#faroh

Lullaby walks through Stone Flame on another visit to the Chemistry labs. Olly and them had done phase one of their current project yesterday, that being preparing the samples and doing the taste test. They were determined to not be late today as they were eager to check on how the remaining slices of their prototypes fared in the overnight conditions they'd been left in. 

They walk familiar halls, and use a special door pass to enter the lab room sector, required for baselines but not Astartes. Guess their right to be here was assumed, as opposed to themselves. They roll their eyes, the more things change the more they stay the same. 

It's even true of these hallways that remind them of the ones they'd used in College, though in these cases the rooms had to be reserved in advance and any experiments approved by base management. Wouldn't want Astartes building pipe bombs here. 

Would pipe bombs even damage Astartes? Well yes probably, but maybe they'd have an easier time tanking an explosion than a baseline. 

Random thoughts aside, the room reservation system made them even more eager to not misuse their allotted time. They'd arrive, get things set up and then-

(!)

Something shifted- it wasn’t a sound, not really. It was more - like pressure? The way the air felt just before something goes wrong.

Karlsor- among the other Night Lords that made up Lullaby’s found family have hammered in trusting one’s gut instinct about things like this. To always have at least one eye out for something to go wrong. Lullaby’s hand twitched. Then- they move- walking only a few steps more before picking up a run as they felt the sudden desire to do so.

The corridor behind them erupts into motion- boots hammering stone, laughter sharp and predatory. Space Wolves- the same ones as before. All damned four of them, but the sound and weight. Those awful blood Claws.

“Run away little Baseline!” One of the blood claws barks out with a cruel laugh.

Lullaby didn’t look back- one of the things that Karlsor and the others hammered in every second counts when facing enemies that far out class you. Lullaby focuses and uses their powers to help enhance their muscles to run faster. 

The four blood claws- two behind, two somehow ahead of Lullaby, a trick they’d been taught by one of the Blood Ravens- who used flexibility and out-of-box thinking had them move and slide - dropping down low as Lullaby slips between their legs and rolls as they get up and continue to run, no wasted movement.

The Space Wolf Blood claws swear and howl as they turn to give chase once more. These corridors- that Lullaby is very grateful for is too narrow for four space wolves to run abreast of each other, too many twists and turns. And Lullaby knows these lab corridors far better than the Blood Claws do. Lullaby doesn’t need to out last them all that long, just enough to find a place of relative safety.

Even as Lullaby runs-  they hear them howl and laugh, claws scrape against stone. The Blood Claws are taunting them. Enjoying this- as if it was all some fun game. Harmless play. Lullaby turns and ducks hard into a side access area and squeezes into a maintenance recess- too small for Astartes armor, barely big enough for the baseline.

Lullaby presses themself flat. For one Breath, two- there was silence. Lullaby blinks and thinks, staying put but thinking ‘Okay- Okay maybe-’

The metal screamed. A Claw punched into the edge of the recess, tearing a gouge free. A snarling, jeering Blood Claw face shoves in, his teeth bared. A smug look- and something dark glitters in his eyes that Lullaby does not like as they press deeper into the hiding spot.

“Found you whore!” He barks out, sharp teeth a victorious and vicious smirk. 

Lullaby reacts without thinking- ‘always have something on ya to stick the fuckers with’ you recall hearing from Karlsor who’d squished their cheeks once when they'd admitted they didn’t have a weapon on them.

Their hands flashed into their pockets as they pulled something out. It was a knife - small, ordinary. Used to cut hay bales, twine, and stubborn feed sacks. Still- ‘sharp enough to cut one thing- is sharp enough to cut another thing’. Or so Shatter had once said with a wry smirk. 

They slashed the knife across Snorri’s face. The blood sprayed hot and sudden. The wolf roared, reeling back, more shocked than hurt. 

