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Alpha

In life, war. In death, peace. In life, shame. In death, atonement.

0 · 264 views · located in Warhammer 40k

a character in “Warhammer 40k - Journey in the Dark”, as played by XavierDantius32

Description

+++FILE RETRIEVAL COMPLETE+++
+++WELCOME, >>UNREGISTERED<<+++
+++THOUGHT FOR THE DAY: The daemon has many forms. You must know them all.+++


THE PRINCIPLES OF PSYCHO-VIRAL MIND CLEANSING
Authored by Inquisitors Severino, Glauco and Manfred of the Ordo Malleus


Omitted in this publication is a lengthy introduction which discusses with some verbosity the inner workings of the human mind, and its susceptibility to corruption by the Dark Powers.- Head Archivist Raphaelle, Encaladus Fortress

No single instance of the techniques listed above can totally scour a mind clear of corruption. While brute telepathy can certainly remove ingrained memories, it often leaves mental scarring and a distinct loss of high-order cognition which can impair of the use of previously instinctive skills. As many of the subjects of this procedure require such instincts to perform their duty, we cannot risk their erasure by sloppy procedure. The same is also true of psycho-viral agents such as [[REDACTED]] and [[REDACTED]]. While they can scour a mind as well as any telepath, they often reduce the subject to a drooling wreck, with no more sentience than a servitor.

These two procedures must be used in tandem to produce results. First, a chemical cocktail of several agents is used to completely scour any memory of the traumatic event leading up to the collapse. Then a telepath should be employed to selectively delete memories pertaining to this event, and in some extreme cases, remove the subject's earlier memories and personality entirely.

Following this should be a period of several years rehabilitation within an Inquisition facility, where the implantation of safety engrams, subconscious mental sub-routines and the evaluation of skill-loss and performance decay can take place. If the subject is urgently required on the front line, the minimum level of rehabilitation recommended is the implantation of a mental kill-switch and basic command phrases.

The discourse continues deep into the technical specifications of the proscribed chemicals used in the procedure, and the appropriate focuses and rituals to be performed by the resident telepath.- Head Archivist Raphaelle, Encaladus Fortress

+++SWITCHING DATA SPOOL+++
+++RETRIEVING NEXT FILE+++
+++THOUGHT FOR THE DAY: The daemon has many forms. You must know them all.+++


Image


SERVICE RECORD 24095688/0035
TAGGED: MIA/KIA 576999.M41


Serial Number: 24095688/0035
Founding World: Krieg
>>Date of Enlistment: 206971.M41
>>Place of Enlistment: Einode Hive, Northern Continent
>>Regiment: 415th Death Korps [Mechanized Assault]

Given Name: [[REDACTED]]
>>Rank: Colour-Sergeant
>>Call-Sign: Alpha-1-1-5.
>>Company: Alpha [1st]
>>Platoon: First
>>Squad: First [Command Section]
>>Years of Service: 28

Augmetic Implants
>>"Thyceline" Pattern Bionic Arm [Shoulder integrated]
>>"Corvid" Pattern Bionic Respiratory System [Throat and Chest Cavity]
>>Urdesh MkIX Standard Pattern Locator Matrix


Certifications and Training:
>>Grade 3 Marksmanship [Lucius Pattern No.98 Las-Rifle]
>>Grade 2 Marksmanship [Lucius Pattern No.45 Las Pistol]
>>Special Weapons Training [Lucius Pattern No.109 Meltagun]
>>Advanced Close Combat
>>Basic Vehicle Handling
>>Grade 2 Demolitions and Explosives
>>Basic First Aid and Medical Care

Medals and Commendations:
>>Imperial Marksman's Cord
>>Triple Skull
>>Ribbon Intrinsic
>>Eagle Ordinary
>>Merit of Terra
>>Tempestus Imperialis

Service History:
[[REDACTED BY ORDER OF HIS MAJESTY'S HOLY INQUISITION]]

So begins...

Alpha's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Seth Vigilantes Character Portrait: Aina Harker Character Portrait: Alpha

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The hill was littered with corpses. Bodies in brown and green lay spread-eagled among the mud and the wire, the burning wrecks of vehicles filled the air with the stench of fyceline. Backlit by the unceasing flash of artillery, men in long coats and equine gas-masks crawled their way up the scree-slope. In the sky above them hung a great eye, wreathed in sickly violet starlight.

At the hill-crest sat a line of squat fortifications. Utilitarian buildings of rockcrete and flak-board, every surface pitted by bullet impacts. Jagged tongues of fire leaped from the fire-slits, spitting death at the enemy advancing up the slope.

For every shadowy figure that fell, another two advanced to take it's place. A remorseless wave of diseased flesh, as much a force of nature as it was an army. Before it could reach the line of bunkers, a haunting bugle call rang out over the cacophony of gunfire.

