superboy shouted as he grabbed Krieg's knife and gave him a not-so-gentle push that sent him skidding across the sand. Call that overkill against a comrade if you will, Superboy currently did not feel particularly remorseful. Bastard had hurt M'gann, and he deserved to be roughed up quite a bit, memory loss or not. As expected, Krieg refused to stay down, even though he was clutching his chest in obvious pain, and was even now making ready to attack again.

"Fine, don't say I didn't give you a fair chance," Superboy finally said, cracking his knuckles as he stomped towards Krieg. But then he stopped, suddenly feeling his strength beginning to leave him. Vision slightly blurry, arms feeling like lead all of a sudden, legs growing unsteady, aching pains suddenly blooming all of a sudden, Symptoms he had grown accustomed to the last hour or so. Too late did he see that Krieg had accidentally unearthed Psimon's piece of kryptonite, no doubt lost during the previous struggle with the psychic lunatic.

"Damn it, not now!" Superboy snarled in pain as he backed out of reach of the foul radiation. Sadly, his actions had not gone unnoticed by his opponent. Krieg now stared at Superboy, face unreadable behind that infernal gasmask of his. Then, his gaze travelled downward to the green stone resting innocently in the space between them, then back to Superboy, then down to the stone, then back to Superboy, then the stone again. Superboy could all but see the gears turning in Krieg's head as he put the pieces together. Finally, a lightbulb must have gone off inside that twisted head of his, for he began to advance on Superboy again, scooting up the stone along the way. Gritting his teeth as the source of his pain drew closer, Superboy tried to back away again. But then he became aware of M'gann, weak and bleeding behind him, and he realized that he could not back down, not without putting her in even more danger.

So he stood his ground as best he could and met Krieg head-on. Krieg for his part was more than happy to face him one-on-one, charging headlong at his target. Superboy stood his ground, but the rays of the infernal stone quickly sapped his strength, and he was bulldozed by Krieg. Pain began creeping into every part of him, yet still Superboy mustered the strength to stand back up, just in time to receive a fist to the face. He stumbled back, disoriented from the blow, before a second blow drove him to his knees.

"Purge the unclean," he heard Krieg say, voice colder than ice, before Superboy felt a gloved hand grab his hair and yank it back. Then, the kryptonite stone was slammed straight into his face. Then it was pulled back, and Superboy received less than a second's reprieve before it came smashing back in again. Stars danced at the edge of his vision, and everything was growing blurry for the clone. But Krieg did not relent as he reared the stone back and slammed it into Superboy's face again, and again, and again, and again, and again. Like a well-oiled piston, Krieg arm went back and forth, pummeling Superboy's already abused face with the kryptonite rock. He did not stop when his arm grew weak, he did not stop as both stone and hand became drenched in blood, he did not stop when teeth went flying, and he did not stop when Superboy ceased struggling in his grip. He would not stop until he had reduced this abomination to a red smear in the sand. Only then would he be sure its taint had been adequately purged. Again and again, the stone slammed into Superboy's face, slowly but surely caving in an already ruined face. But Krieg did not relent, not for even a second.

"STOP!" a voice called out in panic, right before Krieg felt something stabbing into his mind. It was an experience like never felt before, like dozens of red hot knives plunged into his brain and twisted around. Unprepared for the agony, Krieg felt to his knees, discarding the clone and stone as he futilely clutched at his pounding head. M'gann, weak from bloodloss and mental trauma fighting Psimon, felt a glimmer of hope. It was wrong what she was subjecting Krieg to, but he needed to be stopped now. But even now, fighting a losing battle in a field he had no experience in, Krieg still resisted her attempts to restore his memories. Every gruesome step of the way, M'gann felt his mind fighting tooth and nail to drive her out.

"Please, Krieg. I'm only trying to help you," she called out to him, but her words fell on death ears. Suddenly, Krieg was on his feet again, a murderous intent radiating out of him like never before. His target however was not Superboy this time, but M'gann. Like a rabid animal, he leapt at the Martian, hands outstretched and aimed at her neck. Unprepared, M'gann only had time to utter a very shocked squeak before being tackled to the ground, two powerful hands clamping around her throat and squeezing. A furious struggle commenced as M'gann, concentration broken, tried desperately to dislodge the furious Krieg pinning her down with his superior body weight. Krieg for his part remained unmoved as he squeezed tighter and tighter, slowly but surely strangling the life out of the infernal xeno.

