Day time... Night time!

One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.

It was a near constant mantra to the man, if he could be called that even - but he certainly felt more like it as of late. There was nothing that could wear a primarch out more than his own children. 

Two utterly devastating words: Superhuman toddlers.

Two even more devastating words: Triplet girls.

Not that he didn’t love them, or was disappointed - quite the contrary, but by the throne were they a handful for the generally reserved man.

Continual counting had become a daily part of life.

One, two, three.

One giggling in his left arm putting stickers on his respirator, two giggling in his right arm chattering about the upcoming tea party he was expected to attend along with Typhus and a handful of asorted astarted they’d taken a liking too, three giggling sat on his shoulders, putting a million tiny plaits in his hair that would be impossible to remove later.

He wouldn’t trade them for the galaxy.

It is most concerning, but not unexpected, when amidst the usual chaos the giggles die down there is a long beat of silence reserved for three three terrors ‘communicating’ - and if he deliberately ignored precisely how they were doing it then it was nobody's business, was it?

But more concerning because it usually meant they were going to gang up on him to achieve some nefarious goal: making their father pretend to be a horse for the afternoon, playing hide and seek through ventilation systems, and on one particularly notable occasion, recruiting warriors for what could only be described as extreme pillow fort building. 

He dreaded the coming blow. He could deny them nothing.

Right on que, three tiny voices speak up in what would have been adorable unison if it were not for such devious purpose, words interspersed with uncontrollable giggles, “Papa, papa, papa, you should dye your hair!”

He could deny them this.

Encouraging their play and creativity was one thing - letting them bloom in a way he never got to, but there were limits and hair dye was a level of ridicule he could not bear to his legion, let alone the galaxy at large

Still, there is no immediate denial, just a long, ragged sigh that reverberates through his respirator as they switched over to each playing with the dusty white locks that fell around him, quietly awaiting his response and looking between each other knowingly.

He ignores the feeling of stickers being plastered into his hair.

“…No.” 

It’s weary but decisive, inflicted with the painful thrum in his chest that burns with the denial of their laughter. He knew at some point he would have to put his foot down.

He knew at some point they would no longer want to put stickers in his hair. At some point they would grow out of begging to be carried in his arms everywhere.

He subconsciously grips them tighter as he feels them begin to wiggle and whine, a cacophony of complaint.

“But papa -“, “- imagine if you -“ “- not even just a little?”

All accompanied by tiny fists grasping at his robes and the widest puppy eyes he’d ever seen. The trio looked like little puffy moths with fluffy white hair that wobbled as they pouted up at him.

He feels his resolve slipping as tears brimmed up and threatened to escape. There was no where to escape either, everywhere he looked was a bombarding assault to his willpower more powerful than any artillery. 

Maybe, maybe he could deny them this.

“Not- not even just a little bit.”

It was too late. 

Why had he ever let Roboute babysit? Why had the man taught them advanced negotiation tactics?

Like tyranids to just about anything, they pounced on the split second of hesitation, of weakness. and of course he was weak for his little girls.

“Pleeaaasseeee!”

Whines and whimpers increase in fervour and pitch as he wavers.

“How about light pink ends?….just a little bit?”

He could always say no tomorrow.

“…a faint light green streak. In the back.”

“Not even blue?”

“Green.”

They look between each other once more, tear long forgotten as their eyes danced with victory.

In response, he lets out an overly loud, defeated huff as a smile tugs at his eyes, letting them jubilantly bounce around all over him and cheer in celebration. 

One, two, three. One, two -

WAIT.

One. Two.

One. Two.

Three?

He whirls around with sickening speed. 

She peers up at him from below the knee sheepishly, now almost miraculously quickly clutching a small brush and black bowl filled with suspiciously pink goop.

He raises a singular eyebrow. 

She shuffles slightly, mischief barely even attempted to be hidden on her face.

They did not interrogate him in the tide next to the body of the Watcher’s latest murder victim.