For a moment they hoped that would be enough to put them off, but instead a different hand wrenches into their hiding spot, past the damaged wall. They were snagged and yanked out bodily, boots scraping uselessly as Baggi hauled them up and slammed them flat. Their back hits the stone wall hard enough to rattle their teeth. They kick and squirm and hiss profanities of every shade and in multiple languages. 

Baggi actually struggles slightly to hold the baseline as they squirm and strike out. “Get the fuckin MMUCK YOU DICKHEADS! ALL FATHER DAMMIT! You're a slippery bitch!” Baggi hisses. What in Leman's name are they feeding this bitch!?

"We Were gonna just gonna douse you in it and let you go back to your big blue Bastard." Snorri growls with a vicious snarl and bared teeth now dripping with his own blood. "But since you were a stubborn cow whore, I Think we'll just hold ya head under till ya beg for air!" He jeers as the other two handle the bucket. 

That actually seems to make Herliefr pause for a moment as him and Kolr adjust the reeking muck they'd brought with them. “Uh… we want them to Live through this though, right?” 

It's not that he thinks the humiliation or torture is too far, it's more that he doesn't want to be responsible for the shit show that could come after an accidental fatality.

Baggi rolls his eyes. “Herliefr don't be a fuckin killjoy, we'll make sure this stupid little pet gets to cry to their big blue boyscout! Now quit yapping and hold the bucket right!”

Lullaby spits back. "I only beg for One Astarte and he's sure as Shit not you, you waste of Geneseed!" And then Literally spits on the Space Wolf holding them, right in the face.

He blinks, reeling from the audacity, before his face contorts with rage. "You fucking Bitch!" He yells, sending spittle right back in the human's face.

They snarl back. "Damn right you fuckin tree humping Cock sack!" They're getting ready to fry this motherfucker with a huge burst, consequences be damned. "When I'm done with you they'll have to bury what's left in a-!"

WHAM!

Lullaby's world goes sideways before they're quickly, but remarkably gently, swept back to a different giant in blue armor.

“Olly!” They cry out with delight and relief. They can tell it's him, even with his helmet on. 

Olly doesn't reply, instead he growls as he tucks Lullaby up on his shoulder for safety. 

Baggi spits, righting himself after the punch that made him drop the baseline. His anger grows as he sees red on his hand, he can feel it dripping from his mouth too. “You Fucker!” 

"You are cowards." Olly glares at the four Idiots “And like to go after Baseline humans. What honor is there in these actions - you Blood Claws?!" He spits out their titles like it was an insult. 

Kolr looks to their ‘leader’ with disdain at these events. “Nice going dickhead. What do we do now?”

Herliefr sighs with frustration. “So much for your Brilliant plan.”

Baggi flushes with both anger and embarrassment. “Shut your flea traps!” Baggi snarls then turns back to Olly. “Looks like we'll do this the old fashioned way!” He grins, baring his sharp teeth. 

Snorri's maw stretches into a vile smirk. “After all it's Four on One.” He cackles. “Let's see how well you can protect your little bitch against Those odds ey boyscout!? Hah!” 

Olly grimaces, he had sent a message to Cedric, Ramiel, and Claude requesting backup and why. He'd done so Right before engaging these miserable excuses for soldiers. He hopes the others make it in time as he looks from face to face and calculates the best course of action as fast as he can.

As the wolves draw close, Lullaby clings and hisses more spite from Olly's shoulder. “Hey Olly…want some help making these bitches Heel?” They ask, low so only Olly can hear them. They spread their hands, and deep in their chest their power crackles like eager sparks just Waiting to devour.

Olly scans across the line of advancing wolves again quickly, and doesn't hesitate. “Yes.” Olly says his eyes dark as a night storm as he glares at the Blood claws in front of them.

That affirmation is all the baseline needs to let their mycelium crawl forth, their minds intertwine almost as seamlessly as Khopesh and Lullaby's had done before but the feeling is different. 

There's a sensation like plunging into cool water, then diving deeper. Lullaby's memories of eyes stung from chlorine in pools mix with a literal ocean enveloping a body too large to be their own. Macragge's oceans, salt water, warmth near the surface shifts slowly to become cold, cold, Cold. 