"Kr… Krie… plea…" M'gann fruitlessly tried to speak as her fingers clawed maniacally on Krieg' unmoving arms. Then, in a final moment of panic, M'gann's hands grasped Krieg's head instead as she unleashed every last vestige of psychic power left in her battered mind. It slammed like a sledgehammer into the furious Krieg, smashing right through his mental defenses with all the grace and subtlety of an artillery shell obliterating a bunker. Two synchronized screams of agony from two separate voices thus resonated both in the real world and in Krieg's mental plane as with a final push, M'gann sent all of Krieg's lost memories crashing into him like the charge of an entire brigade of Outriders. In less than a heartbeat, it all returned to the displaced soldier; the Warp rift, Gotham City, the Watchtower, Cadmus, Mount Justice, and dozen other names and locations. In that moment, his grip around M'gann's throat lessened, his mind being overwhelmed by the influx of information. For a brief moment, M'gann believed that a crisis had been averted. That moment vanished the second Krieg's hands resumed choking the hapless Martian.

"Infernal xeno scum!" Krieg snarled out, an unquenchable fury overtaking all rational thinking. His rage knew no bounds, his bottled up hatred exploding forth all at once, months of frustration buried under iron hard discipline boiling to the surface, and a desire to kill, the likes of which Krieg could never remember having felt before, seized control of him. So he squeezed, and squeezed, and squeezed. In that moment, he cared not for Batman, nor the League, nor their precious rules. All he cared about was killing the xeno pinned beneath him. To hell with consequences, to hell with repercussions, this bitch died now.

"Die, die, die, die, die, die, die, die!" he screamed in her face. The unholy fiend had dared to defile his mind, dared to taint his last haven in this Emperor-forsaken world with her very presence, and she would pay for it with her life.

"eno… enou… e…" M'gann desperately tried to force out of her throat as black spots began dancing at the edges of her vision, but Krieg would not relent. Tighter and tighter did he squeeze, snarling like a furious beast.

"ENOUGH!" M'gann's voice suddenly thundered with the force of a hurricane, except not out loud but rather inside Krieg's head. To Krieg, it felt like a hundred church bells had been struck right next to his ears, leaving his whole vision spinning like that of a drunken sailor trapped on a ship in the middle of a storm. Before he knew it, some invisible force was giving him a rather violent shove that sent him spinning head over heels before landing face first in the sand, his vision still refusing to stand still for even the briefest of seconds. And so the two of them remained lying there, M'gann violently coughing while trying to suck in precious gulps of air and Krieg stumbling about without any semblance of balance. With his head still spinning to the point of inducing a slight sickness, Krieg found his previous black rage slowly ebbing away, mind shaken up enough that rational thoughts could pierce the suffocating hatred.

But then, just as he managed to climb back on his feet without collapsing back to his knees again, his eyes landed of the still coughing M'gann, and the hatred returned. With barely any conscious thoughts guiding him, Krieg's unsteady legs brought him into a wobbly and zigzagging motion towards his target again. M'gann for her part had recovered enough strength to force herself back up on her knees. Martian physiology had already stemmed the blood from her gunshot wounds, and she would probably be good as new within a few days, but those wounds still hurt like a bitch. Not to mention that her throat hurt so damn much right about now. Those problems however ceased to be of importance once she saw Krieg approaching her again, a murderous intent engulfing him whole.

"Krie…" she began before a coughing fit interrupted her. "Krieg, listen to me, it's over. The enemy is defeated, we shouldn't fight anymore," her pleas touched something within Krieg as he halted his advance. But not for long.

"You entered my mind," Krieg spat out in hatred. "You went rooting around my own thoughts and feelings, defiled my last place of sanctuary in this insane world, tainted my very memories with you mere presence," each hateful word was accompanied by another menacing step towards her. A moment of panic gripped M'gann, a flash of fear trying to worm itself into her kind heart. Unbidden, images from Santa Prisca flashed by, of Krieg having her pinned like she was naught but a newborn babe, threatening her very life. But then, something else surfaced, something she had not felt so strongly in years. It had stayed buried, forgotten beneath all the cheer and optimism, beneath all her fears and insecurities. And yet now, as she reached a breaking point she had not even been aware of, something snapped inside M'gann, and this feeling came roaring back to the surface.

Rage.