Siros would not allow it. “Too Open. Even if the Killer isn’t watching us- which they very well might be, we don’t want the baseline humans to stumble on this and make assumptions.”

Lati carried most of his weight, silent and inexorable, while Ghilus watched their rear like a coiled blade waiting for an excuse. Korio scouted ahead, never more than a shadow between rain-blurred rocks.

Atlas walked beside Siros.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” the Chaplain murmured without looking at him.

Atlas exhaled slowly. “He knew the trap. Or suspected it.”

“He suspected something,” Siros corrected. “That means he’s been learning. That makes him dangerous—but also predictable.”

They brought the Harvester to an abandoned boathouse perched just beyond the tide line. Its roof sagged, its walls warped by salt and years of neglect. Siros chose it precisely because it was unremarkable. No echoes. No dramatic silhouettes. Just damp wood, rope coils, and the sea breathing beyond the walls.

The Harvester was chained to a reinforced piling driven deep into the stone beneath the floorboards. When they finished, he sagged slightly—not in defeat, but calculation. They have him bound- having prepared to capture him or another more deadly Astartes as they chain him.

Siros removed his helm. That alone changed the room. The Harvester is bruised- but healing from his scuffle with them. His eyes are a dull grey, his skin color a deep tan, with close cropped tightly curled hair in box braids.

“Speak,” the Chaplain said calmly. “And you live.”

The Harvester laughed weakly. “Your kind always says that.”

Siros tilted his head. “And yet you still breathe.”

Silence stretched. Rain ticked against the roof. Somewhere outside, waves struck rock with patient inevitability. There is an undercurrent- violence, bloody, cruel torture could happen. Siros is silently pulling out a wrapped leather cloth back that he’d tucked away in this boat house. Slowly unravelling it and showing of the sharp implements of brutal torture. Ghilius looks at them and smirks as he grabs a boning knife and looks towards their captured target.

Atlas stepped forward, datapad already active. “You’ve been harvesting gene-seed along this coast for decades.”

Atlas knows that physical torture only works on those who would easily fold to such things. And pain is something that all Astartes have learned to endure. Otherwise they would have died as aspirants. He’s not- if torture is needed, he will step back and allow Siros and Ghilus to work their wretched art.

“Someone had to,” the Harvester rasped. “Waste offends me.”

Lati’s gauntlet tightened audibly.

“You did not kill them,” Atlas continued. “But you found them. Repeatedly. Often enough to establish a pattern.”

The Harvester’s eyes flicked to him at last. Sharp. Assessing. “And you think that makes me responsible.”

“No,” Atlas said, his voice deep, eyes a dark churning blue. “I think it makes you observant.”

Siros smiled faintly. Atlas- is not being entirely truthful with what he said. There is at least some culpability with the Harvester for his actions. For not reporting the pattern. For not stopping- trying to stop the Killer from slaying those unfortunate to get ensnared into the crosshairs of the brutal hunter.

The Harvester swallowed. “He kills for ritual,” he said at last. “I harvest because I must. Those are not the same sin.”

“You know where he hunts,” Atlas pressed.

“I know when,” the Harvester replied. “Winter. Storms. Transitional tides. When the sea erases witnesses and fear keeps others indoors.”

Ghilus leaned forward, claws scraping wood. “Names.”

The Harvester coughed. “No name that I know. He predates the habit. He doesn’t take trophies- well not many at least. He doesn’t announce allegiance. He kills because he has always killed.”

Siros’s voice dropped. “Legion?”

A pause.

“... I don’t know,” the Harvester said carefully. “Perhaps he once had a legion, but not any more.”

That landed harder than a confession.

“He watches you,” the Harvester continued, eyes lifting—not to Siros, but to Atlas. “You especially. You learn too quickly for someone this young.”

Atlas felt the weight of that scrutiny settle into his chest. He lifts his chin at that, he’s had the murderous intentions of First Born marines on him before. It’s a weight that he’s managed before. He … he can handle this.