Icey baths to aid in the administration of chems, and surgeries on metal tables, and crying…

Crying…

A child…crying…

An empty pod. And another. And another. And yet another. 

NO! 

Suddenly it feels like the ocean is boiling. The temperature they feel rockets up, like an undersea volcano hot enough to vaporize land and water alike. Their mycelium feels more like veins of magma flowing and cracking through bedrock.

They scream, but not with pain. 

With Rage. A rage they don't understand…but they don't need to. 

Olly alike roars with a defiance that is not fully his legion. A red, bloody, raw thing that claws up through shifting desert sands and hydrothermal vents he didn't know existed in the depths of his soul. Its cries echo against the stone walls here. 

It actually makes the wolves falter, for half a second they reconsider their attack-

SLAM-M-M! 

Olly with unnatural speed and strength for even a Primaris shoulder checks Snorri and the already bleeding wolf goes flying and tumbling down the hall. He knocks Baggi to the side, but doesn't stop. He rolls end over end leaving divots in the floor until his full body lands with a thunderous Crack! into the far wall. 

“Holy Shite!” Kolr actually cries out in surprise. Herleifr starts to back up. 

Lullaby snarls like an animal as they whip their gaze over. Their eyes almost seem to glow like red witch fire; but that cannot be-

“HRK!” Olly interrupts whatever thoughts Kolr was having to snag a massive hand around the dark haired space wolf's neck and make a grab for the other. Herleifr tries to duck aside, but- 

“WHa-” CRaCK! Something tangles around his boot and causes him to  faceplant into the floor. 

He's dazed for a minute, spitting his sandy blond hair out of his own mouth before he feels something grab his leg.

“Wait no!” 

Olly wrenches the bastard up from the floor One handed by the foot. Shoves Kolr to the ground with his other, pins him with an armored foot, and proceeds to use Both hands to throw Herlief into the prone Space Wolf. It's nearly a perfect flip and the two crumble into a pile of metal and groaning pain. 

As if he'd let them off that easy. He grabs Herliefr’s legs again.

“Ooww…a what- AHHH!” 

“HERLIEFR! WAIT WAIT NO!” SLAM! SLAM! SLAM! “Auuuggh….”

Meanwhile Baggi is watching the utter derailment of their plans as he tries to bring himself back up to his feet after Snorri's flying body had knocked him aside. Any bravado or brash thought of get backs is quashed by seeing the fucking Demon in front of him. Picking up and  tossing fully armored Space Wolves around and into each other like plush toys.  

He…He can't let himself be cowed like this! He won't- He glances down looking for Something, Anything- He still has his knife! 

He takes the weapon from its sheath, hand trembling. 

He…he can do this. He can put the feral bastard down while he's distracted with the others then get the fuck-

The baseline whips their head back again, and Baggi freezes. Their eyes are alight, burning like a vengeful ghost of the Fenris wilds. 

“One…left…” They hiss, though it doesn't sound like their voice alone. 

The Ultramarine straightens up from where he'd been knocking his two play things together, and turns his own head the same way, much, more, slowly…

Baggi feels his guts twist into tighter and tighter knots, his hand grasping around his knife till it aches. It still trembles. 

He's afraid.

But he shouldn't-! He shouldn't be the one feeling fear! He's a Space Wolf! A soldier of Fenris! Son of the Wolf King. 

But right now, this mixed blood son of Guilliman pins him in place with a gaze that is deadly cold. Not like frost in their color, but instead like the waves of an ocean. Still at first glance, yet holding a potent rage churning and boiling just below the surface…ready to pull him under and smash him against the rocks. 

Oh Allfather…what has he brought out?

The Ultramarine steps closer…closer…Closer, till the blade of the knife presses just against the gold of his breastplate with a soft titch.

All thoughts have run from Baggi's mind as he stands transfixed by the viperous blue gaze of the heaving Ultramarine. He wants to run. Wants to scream, but he can't even manage a whisper. 

