M41.250 — Surface of Myrrak
+01:07:44 from Drop
They had descended past the point where steel ended and the hive began.
The walls were breathing now.
Not metaphorically. Not imagined. The resin-lined corridors rose and fell with a slow, rhythmic shudder — like lungs inhaling rot. The structure had stopped imitating a facility and begun asserting itself as something alive. Something territorial.
Team One moved in silence, bolters readied, optics sweeping the gloom.
They had already fought three times.
The first engagement came in a constricted junction — Spinegaunts swarming in tight waves, fleshborers spitting globs of burning bio-matter. The team advanced through it like a slow storm. Varras took point, cutting down targets with exacting fire. Dravon cleared the upper ducts. By the time the last xeno twitched, the corridor was theirs.
Then came the Hormagaunts — fast, feral, bounding off walls in manic leaps. Maedon dropped a frag mid-charge. Tyrax's flamer turned the corridor into a blast furnace, incinerating half the pack before they could close the gap.
Behind them, Rippers began to gather — drawn by the heat, the blood, and the bodies. The little beasts clambered from cracks in the floor, skittering over fallen gaunts, nipping at the edges of armor. But they kept their distance, wary of flame and bolter.
The team pressed on.
---
Later — deeper into the hive
Boots moved in unison — no words, just the steady rhythm of Astartes advancing into hostile dark.
Then Maedon broke the silence. "Hive's too quiet."
"Means it's thinking," Tyrax replied.
"Or hunting," Dravon muttered.
Varras scanned the edges with his scope. "Still nothing on motion."
Caelan slowed. His helm shifted slightly. "Stop."
The team halted.
He stared ahead — not at anything specific, but listening, watching.
Then came a tremor — low, pulsing. Movement ahead.
"Warriors," Varras said, leveling his bolter. "Two. Close."
They emerged from a side junction — towering Tyranid Warriors, blades twitching, talons clicking against the resin. One hissed, flexing its massive frame to full height.
"Take them," Caelan ordered.
The corridor lit with muzzle flashes. Bolter rounds slammed into thick armor. Tyrax's flamer cut across the leftmost one, staggering it.
Maedon vaulted low, angling a shot beneath its arm — ichor burst from the joint.
The second Warrior charged, bulling through fire. Its bonesword hacked into the wall near Dravon, missing his shoulder by inches.
Dravon strafed to flank.
Then the floor exploded.
A second shock — this time from below.
The resin cracked in a burst of gore and filth — a Lictor surged upward, a blur of claws and camouflaged sinew.
Dravon didn't have time to react. A talon punched clean through his torso, lifting him into the air.
"Dravon!" Varras shouted.
Caelan pivoted, bolter raised. Three shots. One hit the Lictor's side — green mist sprayed from the wound — but it didn't stop.
With a hiss, it vanished through the floor, dragging its kill.
Tyrax lunged, flame ready — but the gap had already sealed.
The second Warrior struck. It crashed into Maedon, slamming him into the wall. Armor cracked.
"Hold the line!" Caelan barked.
His chainsword roared to life. It met the Warrior's talons in a burst of sparks and gore. Tyrax swept in, fire sweeping the creature's flank. Maedon steadied, raised his bolter, and fired point-blank into its throat.
The Warrior dropped.
The second went down under crossfire, bolter rounds chewing through its gut and spine.
The silence afterward was heavier than before.
Caelan stepped to the sealed floor, scanning the rupture.
"Second Lictor," he said, voice low. "Stronger than the first."
Maedon stood beside him. "He never saw it."
"None of us did," Varras added. "It was faster."
A pause.
"Forgive us, brother," Maedon said.
Caelan gave a nod. "Check weapons. Wounds. We move in two."
The team shifted into motion — calm, mechanical.
Tyrax reloaded. Maedon brushed shell fragments off his chestplate. Varras cleaned his optics near a low outgrowth.
Then Caelan raised a hand to his helm.
"Team Two, this is Caelan."
A pause.
"We've suffered a casualty. Respond."
Only static.
"They replied before," Maedon said. "After the first Lictor. That was about half an hour ago."
Caelan glanced toward Varras.