“He’s already chosen his next correction,” the Harvester whispered.

Silence again.

Then Siros spoke. “Where.”

The Harvester smiled, blood on his teeth. “Somewhere one of you feels safe.”

Lati’s helm tilted minutely. A gesture so small it could have meant nothing. Harvester noticed anyway.

“You felt that,” Harvester murmured. His voice was weaker now, but sharper for it. “That moment where the answer almost formed on its own.”

Ghilus scoffed. “He’s stalling.”

“No,” Siros said quietly. “He’s teaching.”

Harvester’s gaze slid back to the Chaplain. “You asked where,” he said. “But where is only relevant if you intend to arrive after the event.”

Atlas stiffened. “Then tell us before.”

Harvester let out a breath that might have been a laugh in another life. “You already have,” he said. “You just don’t trust the conclusion.”

Atlas frowned. “Explain.”

“Why?” Harvester countered. “So you can decide whether it aligns with your doctrine? With your chain of command?” His eyes glinted. “You’ll act faster if you believe it was your idea.”

That landed. Not as insult. As method.

Siros folded his arms. “You assume too much.”

“I assume patterns,” Harvester replied. “And yours are obvious. You isolate threats. You sanctify response. You believe clarity comes from hierarchy.”

He shifted against the chains, metal groaning. “He believes clarity comes from conflict.”

Atlas felt something cold trace his spine. “You speak as if you’ve studied him.”

“I speak as if I’ve studied myself,” Harvester said softly.

The room went very still. Rain pattered against warped planks. The sea breathed.

“You don’t warn authorities,” Atlas said slowly. “You don’t intervene. You don’t confront him. You recover what’s left and disappear.”

“Yes.”

“Because you believe—” Atlas hesitated, then pushed on, “—that interference would disrupt a larger outcome.”

Harvester’s smile was thin. Satisfied.

“Careful,” he said. “You’re thinking like it’s contagious.”

Ghilus snarled. “Enough riddles.”

Harvester’s eyes flicked to him. “You rush,” he observed. “You’d make a fine blunt instrument. Someone else would decide where you struck.”

Ghilus bristled, claws flexing.

“And you,” Harvester continued, turning his head toward Lati, “wait. You endure. You bear the weight others cannot. You would hold a line even if you didn’t know why it mattered.”

Lati did not move.

“That is not flattery,” Harvester added. “It is classification.”

Atlas felt it then—the creeping sense that this was not an interrogation anymore, but an audit.

“You still haven’t told us where,” Siros said.

Harvester’s eyes returned to him. “I told you when. I told you how. And I told you why he will succeed.”

He leaned back against the chains, breath hitching. “The rest is a variable you must supply.”

Siros’s gaze hardened. “And what variable is that?”

Harvester looked at Atlas again.

“Trust,” he said. “Specifically—who you extend it to when the moment comes.”

Atlas opened his mouth, then stopped.

“Because he won’t strike where you are strongest,” Harvester continued. “Or where you are vigilant. He’ll strike where you believe the structure itself will protect you.”

A pause.

“A place with rules,” Harvester finished. “With procedure. With oversight.”

The implication settled like ash.

Siros straightened slowly. “You’re suggesting an internal breach.”

“I’m suggesting inevitability,” Harvester corrected. “You cannot guard every door. You can only choose which ones matter.”

Atlas stared at him. “Why tell us this?”

For the first time, Harvester hesitated.

Just a fraction.

“Because,” he said at last, voice low, “once I believed that if enough pieces survived, the whole could be rebuilt.”

His eyes closed briefly.

“I no longer believe that,” he admitted. “But I still believe in outcomes.”

Siros studied him for a long moment. Then: “You expect us to fail.”

“No,” Harvester said. “I expect one version of you to fail.”

That was the tell.

Atlas felt it click—not fully, not cleanly, but enough to hurt.

“You’re not aligned,” Atlas said quietly. “You’re… partitioned.”

Harvester’s eyes opened. Grey. Ancient. Amused.