"I defiled you? I fucking saved you, your ungrateful bastard!" she screamed with a vocabulary neither had been aware she was in possession of. And the sheer force behind her scream was enough to stop Krieg dead in his tracks like someone had punched him in the gut.

"If it wasn't for me, you would be spending the rest of your life wandering the planet with no fucking clue where you were or how to get home! Hell, you probably wouldn't even have made it out of the desert before dying of dehydration or getting captured by Queen Bee's men! I helped you, even though you almost killed me and Superboy, and you have the gall to come and lecture me about defiling you?!" she screeched at him in anger, her earlier fear completely forgotten. In the wake of this outburst, some of Krieg's own anger was doused. Some, but not all.

"You offered aid neither desired nor appreciated, xeno," he spat right back at her, reluctantly reigning in his homicidal urges. As much as he desired to simply wring her pathetic neck, he knew it would amount to nothing but a token show of defiance. It would have been enough for him back home, for he would have died safe in the knowledge that another would fight on in his stead. Here, there were no such assurances. He was well and truly alone, the sole bearer of the Emperor's torch in this backwater place.

"Are you serious? You would have rather died accept help from me?" M'gann asked in disbelief, but Krieg was already ignoring her as he turned to walk away.

"We will never speak of this again," he ordered brusquely, something which did not sit well with the Martian.

"Wait, you expect me to keep quiet about this?" she questioned in anger, anger that this time harmlessly bounced off Krieg's uncaring exterior.

"Yes," he simply answered without even looking at her, his gaze locked on the horizon as he tried to figure out which direction to walk in.

"You almost crushed Superboy's skull with a piece of kryptonite, and you nearly strangled me to death even after I restored your memories. Do you honestly expect me to keep quiet about that?" there was a frosty tone unheard of from M'gann as she said this, a glare devoid of all the sheer so synonymous with the naïve Martian. That at least served to catch Krieg's attention, and a miniscule flinch came from M'gann as his empty stare fell upon her again.

"You're still alive, be thankful for that," Krieg responded, but he was surprised to find that the xeno had somehow grown a spine as she refused to back down.

"Not this time, Krieg. You're not running away from this," M'gann declared. She was sick and tired of constantly tiptoeing around Krieg. Today was the last straw for her.

"I will not be lectured about running away by a xeno hiding its true form," and that comment, courtesy of Krieg, sent all of M'gann's recently gained confidence plummeting like a rock.

"What?" that single word was barely more than a terrified whisper, but Krieg still heard her.

"You were sloppy while poking around in my mind, and accidentally projected a few of your own memories into me, particularly one where you're looking yourself in a mirror before coming to Earth," Krieg bluntly revealed, glaring at the Martian in disgust. It was like a button had been switched, as M'gann's previous bravado evaporated like a drop of water in a volcano, replaced by a fear like never before.

"Y-you can't tell anyone! No one can know the truth!" she all but screamed in panic, eyes wide and close to bursting into tears. To Krieg, it was a much unexpected change that threw him for a loop.

"What? Can't even endure your own appearance? And here I thought you could not grow even more pathetic," Krieg sneered at her in obvious disgust, but M'gann did not seem to hear him. Too preoccupied with her own meltdown.

"Not again, I can't go through it again," he vaguely heard her mutter as her eyes darted around like a frightened animal seeking an escape route.

"Just what are you babbling on about, you-" he began to say, right before he felt a painfully familiar sensation slamming into his mind with full force. He screamed in pain, a feeling akin to getting his brain set on fire burst out as a psychic presence crushed his mind like it was nothing but an annoying bug.

"NO! That's not what I wanted to happen!" M'gann screamed in terror, even as her psychic power slowly shredded Krieg's mind who could do naught but collapse to the sand clutching his head in pure agony. Then, the pain began growing distant as darkness began creeping in. The last thing, Krieg saw was M'gann's terrified face before everything grew dark. 'Curse you, abominable xeno,'

The place had certainly thrived these last few weeks. Once a base capable of housing an entire army, now it WAS housing an entire army. Cultists and mercs, cutthroats and psychos, all joined under the banner of the Eightfold Path. Even a good number of Metas had begun to gather in numbers, adding their vast powers to the cause. Currently Azkillon was monitoring some of the new blood as they worked hard to hone their powers for the inevitable war.