But Oleanderos does; it's faint, more like a sub-auditory growl, but it's heard. 

“Run..”

Baggi's little remaining composure breaks, his training abandoned, he turns and runs like a coward. 

Lullaby and Oleanderos watch him retreat and Almost consider letting him get away. 

Almost. 

Olly picks up the muck bucket, and with an equal amount of power and flourish, chucks it down the hallway, aiming it perfectly so it tangles in Baggi's legs and sends him sprawling. 

Baggi's face slams into the floor with a mighty WHAM, enough to shake the surrounding area. Not to mention the responding CRACK has his nose breaks on impact. He groans in pain, and confusion as familiar footsteps approach. 

Lullaby slides from Olly's shoulder, and snags the still nasty bucket. Then gets up to the Space Wolve's head and-

CLANG! Slams it onto place. They even give it a solid kick for good measure. It coats the nasty bastard in slime down to his shoulders, and causes his already throbbing head to throb even more. 

“Uuurgh…” The pain sounds trail off as the now bucket headed Space Wolf slumps back down. Pacified and covered in disgusting muck. 

“Serves you right!” Lullaby declares sharply. Then they turn on their heel to go back to Olly's side. 

They take a moment to breathe, in 4 out 6. Three sequences, before they finally take full stock of the damage. 

One assailant still embedded in a wall, two crumpled but alive in a heap, damage to the floors, awful stinking muck smears, and of Course some stray blood splatters. “What a fuckin mess!” Lullaby curses, throwing up their hands. “Honestly! What the Actual fuck is Wrong with these asschokes!? You'd Think they'd have learned the First time they had to clean up a mess they started.” They huff.

Olly doesn't respond, but Lullaby is still so livid they don't immediately notice. “This Whole Hallway will probably need repairs and decontamination! Fuck only knows what these idiots mixed into that Sludge! And even if the repairs are quick we'll need to either move our prototypes or redo the whole project from scratch I'm so fuckin MAD I could just-!” 

It's then they notice the lack of response from their companion. They turn as their anger is momentarily stifled by concern. “Olly?”

Olly stands there, not moving, not reacting, barely even blinking. He's breathing but the fact his breaths are labored while the rest of him seems damn need catatonic actually causes Lullaby More concern. 

“Olly?” They ask again, trying to determine  if he's even seeing them. “Olly, can you hear MeE!?” 

The human baseline suddenly finds themselves back up in the Ultramarine's hold. The rough breathing hasn't slowed, and his eyes still seem so far away. What can be seen beyond his helmet lenses anyway. He whispers something in Gothic that Lullaby cannot fully understand as they're bundled to the armored chest. A gauntlet clad hand tucks their head close like a child with a comfort doll. 

“Not again, XXX my XXXX… please XXXX XXXX them…not again…” 

They pick up the Gothic they can recognize but the statement still remains mostly gibberish. “Olly?” They ask, more hesitantly. But Oleanderos simply continues his murmurs, the half understood phrase repeating as he pets the human's head. Lullaby feels a new stress properly form in their gut fed by confusion and concern. 

Before they can ask again, armor clad footsteps hustle in from down the hallway. Their backup. 

Claude pants with his own exertion. “We're here! I tried to get here faster, but couldn't find a shadow. Damn these bright hallways.” He grouses and shakes his head. “Are you two alright?”

“Oh my Holy Emperor…” Ramiel trails off, taking in the absolute State of the place. 

Cedric does his own survey of the damage, including momentarily peeking under the bucket to see Who the unfortunate soul covered in smelly grease is. 

“Uggggh…” Baggi groans blearily again. 

Cedric grins, but it's not one of joy. Not fully anyway. 

Okay there's joy, but it's more of a wicked delight spurred by a deep abiding Rage Finally getting a chance to come to the surface. He whispers low, and in perfect high Gothic. 

“They will Never find your body.” He hisses.

