Titanfall 2
A Warhound Titan stood in its full, towering glory—its massive frame casting a shadow over the battlefield. Towering over the Doom Slayer, the Titan's bolter cannons were a dreadful presence, their barrels glinting with the promise of devastation. A single step from the beast sent the ground trembling, a sound akin to thunderclaps, a warning before it unleashed its fury.
The Titan's eyes burned red as the Slayer stared up at it from below, the impossible scale of the machine dwarfing his form. Armor-plated and grim, the Warhound's body was a bastion of brutality, covered in Khorne's sigils and patches of daemon-spawned flesh, its legs powered by hellish force. The Bolter Cannons it carried—enormous rotary weapons that could obliterate entire squads with a single burst—hung heavy at its sides, ready to rip the Slayer apart.
The Titan took a step forward, its servos groaning, and raised its left arm, the Bolter Cannon beginning to spin with a deadly, mechanical whirring.
The Slayer stood still. He felt the moment—the presence of inevitability. A hunter facing a beast in a game of patience.
Boom!
A massive explosion of fire erupted from the Titan's cannon, a storm of high-velocity explosive shells heading straight for the Slayer. Each round the size of a small tank, incendiary and destructive, capable of scorching the very earth beneath.
The Slayer was already moving.
He sprinted toward the blast, his step like a predator's, his body flowing in sync with the rhythm of war. Sideways, rolling, a somersault mid-flight. He avoided the storm with precise agility, as if the Titan's bullets were moving in slow motion compared to his reflexes.
As the explosions rang out, the Slayer's chainsaw-like growl echoed—his Argent Chain Axe held in both hands, its metallic teeth roaring to life in the air.
The Titan turned, its other Bolter Cannon rising to fire.
But it was too late. The Slayer was already upon it.
With an impossible leap, the Slayer hurtled upward, the argent of his armour flaring with red plasma fire. He collided with the Titan's metal thigh, the momentum of his jump carried forward, his Argent Chain Axe slicing through armor like butter. Sparks flew, and the sound of tearing steel echoed as the weapon tore through the Titan's thigh joint.
The Titan stumbled.
For a brief moment, the beast lost its balance, the foot sliding forward, but it quickly corrected. The Titan's leg was still functional, but the wound was deep, a gaping hole where its armor once was. Its servos struggled to keep the machine standing.
The Titan roared, its voice a boiling wave of hatred and fury—a shrieking mechanical bellow from the heart of its engine, a sound that could crush the spirits of lesser men.
But the Slayer didn't pause. He sprinted around the war machine's injured leg, leaping from the ground and grabbing hold of the Titan's damaged shoulder joint. His Argent Chain Axe swung again—this time straight for the Bolter Cannon.
The axe sank into the barrel, and the Titan's arm was wrenched sideways with the force of the Slayer's strength. Another slice and the arm was severed at the elbow, the cannon hanging uselessly, sparks flying from the broken weapon.
The Titan staggered back, the deafening sound of its servos screeching under the strain, and with one final grunt, the Slayer leapt backward onto the bridge, landing with a crash on the cracked stonework.
Momentary Breathe. The Titan paused, seemingly assessing the damage. It still stood, its remaining arm raising the second Bolter Cannon to level at the Slayer.
But the Slayer knew it wouldn't stop him. There was no hesitation.
The Titan fired again.
This time, the Slayer was ready. Multi-Quadpowered Bolt Pistol flashing, he ducked to the side as the cannon roared, the shells crashing into the ground where he had been moments ago. With calm precision, the Slayer angled his pistols and fired directly at the Titan's torso—his Bolt Pistol's explosive rounds punctured the Titan's power core casing, flashes of ceramite sparks rippling through the war machine. It wasn't a killing blow, but the damage was enough to disorient its aiming.
Boom!
In an instant, the Slayer vaulted forward once more, closing the gap between him and the machine, the Argent Chain Axe raised high, glowing with an eerie, argent light. His target was the Titan's remaining shoulder joint, where its armoured plates were thinner.
With a single mighty swing, the chainsaw teeth of the Argent Chain Axe sunk into the Titan's remaining shoulder. The Slayer's arm locked—the weapon's teeth grinding into the Titan's metal flesh, cleaving through adamantium and ceramite with terrifying ease. The Titan recoiled, but there was no stopping the Slayer now. With an explosive twist, he tore the Titan's arm off completely.
