The Knee of Glory and the Soothed Nightmare
Location: Deep within Hera Fortress Monastery, outside Tactical Training Cage No. 10
Time: Week Four after the "Broccoli Incident"
For Veteran Brother Viridian of the Ultramarines' 1st Company—the famed "Unyielding Guard"—sentry duty was sacred.
He had stood against Tyranid bio-horrors. He had advanced through the withering fire of the T'au. His nerves were as unbreakable as ceramite plate.
Nothing disturbed his composure.
Except this.
Viridian stood rigid before the sealed blast door, bolt rifle resting against his chestplate. Through the helm's audio receiver, every sound from inside Tactical Cage No. 10 transmitted with merciless clarity.
"One more round! Is that your limit? Weakness!"
The unmistakable roar of Captain Cato Sicarius—sharp, severe, carrying the disciplined fury of Macragge.
A faint protest followed. A little girl's voice.
Then—
Bang—!!
A deep, resonant metallic impact thundered through the reinforced flooring, despite the sound-dampening.
The unmistakable sound of ceramite-clad knees striking adamantium plating at high velocity.
Viridian's left eye twitched almost imperceptibly.
Fourteen times in the past hour.
Rumor within the Fortress claimed that Captain Sicarius was undertaking a mysterious ascetic discipline.
If so, Viridian would solemnly testify that such discipline was catastrophic for the structural longevity of one's knee joints.
"…I, Cato Sicarius… command you… withdraw that psionic pressure!"
The Captain's voice—strained, indignant—echoed again.
Viridian silently traced the Aquila in his thoughts.
May the Emperor preserve the Captain's knees. They are likely the most battle-tested joints in the entire Chapter at present.
---
Inside Tactical Cage No. 10
The air reeked of sweat and ozone.
Cato Sicarius forced himself upright once more. His movements lacked their usual fluid precision. His master-crafted power armor—once an extension of his will—felt as though it weighed a thousand tonnes.
"Lady Eileen!" He removed his helm, revealing a flushed face. "This is physical conditioning—not psychic warfare! You cannot activate that power simply because you dislike squats!"
Across from him, Eileen lay sprawled on the floor in a grey training uniform, drenched in sweat.
Her thighs trembled. Now and then, faint gold flickered within her brown eyes.
"I—I'm exhausted…" she protested, rubbing her aching legs. "Back in the hive, I didn't run this much even when people were chasing me.
And when I get tired, that golden light just turns on by itself."
[You fail to grasp the mechanics, legendary Captain,] Old Huang's voice echoed lazily within her mind.
[Her physiology is enhanced, yes—but her will remains mortal. When her body reaches its limit, a passive defense protocol triggers. A self-protective response. In this mode, the output radius is small—but sufficient.]
Sicarius exhaled slowly.
Excessive exertion merely provoked involuntary activation. That meant repeated kneeling.
Repeated.
Kneeling.
Utterly dishonorable.
"Very well." Sicarius turned to the control console, armored fingers dancing across the runic interface. "If your body fails, we shall train your will. On your feet, Lady Eileen."
"No more squats?" Her eyes brightened instantly as she scrambled up.
"No. Something… more stimulating."
He pressed a red rune.
The central containment gate split open.
Roar—!
A savage electronic bellow erupted as a specialized combat servitor charged forward.
Unlike standard training constructs, this one bore crimson plating scarred with simulated Chaos sigils. Its behavioral inhibitors were dialed to critical instability, mimicking warp-induced frenzy.
High-voltage arcs crackled around its powered gauntlets. Its optic lenses burned red with simulated bloodlust.
It advanced with murderous momentum.
Eileen instinctively shifted backward.
"Do not move!" Sicarius barked from behind her. "Observe it! This represents the mind of a Chaos-maddened foe—violent, irrational, consumed!"
"Should I blast it?" Eileen's fists clenched, gold flickering.
"No!" Sicarius snapped. "That is brute force. Wasteful. I require restraint.
Calm it. Do not crush it with terror. Use your light—still its madness."
The servitor closed to five meters. The air pressure whipped her hair.
[Listen to him,] Old Huang said, tone sharpened.
[Imagine a dimmer switch. Not annihilation. Warm illumination. Like Old Joe's patched quilt. Use order—not destruction.]
Order.
Eileen inhaled deeply.
The machine lunged, howling with mechanized fury.
She stepped forward.
Raised her palm.
And whispered—
"Stop… stop…"
A soft hum filled the chamber.
Not a blast.
Not an explosion.
A pale golden ripple spread outward—subtle, nearly invisible.
When the berserk servitor entered the ripple, its charge faltered—not from force, but from correction.
The crimson optics flickered erratically.
Its chaotic behavioral loops stuttered.
As though overwritten by a higher command protocol.
Its raised fist trembled… then lowered.
The killing aura dissolved.
The servitor stood inert, silent.
Eileen blinked.
"I… did it?"
Behind her, Sicarius stood utterly still.
The ripple had passed through him as well.
Astartes were engineered for indomitable will.
Yet Sicarius alone knew what lingered within him.
During the Plague Wars, he had led his brothers into the heart of Nurgle's corruption. The Garden's stench, the despair, the whispers of rot—
Something had followed him back.
A wound unseen.
At night, in moments of strain, he heard them.
The voices of fallen brothers.
Warp-echoes clinging like parasites to the edges of his mind.
A silent torment.
But when the golden ripple touched him—
Silence.
Not suppression.
Purification.
The whispers evaporated like frost under noon sun.
The tension in his spine eased.
For the first time since the Plague Wars, he felt… clean.
As he had in the Temple of Hera, swearing his oath as a neophyte beneath Macragge's banners.
His hands trembled.
His expression—usually stern, proud—softened into something almost bewildered.
Eileen, meanwhile, bounced in place in triumph.
At that moment, the scrutiny in Sicarius's gaze shifted.
She was no longer merely a volatile asset.
Nor a troublesome child.
She was light.
An antidote.
"Hey! Uncle Cato!" she called brightly. "I passed! Can I rest now?"
Sicarius drew a steadying breath and reassembled his composure.
"Acceptable," he declared, voice firm—though gentler than before. "You have learned not to demolish the ceiling."
He retrieved a small silver ration tin from his belt and tossed it to her.
"Here."
She caught it and opened it eagerly.
A high-calorie Astra Militarum combat chocolate bar.
"Chocolate! Uncle Cato is the best!"
"Hmph." He turned away to hide the faint smile tugging at his lips. "That is a tactical supplement to prevent hypoglycemia from hindering my instruction. Nothing more."
"Training concludes. The Primarch will expect you for dinner following his strategium briefing."
"Okay!"
She dashed out of the chamber, chocolate in hand.
Sicarius pressed a gauntlet lightly against his chest.
His hearts felt… lighter.
---
Outside the blast door, Veteran Viridian exhaled.
No further metallic detonations.
It seemed the Captain's knees had survived the day.