"They're progressing well," Azkillon observed as the young girl he found in Metropolis ripped a boulder the size of a tank loose and used it to bludgeon her targets to pieces.

"Indeed, my lord, though I worry about Metamorpho. He does not seem as committed to the cause as the others," Anarky remarked from his spot next to Azkillon.

"Who?" Azkillon inquired curiously, not being familiar with the name.

"The former guard you resurrected. He felt like he deserved a new name after becoming a Meta," Anarky revealed with an uncaring shrug.

"Kids these days," Azkillon lamented. Their conversation was then interrupted by a very nervous servant approaching the duo like an unarmed boy creeping towards a sleeping bear.

"Uhm… excuse me, my lords…" the servant began haltingly, but froze up ike a deer caught in a headlight when Azkillon turned his remorseless eyes upon his pathetic form.

"What?" Azkillon drawled uncaringly, and the servant mustered his feeble courage and continued speaking.

"S-someone h-h-has been t-trying to c-contact you through the R-Rift," the news made Azkillon uneasy. The Rift was Azkillon only connection to his home dimension, small and weak to the point that he could barely feel the presence of the Four. Communication through the Rift was a difficult process, not to mention costly. Furthermore, he only knew of one individual who would contact him from the Warp, and Azkillon was in no mood to talk to him. Nevertheless, he knew that ignoring the summons would be most unwise, no matter how tempting it was.

"Excuse me for a moment," Azkillon said before striding away, heading deeper into the complex. Mortal servants hurried to vacate his path and bow in subservience, but Azkillon barely noticed any of them, too focused on the coming discussion. Finally, he entered the innermost sanctum, guarding the gateway to the Gods. It was truly a tiny thing, barely large enough to push an arm through, and constantly fluctuating as it threatened to be extinguished. Surrounded by dozens of disciples valiantly fighting to keep the Rift open, the effort slowly draining them of life. Had things continued as they were now, these ones would have lasted another week before they would have needed to be replaced. Now however, those replacements would have to be called in very soon. Chanting in the foul tongue of the True Gods, Azkillon slammed his staff into the floor four times, each strike accompanied by a benediction to one of the Four. And on the fourth strike, the Rift erupted in a violent outburst of Warp energy. Absentmindedly, Azkillon heard the anguished screams of the disciples as their souls were ripped out of their bodies to fuel the ritual. Those screams were quickly drowned out by the roar of daemons, and the wails of untold damned souls suffering in the currents of the Immaterium. The chamber became awash with colors beyond imagining as the very stones warped and twisted by the whims of creatures beyond the touch of reality. Then, with a final blinding explosion, the Rift calmed down, and Azkillon could feel a single, dominating mind glaring at him from the other side.

"AZKILLON!" a powerful voice boomed, the force behind it shaking the very ground beneath Azkillon's feet. Without hesitation, the sorcerer went down on one knee and lowered his head in subservience.

"Lord Markoth, it is an honor to be in your presence again," he greeted with as much humility as he could muster.

"SPARE ME YOUR GROVELLINGS, SORCERER! I DID NOT SACRIFICE A HUNDRED SLAVES JUST TO HEAR YOUR PATHETIC ATTEMPTS AT LICKING MY BOOTS!" Markoth roared, and it took all of Azkillon's self-control not to leap to his feet and blast the insufferable warlord with all his power. His restraint stemmed mostly from the knowledge that such an action would amount to nothing.

"Apologies, my lord. How may I be of service then?" he instead asked, still kneeling in supplication.

"I'M GROWING IMPATIENT, SORCER! HOW SOON CAN MY ARMY INVADE?" Markoth's comment was as straight-forward as it was expected.

"We are on schedule, my lord. Our influence spreads further for every day, and we should be ready in six months' time," Azkillon answered. It proved to be the wrong thing to say, as the Rift flared up with sudden intensity.

"THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH! EVERY DAY I LINGER IN THE EYE OF TERROR WITH MY ARMY, MY RIVALS GROW SUSPICIOUS! WE MUST ACT NOW, BEFORE THEY LEARN OF MY PLANS!" Markoth's roar was almost powerful enough to knock Azkillon on his back, and the fury behind it was like a furnace as the corpses of the disciples turned to ash under its scorching intensity.

"My lord, I must advice caution. We are not yet ready here, and any attempts to accelerate the timetable could place it all in jeopardy," Azkillon counseled, and could all but feel Markoth's infuriated glare burning straight through him.