The Titan staggered, its remaining arm swinging wildly, but the Slayer had already moved.
With a leap that defied all sense of physics, the Slayer landed on the Titan's back, plunging the Argent Chain Axe directly into its power core. The light flared as the machine screamed in agony, its armour plates rupturing and shredding as the Slayer drove the axe deeper into its chest.
With a final, mighty roar, the Titan's power core diffused, the Titan's body crumpling, and it collapsed, falling to the ground like a dead colossus, its massive body shaking the very foundations of the bridge.
The Slayer stood tall, motionless, his Argent Chain Axe still lodged deep in the fallen Titan's wreckage. The only sound was the hissing of the dying war machine as its systems went dark.
The Slayer breathed steadily, his face impassive. His bolt pistol still hung by his side, but it was the chainsaw axe that told the story of the battle.
Meanwhile warzone was back to being a place of unimaginable brutality, where every second saw hordes die in shrieking agony. No one knew what Slayer interference met and so they kept fighting. The Imperials were breaking. Steel Legion guardsmen had no chance. Their ranks, already thinned by the first waves of the enemy advance, were now a chaotic mess of terrified men firing wildly into the slaughter, some not even sure who they were killing.
The enemy came from everywhere.
The Traitor PDF, Gorekarn berserkers, and Chaos Cultists flooded the defenses, climbing over burning trenches, leaping over wrecked tanks, and spilling over fortifications like a living tide of blood and flesh. The Steel Legion were not trained for this. Their officers were dead, their command structure was shattered, and their discipline had crumbled.
What remained was desperation. A squad of fourteen guardsmen, holding a wrecked Chimera as cover, fired their lasguns blindly at the incoming horde.
A Gorekarn took a full volley to the chest. He did not stop. The guardsman closest to him screamed, bayonet raised —The Gorekarn took his head off with one backhanded swing.
Another guardsman, shaking so hard he could barely aim, tried to fire point-blank into the Gorekarn's face. The xenos warrior bit down, crushing the barrel of the gun with his teeth. Then he ripped the man's throat out.
And they just kept coming. Tank Crews Die Screamin. The Steel Legion's last Leman Russ squadron made their final stand.
The lead tank, "Unyielding Wrath," reversed over dozens of corpses, its battle cannon thundering. The shell punched through a charging Gorekarn warband, pulping bodies into unrecognizable paste. But they weren't stopping. A Gorekarn climbed onto the hull, gripping the turret with bloodied hands.
The tank commander fired his bolt pistol point-blank, blowing off half the alien's face. But another Gorekarn grinned through shattered teeth, grabbed the commander's arm— And pulled him out, headfirst.
The commander screamed as he was ripped from the hatch, his skull crushed between the Gorekarn's hands. The rest of the crew never made it out.
The warband pried open the top hatch, dropped in a brazen skulls, and sealed the door behind them. Inside, the tank became a slaughterhouse. Explosions tore through metal and flesh alike.
The last thing the gunner saw was his loader's body disintegrating, molten shrapnel turning his face into ruin. Then the tank burst from within, flames vomiting from its hatches.
One by one, the remaining Leman Russ tanks were overwhelmed, dragged down by sheer numbers. The Imperial armor was dead.
The Space Wolves fought like gods. They had no choice. While the guardsmen were crumbling, the Wolves held. Their bolters roared, spitting death in controlled bursts, tearing massive craters through charging cultists.
One Grey Hunter, his armor already cracked and bloodied, was surrounded. He ignored the pain. His chainsword whirled, disemboweling three traitors in a single sweeping arc. He punched through the skull of another with his bare gauntlet, crushed a cultist's spine with his knee, then headbutted a Gorekarn so hard that its skull collapsed inward.
He roared to Primarch Russ.
And then he was impaled.
A massive Gorekarn berserker, twice the height of a man, ran him through with a daemon-infused cleaver.
The Wolf spat blood.
Then he grabbed the blade with both hands— And forced it deeper through his own body to close the gap. The Gorekarn snarled in confusion as the space marine tore off his own helmet. The Wolf's fangs sank into his throat. They died together. Elsewhere, another Wolf Guard waded through the melee, both storm bolters blazing. Every step he took, something died.
A cultist's head exploded from a close-range burst. A Gorekarn warrior lost a leg, then an arm, then his life. The Wolf was bleeding out, wounds covering his body, but he never slowed.