Baggi is probably concussed and doesn't reply beyond another wordless groan. His head thunks against the floor. 

Cedric rolls his eyes. Waste of good geneseed. Then he turns to address Olly and Lullaby. 

“I'm glad to see you two appear unharmed. Still I think I should check your vitals.” He hums, bringing out an auspex wand and some other supplies from his med pack. “Oleanderos, please bring Lullaby closer so I can examine them and you.”

Olly doesn't move. Cedric takes notice. 

“Brother? The danger has passed. You can let Lullaby go n-”

Cedric doesn't even manage to finish his sentence before Olly twitches back to life, but not cognizance. 

“NO” He snarls in Gothic, and with such fierceness it causes Cedric, Claude and Ramiel to recoil with shock. 

The snarl came out distorted through Oleanderos’ vox grille, thick with static and something far more feral than simple refusal. His grip tightened instinctively, drawing Lullaby closer against his chest plate, massive gauntlet shielding the back of their head.

Claude froze mid-step. Cedric blinked, genuinely startled, auspex wand hovering uselessly in the air. Ramiel, however, moved. Not fast. Not aggressive. Deliberate. 

He stepped forward just enough to enter Oleanderos’ peripheral vision, but not close enough to be perceived as a threat. His helmet still remained mag-locked at his hip, leaving his face fully visible. His hands stayed open and empty at his sides.

“Oleanderos,” Ramiel said quietly.

No Chapter honorific. No rank invocation. Just the name.

The Ultramarine’s breathing hitched. His helm dipped slightly, but his stance did not loosen.

Ramiel’s voice lowered further, cadence shifting into something older. Ritualistic. Grounding.

“The battle is concluded,” he said in high Gothic. “Your charge remains safe.”

Oleanderos’s fingers twitched against Lullaby’s shoulder.

“They are safe,” Ramiel repeated, each word spaced, measured, immovable, he says this in the local baseline language that Lullaby knows. Lullaby could feel the tremor running through the ceramite pressing against their back. The Space Marine was shaking. Subtle. Violent. Contained by discipline alone.

“…Brother,” Cedric began cautiously. Cedric realizes- Olly’s in a flash back- thinking he is- elsewhere. Elsewhen.

Ramiel lifted one finger without looking back. Silence fell again.  Ramiel took one more step forward. Slow enough that each movement could be tracked. Intentional enough that nothing about it could be mistaken for stealth.

“You are not there,” Ramiel repeats slowly. He murmurs quietly, voice low and soft as he states in High Gothic, “You are not on Mars or elsewhere.”

Oleanderos’ vox unit spat a burst of static.

“You are here, on Ancient Terra” Ramiel continued. “Hallway seven. Chemistry sector. Engagement resolved. Allies present.”

Another shudder ran through the Ultramarine’s frame. Lullaby swallowed. Carefully, cautiously, they spoke. “Olly… I’m okay.”

The words were softer than their usual sharp-edged cadence. Almost uncertain. But honest. Oleanderos’s helmet angled downward, pressing lightly against the crown of Lullaby’s head as though verifying their presence through pressure alone.

“…Not again…” he rasped. Olly won’t let- let- them let his ch-charge be ta-hurt.

Ramiel nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

“Yes,” he said. “Not again.”

That seemed to catch. Oleanderos’ breathing faltered. Hitched. Then dragged in one long, grinding inhale that sounded like air scraping over broken glass. Ramiel raised one gauntleted hand slowly and placed it flat against his own chest plate, directly over the Templar cross.

“Follow cadence,” he instructed calmly.

Ramiel made sure to inhale slowly- deeply watching to make sure that Olly mimics his motions.

Four counts- he makes sure to lightly tap them against Olly’s chest gently. As he held his breath- making sure Olly mimics him.

Two taps on his chest - Ramiel and Olly exhale at the same time. Another Six to hold the empty lungs. The rhythm echoed in the ruined hallway, strangely loud beneath the faint hiss of leaking hydraulics and the distant buzz of servitors beginning their cleanup protocols.