"ARE YOU QUESTIONING ME, SORCERER?" Markoth's question was enough to send chills down Azkillon's spine. For all his opinions of the warlord, Azkillon knew more than well that Markoth was not a man you easily crossed, or displeased for that matter.

"Of course not, my lord. I will begin preparations for your arrival as soon as possible," Azkillon assured with a deep bow, hoping to placate the temperamental warlord.

"SEE TO IT, SORCERER! I EXPECT TO SET FOOT ON TERRA BY THE MONTH'S END!" not even a little gratitude. That was life under Markoth's rule.

"As you command, my lord," Azkillon promised, bur Markoth had already lost interest in his subordinate.

"ONE DAY SOON I SHALL BE THE EQUAL TO THAT OF KOR PHAERON AND EREBUS! NO, EQUAL TO THAT OF LORD LORGAR HIMSELF!" Markoth vowed in a moment of self-gratification before withdrawing his presence. It was like someone had flipped a switch, as the waves of Warp energy receded until all that was left was a tiny hole in reality barely big enough to fit an arm through. Almost instantly, the doors were swung open and fresh disciples were rushed in to keep the Rift stable. Azkillon for his part remained unmoving throughout the commotion, even when Anarky joined his lord.

"What news from the other side, my lord?" he inquired, but was met with silence at first. Patiently, he waited as his lord remained on his knees, lost in his own thoughts. Then, at last, his helmeted head turned to regard his servant.

"We have work to do," was all he said on the matter.

An agonizing headache the likes of which he had not felt in a long time was what roused Krieg from his slumber. Behind his gasmask, a weak groan escaped his throat as the organic material of the Martian's accursed bioship shifted slightly under his movements.

"Hey. He's waking up!" Robin's grating voice intruded upon his slumber, and Krieg reluctantly opened his eyes, to find most of his team gathered around him.

"How're you feeling there, big guy?" Artemis asked, and it took a moment for Krieg's scrambled brain to formulate a response.

"Mission status?" his groggy question brought out tired, but still somewhat amused, smiles from those gathered.

"Yup, he's all fine and dandy," Kid Flash remarked in good humor. Humor that Krieg did not see as he slowly began pushing himself back up, only to be stopped by a small but surprisingly strong hand on his shoulder.

"Whoa, take it easy there. You've taken quite the pounding," Robin cautioned as he kept Krieg down.

"No time for that, we need to complete the mission," Krieg insisted. He may despise these fiends, but he was not going to lie around and let them do all the work alone. It would reflect poorly upon his character.

"Dude, the mission's over," Kid Flash suddenly butted in, and his comment threw Krieg for a loop.

"What are you talking about? We have not even arrived at our target coordinates," he countered. He did not like the looks of understanding that passed between them.

"Well, M'gann did say that Krieg had been hit pretty severely," Artemis added her own two cents to the conversation.

"Hit by what?" Krieg growled out, not at all appreciating being left in the dark like this.

"M'gann told us that you got dragged into a fight with Psimon, which scrambled your brain pretty badly. She was able to fix most of it, but your memories from the last day or so is probably lost for good," Robin's explanation brought a sudden surge of anger to Krieg as he pushed himself up.

"She went through my mind?!" his infuriated question shocked the team to the point that none tried to stop him when he struggled back up on his feet. But they regained their bearing when Krieg tried to push his way through them.

"Slow down there! If it wasn't for her, you and Superboy would be dead!" Robin protested as he blocked Krieg's path. His first instinct was to shove the insolent boy aside, and he even raised his hand to do just that. That was when he saw the actual state of his hand. Since when did he have only four fingers? Seeing what had halted his progression, Robin did his best to fill in the details.

"Don't know what happened to your finger. M'gann brought you in like that. But judging by Superboy's state, I'd say you got off easy," it was only then that Krieg became aware of the fact that someone else was laid out upon another makeshift table. Though his face was nigh unrecognizable beneath the blood and the swelling, Krieg could easily hazard a guess and conclude that it was the abominable xeno clone.

"Must have been quite the fight," he mused as he beheld the extent of the xeno's injuries, offering a small prayer to the Emperor that the wounds would prove fatal. Doubtful, considering Kryptonian endurance, but one could hope.