Until a Warhound Titan's Vulcan Mega-Bolter found him. The massive gun cycled up. The Wolf Guard had half a second to look up. The world turned to fire and steel.
He was erased from existence. Their weapons were beyond anything the Imperials could counter.
A Warhound's turbo-laser ripped through the last heavy weapons teams, vaporizing men, bunkers, and entire sections of the bridge. Another war machine waded through the battlefield, its Inferno Cannon flooding the trenches with liquid flame.
The screams of dying guardsmen were drowned in the roar of the firestorm. And in the midst of it all — The Doom Slayer moved. The Warhound struck, bringing its titanic chain-sword down with the force of a collapsing fortress. The Slayer met it. Metal shrieked. Sparks and molten shards erupted from the clash. The sheer pressure of the impact flattened both bodies and ground around them. The Titan pushed.
The Slayer held.
Then he twisted.
The Warhound lurched forward, its balance momentarily disrupted— And he used that moment. He ran up its frame, his boots digging into the Warhound's armor, hands tearing through plating like flesh. The deformed metal and flesh fused mutated cockpit crew inside screamed as they watched him approach.
It was already too late. He ripped open the armored viewport, grabbed the lead pilot—And caved his skull in against the control panel.
The Titan shuddered, its machine-spirit howling. The Slayer buried his chain-axe into its core. The Warhound collapsed, its massive body crushing hundreds beneath its bulk. He was already moving. A Warhound fired its turbo-laser directly at him. The beam could have cut a battlecruiser in half. He was gone before it hit.
The turbo-laser annihilated and almost an entire kilometer of the battlefield. Many Guardsmen were simply vaporized. A Space Wolf was mid-swing, mid-roar, mid-battlecry—Then he was dust. But the Slayer was on the Titan before it could fire again.
The Steel Legion defenders of the front were no more. Their bodies were crushed beneath the shattered hulls of their own tanks, reduced to paste under the feet of marching Warhound Titans.
The Imperial line was shattered beyond hope. Only fire remained.
The four remaining Warhounds tore through the battlefield, their weapons ripping apart anything that moved.
A Vulcan Mega-Bolter screamed, its barrels rotating at hyper-speed, pumping thousands of high-caliber rounds per second into the wreckage.
The bullets shredded through steel, tore through mangled bodies, and ripped the land apart with sheer force.
A Plasma Blastgun vented superheated hydrogen plasma, firing a star-core-hot bolt that vaporized entire trench networks, melting the ruins into glowing slag.
Another Titan swung its Inferno Cannon across the broken ground.
The flames rolled forward in a burning tsunami, reducing everything to screaming, melting horrors.
The ground boiled.
The air burned.
And yet—
Doom Slayer charged through the flames with a Meltagun.
[Quad Damage! Quad Damage! Quad Damage! Quad Damage! Quad Damage! Quad Damage! Quad Damage! Quad Damage! Quad Damage! Quad Damage! Quad Damage! Quad Damage! Quad Damage! Quad Damage! Quad Damage! Quad Damage! Quad Damage! Quad Damage! Quad Damage! Quad Damage! Quad Damage! Quad Damage!...]
The Slayer slammed his fist into the ammo feed of his Meltagun. Reality screamed in protest. The weapon mutated, twisted, overloaded beyond reason. The barrel split open, glowing white-hot. World fractured around it. The air distorted, warping like light through molten glass.
The Doom Slayer aimed. He fired. A beam of Argent-fueled annihilation ripped from the Meltagun. Not red-hot. Not white-hot. Colorless. The Titan's Turbo-Laser arm — Ceased to exist. Not severed. Not melted. Erased. The machine lurched, reeling from the sudden, incomprehensible loss.
The Slayer fired again. A second beam—The Titan's Inferno Cannon vanished. The heat within its internal systems backfired, overheating its core. The machine twitched and spasmed, like a beheaded beast still clinging to life.
The Doom Slayer did not wait. He moved. He ran— faster than any mortal should. Faster than a man should. He leaped.
A Warhound Titan raised its surviving arm to swat him— He parried it. With chainaxe. The Slayer's Argent Chainaxe screamed against the Titan's Power Claw, sparks igniting the air. He twisted, dragging the Chainaxe through steel, severing servos and pistons in a spray of molten metal. The Titan recoiled, wounded, its arm locking in place. Doom Slayer holding it in place. Something that should be physically impossible because of the sheer weight difference.