“There it is,” he murmured. “You do learn quickly.”

"Forgive me, brother, but the tyranids are coming, and to try and bring you with me would slow me down to the point where both of us are likely to be killed and devoured. Know that your death is not in vain, and that we will exterminatus this world that is seething with foul xenos life." Erwin murmured apologetically. He was kneeling next to Johan, who'd been badly struck by one of the biological missiles that the tyranids used to disable and slow down anything they could aim at. 

Johan wheezed as he weakly clawed at the parasite burrowing into his chest, trying to the thing out. The paralytic had already caused him to collapse to the ground of the jungle moon they'd been deployed on. "At least... Kill this damn thing lodged in my chest, brother please!"

Erwin hesitates, as the horrible roar of a carnifex could he heard far too close for comfort. It's massive, lumbering form shaking the trees and underbrush "I... I can do that much for you, brother." He stabbed the bastard parasite through with his powersword, careful to not skewer the doomed brother attached to it. "This is all I can do. May you find your way swiftly in to the Emperor's Light." 

With that, the other Black Templar runs off at full speed, leaving Johan struggling to breathe as the carnifex lumbered over him. Johan's fingers twitched and he pushed with all of his might to grab the melta bomb attached to his belt. He'd been left to die, but he wanted to go down taking out one last enemy. "Come here... You big... ugly xenos!" 

It obligingly lumbered over to him, reaching down and pulling him up by the neck with its ugly, clawed arms, and he can feel it digging into his armor. It sniffed and chuffed at him. 

Johan managed to get the melta bomb off of his belt and pulled the pin. "Come one, try to eat me, you ugly xenos fuck!"

It opened it's jagged-toothed maw and with the last of his strength, the Black Templar managed to throw the ticking melta bomb into the fucker's mouth. He couldn't resist as the bastard bit into his shoulder, biting through his ceramite armor as if it did not exist. 

"This silence offends Slaanesh! Praises to them for this glorious hymn that I sing in their name!" Nirvikar thundered as the noise marine brought his sacred weapon-instrument up. He had spent decades crafting the base, mundane weapons he'd been given while he'd been a slave to the Imperium into the glorious weapon of sonic destruction. He had shaped the bolter into a violin, and one of his knives into the bow. He placed the bottom of the violin on his clavicle, resting his chin on the mounting, making sure his fingers were in their proper place.

He shifted his grip on his bow, dodging a charging corpse-worshipper with an elegant leap and slicing the poor fool's neck open with the sharpened blade-edge of the bow. A feral grin appeared on Nirvikar's face as he raised the bow and began to play a dirge of perfect destruction, dancing and singing around the battlefield. The perfectly discordant hymns empowered his brothers and cousins fighting for She Who Thirsts, and the Chaotic Notes paralyzed those who did not follow the Prince of Pleasure. Some started to scream in time to his music, while others bled from the eyes, ears, nose or mouth, their blood dripping out of their helmets as they fell to the ecstatic hymns that he played and sung into being.

He did not stop until the last enemy fell, and finished the final notes of the hymn with a perfect flourish, bowing to his brothers and cousins. "Thank you, one and all. I do hope that my performance met your expectations~!" Playing the psychic hymns were draining, and exhaustion pulled at him, but he would not choke and fail his wonderful audience at the end of his performance.  

Several of his brothers rushed over, clapping and hollering, their voices melding into a lovely din that he could barely understand. 

'That was truly inspired, brother!"

"How did you reach all of those notes? I hadn't realized that violins could make such a large range of notes."

"Could you teach me how to do that chaotic arpeggio? The one that stunned a half dozen loyalists within twenty feet of you, so that they could be more easily killed in Their name?"

Nirvikar grinned as he carefully started to clean and ensure that the strings of his combat violin were still well-tuned "With a great deal of practice, brother. Violins really are quite a versatile instrument. And I would be honored to show you how I did that arpeggio, brother. I found your chaotic chords that you played with your violent guitar to be inspired! I hadn't seen anyone create shockwaves like that before."