"From what M'gann's been saying, it sure was. And we even got a cool souvenir out of it!" as if having waited for its cue, a huge metallic sphere came rolling in with a series of enthusiastic beeps and bleeps. Its very presence had Krieg's spine stiffening as he beheld the abomination before him.

"That's… unexpected," he finally forced out of his throat, even though he had less than flattering things he really wanted to say. Meanwhile, at the bioship's controls, M'gann steered the ship onward with a weak but at least conscious Kaldur at her side. Seeing her downcast look, the Atlantean tried to console.

"You did your best, no one can fault you for that," he said. But M'gann was not affected.

"Krieg will," she countered, and Kaldur did not even try to deny that point.

"Just give him time, and he should get over it. If not, know we're here for you if you need it. He's not going to hurt you while we're around," he instead reassured her, which brought out a tentative smile.

"Thanks, Kaldur," she spoke sincerely.

"Anytime, that's what friends are for," he assured before they lapsed into comfortable silence. Unseen by Kaldur though, M'gann was still plagued by shame and guilt. Not for what she told the team she did, but rather for what she really did, and for what she would never tell them. 'I'm sorry, I just can't take the chance,'

The mood among the Light had been a mixed bag so far. Successes were constantly matched by failures, and every day they lost more operatives. Seemed like Earth's governments were a bit cleverer than they had given them credit for. Which was why every speck of good news was greatly appreciated.

"Well, I'd say this was a successful test of our new delivery method," the ever charming Lex Luthor commented as they reviewed the recent events in Bialya.

"Agreed, though it's a shame that both the Sphere and the Superboy escaped," Ra's al Ghul added regretfully.

"No matter, more tech will soon arrive to tip the scales back in our favor," Queen Bee, arrogant and imperious as ever, was quick to add.

"Agreed, but that is not all of value we learned today," as Vandal Savage's deep and powerful voice spoke, holographic images sprang up around the members, each showing a looped footage of Krieg's ruthless slaughter of Bialyan troops.

"A surprise to see such a ruthless streak in a hero of all people. Tell me, who is this boy?" Ocean Master's question was one silently echoed by quite a few members.

"A party pooping jackass with more balls than brains," Klarion's nasal voice sneered as his familiar Teekl hissed in anger at the images of Krieg. Clearly, he was still sore about their last encounter. The Lord of Chaos was politely ignored for the moment.

"He calls himself Krieg, an associate of the Justice League. Quite an interesting lad, if a bit too short-sighted. I hear Deathstroke has taken an interest in the boy," Luthor explained to his colleagues, having had the most interaction with the boy out of them all.

"I'm personally more interested in what this means," Ra's al Ghul interjected before addressing Queen Bee. "Psimon said that he erased six months of their memories, correct?"

"Correct," Queen Bee confirmed, and Ra's al Ghul continued his musing.

"And for how long have this Krieg been active?" this time the question was directed at Luthor, who was quick to answer.

"According to my sources, he was first reported to be in action around five months ago,"

"Then the question I want to ask is this: where did he come from, and who was he before joining the League?" as Ra's al Ghul asked this, the screens all froze to show the same image, that of Krieg thrusting his bayonet into the skull of a Bialyan soldier as he tried to surrender.

"Let us not be distracted by one hero. While he is no doubt an intriguing young man, he's inconsequential in the grand scheme of things," Vandal Savage warned. As a man who has existed since the dawn of humanity, he had seen men like Krieg rise and fall throughout the millennia.

"I wouldn't say that. Considering how things have gone so far, we should keep an open mind about recruiting additional help," Luthor spoke up again, obviously seeing the PR value of having a hero on their side.

"Screw that! I say we just kill the brat and call it a day!" Klarion vehemently protested.

"Klarion does raise a valid point. Would he even be interested in working for us? A willingness to kill does not mean a willingness to cooperate," Ocean Master was quick to point out.

"I'm sure I can quickly find out. After all, I believe an upcoming plan of ours could serve as the perfect opportunity to get to know this newcomer better," Luthor suggested, with Klarion sneering at the mere thought of letting that punk live.

"Feel free to improvise, old friend, but do not jeopardize the mission. Our goals are far more important than one boy," Vandal Savage gravelly warned.

"Fear not, my friend. I know well enough the stakes here,"

Before wrapping this chapter up, I'd just like to give a quick shout-out to deathwing17 for providing me with the OC Markoth. Greatly appreciated, man, and I hope you like his debut in the story.