Rising from the trenches snaking across the hill-top, the horse-faced soldiers charged forward shouting with one voice. A banner of red and gold led the charge, the bright fabric soon swallowed by the maelstrom of combat.

Above it all, the violet eye glared down as if the Gods themselves were watching...


He woke with a start. Heart pounding in his chest, a searing lance of pain burning behind his eyes. His very skin itched with tiny pricks of fire like the bite of some minuscule insect. He sat up, casting aside the moth-eaten blanket covering his heavy-set frame.

A glass set opposite the metal framed cot caught his eye. Almost as if for the first time, he studied his figure. He was tall and heavily muscled, covered in hundreds of scars. His left arm was an augmetic replacement, the crescent of sutures wandering across his shoulder and pectoral still angry and raw.

He flexed the arm. The limb twitched, but did not rise from his side. Another impulse brought another limp twitch. He couldn't comprehend what was wrong. He'd had the augmetic since...

Since...

A flash of gold caught his eye. He looked at his right arm, eyes focussing properly for the first time since his awakening. Like the folds of a fisherman's net, an array of interlocking hexagons marched across his pale skin, the terminus of each corner marked with an esoteric rune.

He recoiled on reflex, bionic refusing to move as he attempted to scratch the nagging itch which overwhelmed his senses, sending him staggering against the cold steel of the bulkhead.

The metal was cool against his throbbing head, a low groan rattling his throat as he sank against the wall. Nothing made sense. His thoughts were elusive spirits, his memories just out of reach. He couldn't even remember his name.

He spent what felt like hours curled up against the bulkhead. When his head had finally stopped throbbing, he began to examine his surroundings more carefully. The room was bare, aside from the mirror and a small vinyl-topped table set against the cot.

A data-slate was propped against a holstered las-pistol. The pistol clattered to the floor as he snatched up the tablet, the sound raising a hollow echo from the bare steel walls. The screen flickered at his touch, a stylized “I” backed by three crossbars, an inset skull glaring out at him.

After a second the symbol winked out, replaced by lines of scrolling text. First came some academic treatise, mind-numbing and impenetrable.

Then the winged skull. Grim and angular, staring out of the slate into his shattered psyche. A wave of nausea swept over him as the record scrolled past. A decorated hero lying dead on some nameless battlefield. They'd taken his name.

He swayed suddenly unsteady on his feet, the tattoos on his skin crawling like insects. He landed heavily against the cot, forcing his turbulent mind to focus on the man before him. Some half-buried instinct filled him with a wave of intoxicating familiarity. Something clicked. A barrier not so much broken as shattered into a thousand pieces.

The flag flew amongst a mound of bodies.

Halfway down the hill, the charge had been halted. The press of diseased flesh to strong even for the stalwart men of Krieg to break. So they stood back to back, ready to die as brothers. No retreat. No surrender.

A circle had formed around the banner, a ring of blades and las-fire hacking down anything that came within arms reach. Under their illustrious standard, the men of first company would sell their lives dearly.

With a great shout, the tide of flesh rent itself asunder as a wedge of armoured giants ploughed forward. Some were clad in bone and mottled green armour, bearing great scythes and barbed sickles. Others were in black and gold, wading through incoming fire as if it were spring rain.

Following their masters, the wave of walking corpses pressed in, ripping any that did not fall to blade and bolt shell into hundreds of pieces.

Under the banner, only one man remained...


He arose from the cot a more complete person.

They hadn't left him a name. Alpha would have to do. It was a simple designation for a simple task. Recover whatever else they'd taken.

Filled with righteous purpose Alpha scooped up the fallen pistol, weighing the weapon in his hand. It was perfectly balanced, almost an extension of his arm. But it wasn't his.

Oblivious to his now functioning of his left arm, he slipped on the synthetic holster rig, glancing at himself in the mirror once again. He saw with fresh clarity the scars from half remembered battles and the spaces where intricate tattoos should be.

Something in the corridor outside broke him from his revelry. Footsteps.

He didn't remember drawing the pistol, but there it was gripped tightly in his hand. Alpha prowled across his cell, the door opening with a muffled hiss at his approach. The corridor outside was as bare as the cell, a vaulted ceiling filling the space with gloomy shadows.

Voices echoed in the wake of the footsteps, every syllable amplified by the metal walls and vaulted ceilings. Moving in almost complete silence, the metal floor cold against his bare feet followed Alpha.
As they entered the armoury Alpha hung back, the audible whine of the charged pistol the only indication of his presence.

With one swift movement, he was inside the chamber with his pistol braced in both hands. Staring at them with eyes devoid of emotion, he spoke.