The marksman keyed the vox manually. "Team Two, confirm receipt. This is Team One. We have lost a brother. Do you read?"
Nothing.
Just the hive's low, wet breathing.
Varras exhaled. "Could be signal degradation. Hive mass is thick here. Or—"
He didn't finish.
Caelan didn't flinch. "We find the node. We finish the mission."
He looked back, once, toward the rupture. "If they're alive — we bring them home."
The team fell in.
The hive accepted them again.
---
[Team Two POV]
M41.250 — North of Extraction Node
+00:46:15 from Drop
They moved through the jungle in silence — bolters raised, visors scanning. The canopy above was thick, tangled, and wet with spores. Nothing stirred.
Then the underbrush shifted.
Movement. Close.
Sergeant Orven didn't hesitate. "Contact. Front."
A pack of Hormagaunts burst from the ferns.
Orven fired. Two rounds to center mass — one gaunt down. Another came — two more shots. Down again.
Veyl stepped forward, power sword igniting with a low growl. He met a leaper mid-charge, cleaved it open, then turned and dropped the next clean through the spine.
Brannic kept it surgical. Three short bursts. Two Termagants fell. A third tried to peel wide — he took it clean through the neck.
Dornas stepped into position, flamer raised. A controlled hiss — fire rolled through the brush. The remaining gaunts buckled and burned.
The jungle went still again.
One click on the vox. "Clear," Orven said.
They regrouped. No wounds. No words wasted.
Veyl cleaned his blade on the leaves. Dornas reloaded. Brannic scanned ahead.
"Another splinter," Brannic said. "Makes three."
"Spread too thin," Veyl replied. "No synapse coverage."
"Doesn't mean they're not watching," Dornas muttered.
Orven checked the logs. "Team One pinged five minutes ago. Lictor kill confirmed. They were moving toward the node."
"No update since?" Brannic asked.
Orven shook his head. "Not unusual. We finish our sweep. Then we call in."
He moved first, slow and steady. "Keep formation. We move."
The squad followed, disappearing into the green.
---
+00:53:22 from Drop
The jungle hadn't changed.
The air was still thick with spores. Ferns still hung heavy with dew. No new scent. No new sound.
They moved through the undergrowth in formation — bolters raised, flamer ready, visors scanning.
They'd pushed two more klicks since the last contact, cutting through another splinter group along the way — no injuries, no warning signs.
So when the forest snapped, it didn't sound like a threat.
It sounded like a branch.
Brannic turned his head. That was all.
Something dropped from above — talons first.
It punched straight through the helm. No scream. No chance. The corpse slumped before the others moved.
"Brannic!" Veyl barked, already stepping back.
Orven's voice was low and hard.
"Genestealers."
Another shape burst from the underbrush — fast, hunched, low to the ground.
Dornas turned in time to unleash the flamer — a short burst. Fire roared out and caught the thing in the ribs. It shrieked, torso blistering — but kept coming.
Claws slammed into Dornas' side, driving him to the dirt.
He didn't stay down.
"B—burn it…" he gasped, trying to rise. Blood poured from under his plate. The flamer coughed another burst into the trees before falling from his grasp.
Veyl moved to reach him.
Another creature intercepted — leaping from the right. Steel rang as blade met claw. He scored one, forced it back, but a second shape hit him from behind. He staggered, gritted his teeth, and slashed backward blindly.
Orven fired, advancing — bolter chattering. One Genestealer dropped, riddled with rounds. The second vanished behind the brush.
Dornas was still moving — one arm reaching for his sidearm. His helm was cracked, voice broken.
"For the Empero—"
He was yanked backward into the green. The foliage swallowed the sound.
Veyl's blade flashed once more, cleaving through a shrieking body. Then something else hit him from the flank — claws raked across his throat. He collapsed without a word.
Orven stood alone.
Steam hissed from the flamer's fuel line, still leaking in the dirt.
Two Genestealers remained — visible now, watching from the dark.
He reloaded. Bolter steady.
He keyed his vox, voice tight and urgent.
"Team One, this is Team Two. Genestealers — team wiped. Respond, over."
Only static answered.
Orven exhaled slowly, voice low, almost a whisper.
"The Emperor protects."
The jungle closed again.
And Orven waited.