Again.

Oleanderos’ respirator stuttered… then matched it. Not perfectly. Not cleanly. But close enough. Lullaby felt the crushing tension in the arm around them ease by a fraction. Then another. Claude is watching the targets- downed as they are for unsafe movement and the hallways to ensure that no one intervenes before they have a chance to corroborate a story.

Cedric lowered the auspex wand slightly, eyes narrowing as he watched the subtle physiological shift ripple through the Ultramarine’s posture. Ramiel maintained the cadence, voice never rising, never rushing.

“You carried them through violence,” he said evenly. “You did not lose them to it.”

Another breath.

“You did not fail.” Ramiel says slowly, words soft and calm. Oleanderos’ grip loosened enough that Lullaby could actually move their shoulders. His helm tilted, vox static crackling again before stabilizing.

“…Ramiel?” he said hoarsely.

“I am here, Olly.” Ramiel says his voice is warm and gentle. The words landed like an anchor.

Slowly, painfully slowly, Oleanderos lowered Lullaby just enough that they could stand while still being held close, one gauntlet resting protectively across their shoulders as if he still needed physical confirmation they existed.

Cedric approached again, this time visibly slower.

“May I examine them?” he asked, voice carefully neutral.

Oleanderos hesitated. Lullaby looked up at the towering Ultramarine and gave a small, deliberate nod.

“I’m still okay,” they said. “And I'm not going Anywhere. I Promise.”

Several seconds stretched. Olly allows himself to blink. He trusts Cedric. He knows Cedric- Cedric wouldn't ta- would make sure that Lullaby is safe. Then Oleanderos released them fully, though he remained looming close enough to intervene at a moment’s notice.

Cedric stepped in immediately, auspex already humming as he began scanning for internal trauma, toxin exposure, and stress spikes.

Claude nudged one of the groaning Blood Claws over with his boot and muttered “They are going to wake up with such impressive regret.”

Ramiel finally allowed himself to exhale fully, tension easing from his shoulders as he watched Oleanderos steady himself through the last of the breathing sequence. His gaze shifted briefly toward Lullaby. There was approval there. And quiet gratitude.

Lullaby nods back to him, acknowledging the wordless affirmation. 

Cedric is the next to speak after a moment. “All their vitals and internals seem good. Some mild bruising will probably develop, but nothing more serious than that. Oleanderos?” He asks the name more tentatively than the diagnosis. 

This time, the Ultramarine responds, though his voice still sounds strained. “Yes, Cedric?”

Cedric gestures to the other Blood Claws. “I will need to examine…the others now. And I will need to step past you and Lullaby.” He explains, gesturing down the bedraggled hallway. 

Oleanderos nods. “Of course…” He steps to the side, while still keeping himself between most of the Blood Claws, incapacitated though they are, and the baseline human who they'd tried to harass. 

Lullaby follows, stepping to the side and staying near Olly. They…they don't think they want him out of sight for a while. And they don't think moving further away will be good for his stress. 

As Cedric goes Wolf to Wolf, he checks them over with the auspex wand and goodness the contrast is delightful. 

Oleanderos and Lullaby? Scratches and mild bruising. Olly didn't even have any injuries really. 

Snorri, no doubt, had at Minimum some broken ribs and a severely bruised face. Kolr and Herleifr? More rib fractures, collar bone fractures, and for the latter a dislocated knee and femur. But Baggi was undoubtedly his Favorite. 

Broken nose, and a mild concussion. Lightest of all these idiots but the Most humiliating position. Not to mention covered in goo. Cedric sighs with a certain measure of satisfaction. If it weren't for Olly's flashback and Lullaby's fright, this would truly be a beautiful day. 

He sighs, but takes pride and a certain amount of enjoyment in being able to collect and stabilize these…poorly trained dogs. He enlists the help of Ramiel and Claude to get these idiots in some semblance of triage as he goes through the first aid process. 