And then—
The Titan lifted. Not a part of it. Not a limb. The entire Warhound Titan. The hundreds-of-tons war machine. Slayer lifted it on his shoulders. The entire battlefield froze. Even the remaining Titans hesitated. The Slayer roared, twisting at the waist.
Then—
He hurled it. The Titan tumbled, flipping mid-air, crashing into another Warhound like a wrecking ball.
They collided with sickening force, bending metal, caving in armor, twisting their towering forms into a nightmarish fusion of broken limbs and half-destroyed hulls. One titan damaged core's effect enflunged the other and both Titans collapsed into an explosion of steel and fire. The collision had crushed internal plasma conduits, ruptured reactor seals, and compressed thousands of gallons of promethium into a single, overpressurized moment of hell waiting to be unleashed. The first explosion was instant.
A fireball erupted from the impact zone, a nuclear-bright detonation that ripped open the first Titan's core like a bursting heart. The shockwave flattened anything within hundreds of meters, crushing traitor guardsmen, cultists, and Gorekarn alike into unrecognizable smears of viscera. The sharpenls even took out some loyalists. The second Warhound buckled, its internal systems overloading from the sheer force of the explosion. Its ammunition reserves cooked off. Then it went critical. A plasma reactor breach.
For a moment, the battlefield turned white.
Then—
The sky detonated.
A mushrooming fireball expanded outward, consuming everything in an obliterating tidal wave of flame and shrapnel. A steel storm of twisted, superheated wreckage scythed through the battlefield, cleaving through power armor, tanks, and flesh alike.
Any organic caught in the blast radius did not burn. They vaporized. The bridge itself cracked, its adamantium supports expanding under the sheer heat of the double-reactor detonation.
Chunks of molten debris rained down like meteorites, burying entire trenches in burning slag. The firestorm raged for minutes, a towering inferno visible for miles.
And at the heart of it—
One toppled over, crushing lesser vehicles and bodies beneath it. The other remained upright, but its systems flickered, sparking, struggling to remain functional. Doom Slayer rose from the carnage. The remaining Titan aimed its weapons. He stared them down. And the Titan started backing away.
But it wasn't the Titan that had caught the Slayer's eye.
No. He wasn't concerned with the machine. He knew its weakness now, knew its limits. What truly caught his attention was the Princeps—the mutant human mind at the helm of the Titan, fused with daemon flesh, sitting in the control throne deep within the machine. Corrupted, deformed, and monstrously powerful, the Princeps had a direct link to the Titan, guiding it like a puppet with strings pulled by an unholy bond to Khorne himself.
Doom Slayer's gaze locked onto the Titan's cockpit, the thin, red glare of its eyes shifting in the dim light. The Princeps wasn't just a pilot—he was the beating heart of this war machine. Take him out, and the Titan would follow.
He reached to his back and grabbed the Lasconon—a massive, laser-guided sniper rifle designed for long-range, high-powered shots capable of piercing even the thickest armor. A quad damage power-up crackled in his hand, glowing with an ominous energy. The power of four separate Argent energy charges thrummed through the air as the Slayer placed the device onto the Lasconon's body—the deadly weapon now radiating with supernatural might.
With a swift motion, he checked his optic sights. The Princeps' throne was visible, barely a silhouette in the Titan's head. His aim was precise, honed over countless battles. The Lasconon hummed as its laser sights aligned with the mutant pilot within the cockpit.
For a moment, everything seemed to slow down.
The Slayer's breath came steady. His finger hovered over the trigger.
The Princeps moved, adjusting in his chair, seemingly oblivious to the threat closing in. He was too focused on directing his Titan to notice the beast lurking in the shadows.
BOOM.
The shot rang out—the Lasconon's beam piercing the air with an audible crack of pure energy. The laser pulse tore through the distance, cutting through the atmosphere with a speed that defied the human eye.
The beam struck the Princeps—it didn't pierce the armor. No, that would have been too mundane. Instead, the quad-powered shot slammed into the cockpit with such intensity that it obliterated the mutant's very form. Flesh and bone were shredded into nothingness in an instant, the dark energy of the laser embedding deep into the Princeps' body, igniting an explosion of daemon-corrupted flesh and psychic force.
The Titan staggered as the Princeps' connection to the machine was severed, the machine's movements suddenly growing erratic. The Titan's head jerked to the side, the Bolter Cannon firing wildly as if the beast was in the throes of death.