"I must say, I would like to hear you play in a more private setting - perhaps with a wooden violin?" A cousin called out, making his way through the group. A thousand sons sorcerer by the name of Ashra. 

"Hmmm, I might be interested in doing so, though after a rest. Playing those hymns took a great deal of energy and focus." Nirvikar answered with a warm smile and a playful wink Ashra's way. Bovoli, who was the leader of their warband, had picked Ashra up on a moon near the edge of the Maelstrom. Apparently the sorcerer had been meditating and learning everything that could be learned on the moon's library - which had been a thing of beauty, if the nerds were to be believed. Nirvikar hadn't seen much appeal to the dusty tomes, but he did find the stained glass windows to be strikingly beautiful. The painted art had been of boring pastural landscapes, or long-dead mortals who likely did not deserve the accolades that they had been given posthumously. 

"I'll hold you to that, brother. I hope you wouldn't mind if I asked you some questions about how you were able to craft this particular hymn to She Who Thirsts? The songs of destruction you wove and sung on the battlefield were something I've never seen before." Ashra asks, a hopeful expression appearing on his face "I'd love to hear more of how you'd come up with such a complex composition."

Bovoli was barking orders, and most of the rest of the group was scrounging supplies from the dead, or were hunting down the spacecraft that the corpse-worshippers had landed on this moon on. "Sure thing, brother. Let's walk and talk, so that we can avoid being grumbled at by our resident Iron Warlord." 

The thousand son chuckles and nods "Far be it from be to antagonize our glorious leader. I think I saw a patch of rare mushrooms that can be distilled into an oil that can kill or incapacitate marines. I've got the proper collection materials for it, and would appreciate an extra set of eyes, as some of the plants out in the jungles here are very aggressive."

"How charmingly vexing. I'd be delighted to help you with your fungal foraging efforts." The Emperor's Child answered "Please, lead the way." 

Ashra nods, smiling warmly and starting to head into the feral forest "This way, brother." He lightly set one of his hands on Nirvikar's elbow, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper as they left the area where the rest of their warband was searching for spoils of war "I must say... You are by far the best singer of the group, Nirvikar. Your command over sonic attacks is unparalleled. How do you manage it?"

The Emperor's Child preened at the praise and made sure to lower his voice so that it did not carry too far "When I entered Slaanesh's service, one of the first gifts they bestowed upon me was the melding of my helmet vox into my vocal chords. While it does mean that I'll never be able to remove my helmet, not fully, it also means that I can boost my voice to be much louder than other astartes are able to, and I can change the way my voice sounds from like this, to a more broadcast sounding sound like this, to this high and whispery sort of voice. It all depends on my focus, will and the muse I am searching for while in pursuit for perfection."

"That's truly remarkable. My own patron has given me a number of small gifts, though they are mainly minor shape-shifting abilities. For example, I can change the color of my eyes and hair with a bit of focus and energy." Ashra explains, turning and winking at Nirvikar, as his eyes shifted from black to green to a light blue. His hair color and texture changed several times as he spoke as well. 

"I freely admit that I know little of biomancy, but I imagine that many quick changes is rather taxing?" Nirvikar answers and asks, tilting his head a little in fascination. 

"It would be, were my connection to the warp be weak. But I'll let you in on a little secret - I am quite strong, which allows me a greater command over the disciplines of biomancy that would kill weaker psykers, or require several at once. For example, I can also sharpen my nails into claws, and even have them secrete poisons from their tips, as long as I know the full chemical make-up of said poisons. My body will synthesize the compounds and store them without causing harm to myself."

As Ashra spoke, Nirvikar felt something sharp and hard slice into the seam of his elbow, as it was a pot he'd taken quite a bit of damage, and there'd been a weakness in his armor. He took a half step back and said "Watch it, you managed to cut me." 

"Oh I know. I did that on purpose." Ashra answers, stopping and turning to look at him steadily. 