Snorri actually stirs a bit as Cedric fits him with a neck brace. The feral bastard opens his stinking maw. “Fucking bitch!” He hisses, near breathless. 

Cedric rolls his eyes. “Yes yes, I'm a bitch, now hold still so I can keep you from destroying your own neck.”

“Not you You daft fuckin cunt! That one!” Snorri hisses again and points a trembling hand at…

Well it's hard to tell if he means Lullaby or Olly or Both. Olly positions himself more fully in front of the baseline. 

Who is not taking the downed Blood Claw even half way seriously. They just stick out their tongue and blow a raspberry. 

That actually seems to set Snorri off more. “You little Bitch! I'll blind ya! You hear me i'll-HrlCk!”

The barking bitch is suddenly made silent by a hand in black armor wrapping around his neck, carefully mind. Only cutting off air and not crushing the vertebrae. 

Claude's electric ice blue eyes bore into Snorri's and there's a very…familiar looking expression on his face. He grins with teeth only half as sharp as their counterparts in the eighth legion. He whispers one simple phrase. 

“Be Quiet…”

The idiot shuts his trap. Only for a different idiot to pipe up. 

“Holy shit they are fucking their way through the ranks…” Herliefr mumbles, only half awake. 

Lullaby is rendered momentarily speechless, meanwhile a very confused Ramiel looks to them. “Is that a Terran phrase or…?”

Lullaby shakes their head. “I'll…explain later. Just get these idiots stabilized.” They groan. “Fuckin assholes…”

Baggi leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, displeasure radiating off him in visible waves.

His frost-blue hair—styled into a sharp, upturned peak—looked half like raised hackles, bristling in silent agitation. He didn’t pace. He didn’t fidget. He simply stood there and seethed, jaw tight, breath slow and heavy through his nose.

Kolr noticed, eventually.

Kolr noticed most things eventually. It just usually took a while for him to care.

He tilted one pitch-dark eyebrow, regarding his pack brother with detached curiosity. “What’s got your sack in a twist?” he asked briskly.

Baggi didn’t answer.

He flicked his eyes sideways, then snapped them back to the empty hallway he’d been watching. The low growl in his throat deepened, vibrating like distant thunder.

Snorri snorted, pushing himself off the wall with a wheezing laugh. “What else?” he said. “He’s still mad like a wee pup that he couldn’t make his favorite prey squirm~.”

He bared his naturally sharp fangs, laughter scraping out of him like something feral and amused.

Herleifr, seated nearby with his back to the wall, shot Snorri a flat glare. “Last I checked, we all backed down from that freak. Or did I hallucinate you power-walking away like you’d seen a ghost?”

Snorri recoiled, affronted. “Wasn’t scared of that big brat! I only left ’cause you cowards backed down!”

He stepped into Herleifr’s space, chest out, posture screaming challenge—

“ENOUGH!”

Baggi snapped at last.

“Will the two of you shut the fuck up?” he snarled. “I’m trying to think.”

Herleifr didn’t miss a beat. “That’s a first.”

Baggi shot him a glare sharp enough to draw blood, but he didn’t rise to it. Instead, he turned back toward the corridor and spat bitterly.

“Fuckin’ boring as shit since Algeret fucked off to All-Father-knows-where,” he growled. “Now I gotta listen to you idiots squabble like chickens.”

Kolr shifted his weight, unimpressed. “Maybe we wouldn’t be bored as sin if we actually knew what we were waiting for.”

“Hate to agree with sad sack,” Herleifr said as he stood and stretched his stiff shoulders, “but he’s right. What are we even doing here?”

Here meant the labs—sterile, quiet, crawling with rules and oversight. None of them had any interest in that kind of work. Blood Claws could specialize in dozens of directions, but none of those directions involved pipettes or restraint.

They preferred autonomy. Violence with permission. Fear without consequence.

Not:

Don’t start fights with Chaos Marines unless they attack first. Don’t antagonize other loyalists—go spar. Don’t scare baselines, they’re fragile.