The Slayer didn't hesitate. He was already in motion, sprinting across the battlefield as the massive Warhound struggled against its own failing systems. The mutant Princeps was dead. The Titan was blind—cut off from its power source. Then the machine just stopped working and simply gave up.
The remaining Titan that had been violently kicked into the toxic river below the bridge, its great form already battered, struggled as it struggled to rise. The mutant Princeps may have perished, but the daemon-fueled machine was far from lifeless. It had one final trick to play—a blind, death throes retaliation.
From the ruptured hull of the Warhound Titan, a massive missile pod snapped open with a violent roar, apocalypse missiles launching in rapid succession. The sky seemed to split as the warheads streaked forward, blazing streaks of fiery destruction. A few missiles veered off target, flying blindly into the distance, but others were aimed at the remaining forces on the bridge—Space Marines, Steel Legionnaires, and anyone unfortunate enough to still be standing.
In the distance, the missiles hit their mark. The Steel Legionnaires fell first, the shockwaves of exploding munitions shattering their ranks, sending pieces of metal, flesh, and bone scattering across the bridge. The Space Marines, with their superior armor and training, fared better but were still thrown back by the tremors. Plasma-fire streaked, but it was futile against the madness of the Titan's last stand.
And then, the missiles began to target the Doom Slayer.
A storm of fiery destruction began raining down around him, warheads exploding with deafening bangs, the air filled with the smell of searing flesh and toxic smoke. The battlefield was suddenly chaotic, as warheads burst like infernal flowers, incinerating everything in their path.
But Doom Slayer—he didn't flinch.
[ OVERDRIVE ]
His vision narrowed, and his senses sharpened as the power of the Overdrive surged through his veins. His body became a blur of motion, Godly reflexes taking over. Time slowed as his enhanced vision tracked the missiles coming toward him.
He leapt.
With an impossible bound, the Slayer's form shot into the air. A missile exploded behind him, and with a calculated roll, he landed gracefully on his feet. His Argent Chain Axe gleamed in his hands as he vaulted forward—his eyes locked onto the nearest missile.
Another missile was coming in—this one closer. With a burst of speed, Slayer jumped once more, his boots grinding through the shattered stone as he soared. His body twisted, twisting mid-air, as he used the missile itself as a springboard—his legs driving into its surface, propelling himself higher, narrowly avoiding another missile that followed in his wake. The ground seemed to churn beneath him as his overcharged chainsaw axe flared brightly in the sudden glow of Overdrive.
For a split second, the Slayer's mind seemed to clear.
The missiles came in waves, an endless barrage of destruction, but with each jump and leap, he danced between them, his axe flashing, his movements a fluid blur as he leaped off the next missile—using them like steps to leap even higher, like a demon defying the laws of physics.
It felt like sprinting through a nightmare as flames exploded around him, shockwaves propelling him further with every jump. He was no longer just moving. He was part of the madness, weaving between explosions as if it were second nature. Tactical perfection, uncontrollable rage, and unstoppable might all blended into one.
He fell forward reaching the fallen Warhound Titan, its massive form now an overturned wreck in the river below the bridge. Slayer came at it with force, barely feeling the weight of the coming impact as he rolled in mid air. The Titan's power core was still faintly glowing—its armaments still dangerously operational, even without the Princeps. It was the last of the machines, the last of Khorne's wrath on this bridge. Slayer wasted no time.
With an impossible speed, he surged forward, his Argent Chain Axe now glowing with a deadly edge of overcharged energy. The sound of its chain teeth hums and the grinding of metal rang in the air as the Slayer reached the Titan's prone form. He swung downwards with all his strength.
The axe sliced through the Titan's top to bottom like through wood log, a blinding flash of argent energy erupting from the impact. For a moment, the world seemed to freeze.
The Titan's body twisted and shuddered as its internal power systems crackled under the strain. Metal split open like cleaved meat, and with a final scream of tortured metal and dying daemon energy, the Warhound Titan collapsed, its innards spilling out, its life extinguished with one fell blow from the Doom Slayer.
Slayer landed on his feet waist deep in toxic sludge, he stood tall and his body was already moving again. Nothing would stop him.
The battlefield was left in stunned silence as the final Warhound Titan lay in ruin, its core sparking out, the ground around it littered with the bodies of its victims. The bridge trembled beneath the weight of the Slayer's victory.