“Who are you?”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Seth Vigilantes Character Portrait: Aina Harker Character Portrait: Alpha

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„Then tell me, where is my proper place?“, Seth asked, strapping the heavy plate of his armor around his leg. It was easier than he thought; his hands remembering that what his consciousness did not. “Do you know anything about me I should know?” He only as much as glanced over his shoulder where Aina was equipping herself with everything that seemed somehow useful. “Then tell me!”
It was an order, an almost dangerous tone underlying those words. However, before the Inquisitor could give a satisfying answer – or any answer at all – Seth returned the attention of his back to his Armor.
It felt familiar, more like a second skin as soon as the contacts slid into place. Without the energy backpack it had been heavy and inflexible, so he had almost feared he would never be able to move in it lest alone fight.
However as the breastplate had been the first part he had donned, the internal connections fitting in with the contacts in his skin, it had send a terrible pain through his body.
It had felt as if something had just tried to get into his nervous system. He growled and clenched his fist somehow knowing that this was not what was supposed to happen. Still he continued as the pain subsided, leaving only an itchy sensation on the skin.

“Medikits are for wounds and injuries; I’m speaking of blood type.” Seths voice was steady, now turning around, indeed dressed almost entirely in his Luna Wolves power armor, though the single parts mostly unconnected but for the power. He wanted to add something as something stirred him. Footsteps fell outside.
With one single movement he turned around. The Armor hummed slightly as it helped move the parts of the armor. Though the full support of the suit was still lacking Seth was glad the simplest task was possible in this only half-donned state.
He looked right into a laspistol trained at him. It was a man smaller than him in every aspect.
“Who we are, isn’t the question you meant to ask ‘Where are we’? Of course I will tell you who we are. We are the same as the people out there, only alive”, he replied his tone bare of any real emotion.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Seth Vigilantes Character Portrait: Aina Harker Character Portrait: Alpha

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"Your place will be found, soon enough. Once we receive reinforcements from the Imperium, I will personally see to your assessment and reintegration." Aina said calmly, her hand sliding closer to the holstered laspistol as Seth's voice rose, but she did not touch the grip yet. She also did not mention what the Inquisition's interrogators would likely to do him when she handed him over to their scrutiny. "An Astartes does not have the same type of blood as the standard stock of humans. Now, we should focus on the task at hand."

Then the other voice called out, Aina whirling about to face it and whipping out her laspistol in one swift moment. "In the name of the Emperor, drop your weapon and identify yourself!" The pendant bearing the seal of the Inquisition continued to sway for a moment from her abrupt movement.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Seth Vigilantes Character Portrait: Aina Harker Character Portrait: Alpha

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An Astartes in war-plate. Colours not seen for almost a millennia. Somewhere deep in his unconscious, a switch was thrown. The smell of incense filled his nostrils, the hum of distant chanting ringing in his ears. Impulses rose unbidden from the darkest corners of his mind.

A room. Black and featureless. Before him sat a hooded figure, robed in red with a golden pendent hanging from his neck. He tried to rise but his hands were bound, shackled to the steel throne.

The figure began to speak, his voice both sibilant and menacing. “The enemy comes in many guises. The heretic. The witch. The alien.”

Layered beneath every word was the chill of psychic energy, etching each word deep into his mind. “We fight the long war. Against foes which mankind has forgotten. Fallen angels, swallowed by the eye.”

The room blurred and twisted. Before him, where the hooded acolyte had once sat stood a file of armoured warriors at attention.

The first was garbed in black as if mourning, his heraldry flickering between a grey wolf and an eye wreathed in yellow fire. “Fallen sons, wolves without a pack.” The voice intoned. The second dripped blood, his armour's every surface covered in crimson. An axe hung loosely in his grip, a severed head grasped in his other hand. “They are rage incarnate.”

The procession continued. Blue and gold, sand trickling from the joints. A mottled green, the figure corpulent with corpse-gas. A screaming figure in purple and gold, eyes alight with atavistic pleasure. A book crushed by an iron-shod boot, a rearing hydra and a winged figure with eyes as black as night.

The chanting increased to a fever-pitch. “Brother has slain brother and the Malleus will have vengeance for what the daemon has corrupted.”


The wolf. The pendent. An alliance woven from corruption. She had damned herself by the simple act of talking to this abomination. The fog cleared, silhouetting the towering figure, the pounding of drums drowning out their replies, lest their foul words corrupt his mind.The voice thundered in his head, its words repeated by his bloodless lips.

“What is your duty? To serve the Emperor's will!

The pistol cracked in his hand, a high-pitched whine scouring the air between him and the traitor. The fog lifted, the voice yelling at him to run.

Still as naked as the day he was born, Alpha darted off into the depths of the ship.