The arm that the Thousand Son had pierced was burning with an exquisite flame. He could feel the fingertips of that hand start to tingle and burn with pins and needles before going numb. Nirvikar stumbled backwards as he felt the agony and numbness spread up his arm and across his chest "Why? What did you do to me?" Breathing was starting to get difficult. 

"Because you are a threat I do not have an easy counter for, so this is the solution I have come up with." Ashra answered, his voice and eyes cold. 

"But... But we're part of the same warband? We have been for years, and I have never deliberately antagonized you." Nirvikar growled, betrayed and confused as he tried to stagger away from the deeply amused thousand son.

"You are not apart of my warband. My true warband, that is." Ashra purrs, smirking at him, closing the distance between the two of them and forcing Nirvikar to stop moving. "Now I wasn't lying when I said there were mushrooms that I wanted to collect. But... You see.. They require a very specific kind of food in order to grow properly, so you are the unlucky sacrifice." 

The fucker was able to pick him up as his body went limp and his breathing went shallow. Nirvikar tried to scream or move, but his body didn't so much as twitch. Bastard! 

Ashra chuckled, patting him on the side condescendingly as he walked deeper into the woods and setting him in a deep, pre-prepared hole that was ten feet deep, ten feet wide and twelve feet long. "If it makes you feel any better, your death will serve me and my brothers well."

With an insulting amount of care, the thousand son placed him into the pre-dug grave. 

"I will, however, be keeping this battle instrument of yours. While I don't serve the whore-god of the galaxy, I am certain that I will be able to figure out some sort of use for these. The bow makes an excellent short range blade, and if nothing else... I am sure I can sell your instrument to another one of the slut-goddesses' followers for everything of value that they possess." The Thousand Son sneers as he carefully starts to fill the grave in, with Nirvikar still alive and paralyzed at the bottom of the hole.

"Oh and... Do try not to die too quickly. The mushroom spores will only grow to full potency if the host they are feeding off of lives for the first few years of their growth. It's remarkable how durable we astartes are, and as it's unlikely that you actually need to breathe... and with the suspended sleep that we are able to fall into... You are going to be an excellent source of food for these mushrooms for years, possibly even decades to come." Ashra purrs as he continued to fill in the grave.

All Nirvikar can do is scream in his mind as he feels the handfuls of dirt slowly begin to cover him. His breathing was still very shallow and frustratingly slow. Tears of fury and fear slid down his helmeted face. Surely he couldn't live for that long, trapped in the way that this fucker was implying? He gathered up his flagging psychic might and tried to force Ashra to stop, trying to attack the fucker with the force of his mind.

The bastard laughed and clapped his hands "Yes! Be furious! Struggle more against the inevitable, you are already starting to empower these spores." Ashra shook his head, and he dodged the psychic attack. The fucker taunted and monologed at him for what felt like days as he threw fistful after fistful of dirt and gods only knew what else onto him, working his way up from Nirvikar's toes to his head.

He had deliberately made sure as the earth began to press against him heavily that Nirvikar could still clearly see the bastard, using his own psychic strength to keep an opening available. "And would you like to know why I chose you? Because you were gullible and trusting. Because I knew that you had overtaxed your resources. Because I know that the warband I infiltrated resents and hates you, and would not care if you went missing. They find your hymns grating and your voice insufferable. Really, I am doing them a favor by getting rid of you."

That... That wasn't true! That couldn't possibly be true! Nirvikar had done his best to get along fairly well with the other members of his warband and was... Fairly sure he had succeeded? He did occasionally clash with others, but that was..> That was just what it was like to live around a band of brothers and cousins. 

"Oh... And I plan on weakening this warband further, until they can be picked off one by one. By other warbands, by the corpse worshippers. I t matters not to me, just that you and the others suffer for my plans. Hydra dominatus." Ashra, or whoever the hell he really was smirked "I am alpharius, and you. You were simply a pawn in one of my many games."