[Simulation initializing.]
[Current identities available: Space Wolf — Thirteenth Company Commander (Death World — Fenris) / Lord Cypher (Dark Angels — the Rock).]
[Please select an identity.]
[If you decline, a random selection will be made.]
[Identity selection declined.]
[Simulation initializing — random parameters engaged.]
[You are now entering the Warhammer universe. Arrival time and location will be determined at random.]
[Time: M41.]
[Location: Sacred World — Damhar.]
[You have descended into the night sky above the Sacred World. Before your eyes have fully opened, the sensation hits you: freefall, fast and total.]
[You do not waste time on complaint.]
[Without hesitation, you activate the neural connection interface and deploy the massive metal wings on the back of Starfire Glory, spreading your arms and legs into a gliding posture to bleed off speed.]
[Through the skull helmet's visor, a battle resolves itself in the street below. A collapsed city block. An Astartes force in green-painted plate, fighting alongside mortal warriors against something you have not seen before: an alien race of bizarre silhouette and wrong proportions.]
[You shift your glide toward them.]
[Your hand moves instinctively toward the melee weapon at your back, and finds nothing. No Warscythe. No Dawnbringer. Nothing on you except Starfire Glory itself.]
[A low curse leaves you from inside the skull helmet and drifts away on the wind.]
[The bomb detonations below grow louder. The wind screams past the wings. You adjust your angle repeatedly as the ground rushes up.]
[You land hard in the center of the street, directly between the two warring factions.]
[Boom.]
[Dust and gravel billow in every direction.]
[The blue-uniformed Mordian Iron Guard troops freeze. Fingers that were on triggers forget to move. Even the green-armored Astartes across the street stop for a moment, thrown by the arrival of something that does not fit any category they have for it.]
[A dozen black muzzles swing toward you and open fire simultaneously. A barrage of mass-reactive shells detonates against Starfire Glory's chest.]
["An octagonal chapter emblem. And a clan crest I don't recognize." You study them quickly through the visor, running recognition checks. "Chaos Astartes?"]
[No. No signs of corruption. No mutation. The mortal warriors are fighting on their side, not fleeing from them.]
[You stand in the barrage and observe.]
[Before you can speak to identify yourself, a sound fills the air: a low, pervasive buzzing.]
[The alien formation, which had been pressing the mortal warriors, suddenly contracts and surges forward as a mass. They are fast. Faster than they should be.]
[As they close, your auspex switches to heat-detection mode automatically. Through it, you perceive something the naked eye cannot resolve: a force field, thin as breath, nearly invisible, expanding outward from the alien formation to envelop a large section of the Mordian Iron Guard line.]
[The next second, without a sound, without a cry, the mortal warriors inside that field are gone. What remains of each of them filters away in the wind as grey ash. The lasguns they were holding rust through and crumble in the same moment.]
["That is not a psychic kill. That is accelerated aging. Time itself."]
[Your eyes go wide behind the visor.]
[You turn to the Astartes and issue the order at full vox volume.]
["All units, order the Mordian Iron Guard to fall back immediately! Mortals cannot survive this engagement! Astartes must exercise extreme caution to do so!"]
[Something in your bearing reaches them — the Primarch's presence bleeding through even in this unfamiliar face and armor — or perhaps it is simply that you are speaking High Gothic without hesitation. The barrage directed at you cuts off and redirects toward the alien line.]
[But the Mordian troops are already dying.]
[You cross the distance to the alien formation at a run and bring the metal wings around in wide horizontal cuts, taking several of the creatures apart at the torso. The wings bite through them cleanly, driven by the servo lattice within. The Astartes surge in behind you, drawing blades, charging the formation.]
[By the time you have cleared a dozen of the aliens, the Mordian Iron Guard strength on the field has dropped below twenty.]
[The unfamiliar Astartes are pressing hard. Too hard.]
[Several of them move through a zone where the time field is active. You watch it happen. Their charge visibly slows, each movement stretching as if underwater. Then the alien claws come through their ceramite plate as easily as pushing through bread, and the Astartes go down.]
["Enough. All Astartes, withdraw immediately. These are not opponents you can close with."]
[You spin in place, wings at full extension, sweeping a clearing in the alien mass. Then you drop your weight onto the magnetic boots, seize the nearest surviving Astartes one by one, and hurl them clear of the formation, sending them tumbling across the street away from the field perimeter. Your hands work fast and without ceremony.]
[When the last of them is clear, you are done with this position.]
[The metal wings fold inward against Starfire Glory's back. The propulsion configuration assembles itself in the moment of compression, and a pulse of light erupts from the pack as the short-range flight system ignites.]
[You go up and over the rooftops, angling toward the city's outskirts.]
[Below, the unfamiliar Astartes hesitate for only a moment before pulling the remaining Mordian Iron Guard back from the line and following.]
[You set down on a low hill far from the street, away from the sounds of the battle still burning behind you. The wings extend again as you land.]
[Shortly after, the surviving Astartes squad arrives at the base of the hill, ten of them, with a handful of Mordian troopers alongside.]
[You look at them for a moment before speaking.]
["As Astartes, your discipline in that engagement was poor. Which chapter?"]
[One of the Astartes steps forward. He is a Terminator veteran. The voice that comes from his helmet is low and without warmth.]
["Sons of Medusa. Strike force detachment. Stand where you are. You aided us against those alien wretches, and for that you have our acknowledgment. But you will identify yourself immediately. Failure to comply will be treated as a threat."]
[Every muzzle on the hillside rises and settles on your skull helmet.]