The arrival of female agents broke an unspoken tradition at the Twin Islands base. For the first time, women outnumbered men in certain sections of the facility.
The Gang Dogs were curious, naturally. New faces. Young faces. Female faces in an environment that had been almost exclusively male for months. But Nolan's orders had been explicit, and the brutal training regimen consumed most of their waking hours anyway. They had neither the time nor the energy to investigate further.
After the initial days of anxiety and disorientation, the former Red Room trainees began adapting to their new environment. When Natasha delivered the final batch of rescued girls, Nolan made a personnel decision.
Jessica, who'd grown significantly through her own harsh training, was promoted to team leader. She would oversee the agents' physical conditioning and combat instruction, creating a structured routine that felt familiar without the cruelty that had defined their previous lives.
No more impossible standards followed by brutal punishment. No more torture disguised as training. No more systematic breaking of human spirits.
Instead, a skeletal servo-robot played movies and music during rest periods. Popular films from around the world. Songs in languages they'd never heard.
Natasha herself spent time with them, distributing cosmetics and clothes they'd never been allowed to own. Teaching them, step by patient step, what they would fight for in this new life.
Purpose. Not programming.
Meanwhile, Nolan donned his power armor once more and prepared for his next support mission.
He'd run simulations on every available prayer request multiple times. The success rates were universally abysmal. Most showed zero percent probability of success. The highest, a support mission to an exploration base engaged in combat with the Tau Empire, reached forty percent.
Forty percent wasn't good. But it was better than zero.
Nolan made his choice.
He collected David, both of them fully armored. They loaded dozens of melta bombs into storage compartments, checked weapon systems, verified life support.
Then they descended to the underground rotunda where the Pharos Lighthouse waited.
THRUMMM.
The space crack opened. Reality tore. They stepped through into the Warhammer universe.
THRUMMM.
The space crack opened again.
Hours had passed in the Warhammer universe. Minutes in the Marvel reality. Time dilation remained consistent.
Nolan stumbled through first, supported by David. Both looked like they'd been fed through a meat grinder.
Nolan's power armor was destroyed. The ceramite shell cracked and shattered across his torso, arms, legs. Deep claw marks scored the remaining plating, exposing the underlayer in multiple places. His helmet was simply gone, lost somewhere on an alien battlefield. Golden blood crusted his lips, dried in streaks down his chin.
He gripped the Blood Scythe in one hand. The blade dripped purple ichor, xenos blood still wet and viscous.
David wasn't much better. His power armor bore similar damage, great rents torn through the chest plate, one arm hanging at an awkward angle where the servo had failed.
Together, they limped out of the portal and collapsed.
"Those idiots in the Ordo Xenos!" Nolan spat the words like venom, golden blood flecking his lips. "The Tau commander was an idiot too!"
He dropped to one knee, power armor servo whining in protest. The broken plates shifted, grinding against each other.
"My lord, please calm yourself." David's optical sensors flickered, blue light unstable. "This mission involved factors beyond our control."
David raised one functioning arm and gestured. A nearby servo-robot scurried forward, a vial of panacea clutched in its mechanical tentacles.
"Beyond our control?" Nolan's voice rose, raw with fury and grief. "An entire Astra Militarum regiment sacrificed for nothing! If that Ordo Xenos Inquisitor had sent even one message warning us about the Hive Fleet, we could have prepared! We could have evacuated!"
His fist slammed into the metal floor, the impact sending cracks radiating outward.
"But no! He discovered Tyranid vanguard organisms and just ran. Didn't warn anyone. Didn't even try to send a courier. Just abandoned an entire regiment to die because he was too much of a coward to face the consequences of his failed mission!"
Nolan snatched the panacea vial and drank half of it in one swallow. Golden light began spreading through his wounds, knitting torn flesh, repairing damaged organs.
"And the Tau commander! I tried to negotiate a temporary ceasefire. Told him we needed to combine forces against the Tyranids if either side wanted to survive. You know what he said?"
Nolan's laugh was bitter, edged with hysteria.
"He said the Greater Good wouldn't allow cooperation unless I joined their cause. 'Join the Tau Empire or die fighting separately.' Screw the Greater Good! I hope Tzeentch gives them a nasty surprise someday!"
The panacea finished its work. Nolan's external wounds closed, flesh sealing over. But the exhaustion remained, the bone-deep weariness of someone who'd fought impossible odds and lost people he was supposed to protect.
He'd received his throne coin. The basic reward for completing a support mission, however poorly. But the cost...
An entire regiment. Thousands of soldiers. Dead because an Inquisitor was a coward and a Tau commander was too arrogant to see reality.
By the time Nolan realized the true scale of the threat, when he'd spotted the Hive Tyrant and Broodlord stalking through the battlefield, the Tau's elite Fire Caste warriors had already been digested into biomass.
Even Nolan's combat abilities and David's tactical genius couldn't overcome the fundamental arithmetic of war. When the enemy outnumbers you a thousand to one, skill only delays the inevitable.
The only reason they'd escaped at all was because the support mission had a seven-day time limit. And because at the last moment, the surviving Astra Militarum soldiers had detonated the ammunition depot with melta bombs, creating an explosion massive enough to give Nolan and David the seconds they needed to reach the return portal.
Soldiers dying so their commander could escape.
The thought made Nolan want to vomit.
His ceramite fist crashed into the floor again, venting helpless rage.
He stood slowly, broken armor creaking, and opened his mouth to say something to David.
The simulator vibrated.
Not the gentle pulse of a notification. A violent tremor, like something hammering on reality itself from the other side.
Nolan froze. His hand went to the interface instinctively, bringing up the display.
Most pages showed no activity. But the Diplomacy page had activated on its own, front and center. A regiment insignia materialized on the screen, rendered in sharp detail.
A shark. Stylized. Predatory. Unmistakable.
[Dropped materials have been completely received.]
[You have received a transmission request from the Carcharodons. Do you accept?]
Nolan's eyes widened. His breath caught in his throat.
The Space Sharks. The Carcharodons. The silent predators of the Imperium's outer dark, who answered to no one but themselves and maybe, maybe, the Raven Guard's distant legacy.
What materials had they received? What did they want?
His finger hovered over the accept button.
He hesitated. Looked at David. The ancient machine spirit stared back, offering no guidance. This decision was Nolan's alone.
Finally, he pressed accept.
He had to know.
THRUMMM.
The space crack tore open again behind them, this time in the rotunda's center. Wider than before. More violent. Reality screaming in protest as the Warp forced its way into a universe that rejected it.
THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD.
Magnetic boots on metal. Heavy. Synchronized. Multiple sets moving in perfect unison.
Five Astartes in grey armor emerged first, chainaxes held ready. Pale skin. Black eyes. Facial tattoos that looked like they'd been carved with broken glass. They spread out immediately, securing the perimeter with professional efficiency.
Then he stepped through.
Massive didn't begin to describe him. Even by Astartes standards, this warrior was enormous. Nearly three meters tall, shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway. His armor was ancient, covered in scrimshawed bone decorations and battle honors that predated the Horus Heresy. A chainaxe larger than a mortal man rested across his back.
His face was a nightmare. Scars layered on scars. Tattoos covering every centimeter of visible skin. Eyes that were solid black from corner to corner, reflecting no light, showing no mercy.
He looked at Nolan. Recognition flickered across that scarred face.
Then he raised one massive fist to his chest in salute.
"For the Void Father!"
His voice was deep, resonant, carrying the weight of centuries.
Nolan stared, mind racing, trying to process what was happening.
The Space Sharks had come to him.
Why?
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