“Feh,” Baggi spat.

If baselines didn’t want to be hunted, they shouldn’t make themselves such easy prey.

Prey, in this case, didn’t mean killing. They weren’t traitors. They were loyalists. They knew the line.

But looming? Intimidation? A rough shove or two?

A dead toy wasn’t fun. A frightened one was.

“You’ll see,” Baggi said at last. “Just keep your eyes out.”

Before the others could argue, a door hissed open further down the hallway.

Baggi’s posture changed instantly.

He slid half behind the jut of the wall, presence vanishing despite his size. The others followed suit, peering down the corridor.

Out stepped the big blue bastard.

Baggi’s growl deepened. “That fucker…”

Kolr squinted. “What, you gonna try to cow him after he’s done science grox shit? You know he could’ve brewed vials of acid in there, right?”

“Shut up,” Baggi hissed. “Look closer.”

The others focused.

A second figure emerged from the lab.

Snorri let out a low, ugly whistle. “Ooooh. It’s that little plate-pitching Night Lord whore.” He grinned. “Think they’re makin’ their way through the ranks?”

Herleifr rolled his eyes. “Even if they are, I doubt they’d wanna ride your flea-bitten shaft.”

Snorri sputtered. “Why you—”

“Shut it,” Baggi snarled, clamping a hand over Snorri’s mouth.

Down the hall, Lullaby slowed and turned their head. “Did you hear that?”

The Space Wolves froze.

Not a muscle moved. Not a breath escaped.

Olly scanned the hallway, enhanced senses sweeping. The Wolves stayed perfectly still—trained, disciplined, invisible.

Something tugged at Olly’s awareness. A sense of wrongness. He considered checking the perimeter, despite the absurdity of it. They were surrounded by loyalists, labs, controlled corridors.

Still…

Another door opened.

“Oleandros. Lullaby. Good to see you both.”

Apothecary Zariel of the Ultramarines stepped out, blue and gold immaculate.

“Oh—hi, Doc!” Lullaby chirped.

“Greetings, sir,” Olly replied. He was… mostly glad to have Zariel present. The Hydra in blue was competent. Reliable.

But Ultramarines- even Hydra pretending to be one always came with a cost. That he knows well, after all Olly is a Primaris Ultramarine. Further down the corridor, the Wolves relaxed as the trio moved off, voices drifting away—science grox shit and lab talk.

Snorri grinned, slow and ugly. “You wanna go after his little bitch, don’t you?”

Herleifr’s lip curled. “Still not sure they’re his bitch. Ever known Night Lords to share?”

Then he smiled. “Still… been a while since we had fun.”

Kolr chuckled, low and fond. “Like before.” He laughed outright. “Remember his face when we smeared him with that reeking muck? Gods, priceless.”

Baggi nodded, eyes locked in the direction the pair had gone.

“And that’s exactly what we’re gonna do to his little pet,” he growled. “We’ll show that blue fuck exactly where it hurts.”

The pack broke into excited growls and panting laughter, already tasting the hunt. Baggi basked in it—his brilliance, his plan, his certainty.

But the revelry cannot last forever, as more bodies join the hallway. No doubt they'd been drawn by the noise, and perhaps even signals pinging from the defeated enemy's armor systems. Cedric turns and his mood sours. Apothecary Melinthe stalks forward to examine the damage with a look that could melt ceramite. 

Beside him is apothecary Zariel and someone who Cedric recognizes by legion but not by face. A Black Templar Apothecary… Before Cedric's paranoia can spin too many sharp thoughts in his skull, Olly speaks up again. 

“Apothecary Melinthe. Apothecary Zariel. Apothecary Adric.” The Ultramarine acknowledges the three elder marines politely. 

Melinthe is clearly not in the mood for pleasantries. “Scouts Report! Now.” He growls, and even the baseline swears they can hear his teeth grinding. 

The three Primaris snap to attention, Lullaby is still near Olly and notices he subtly puts himself between them and Melinthe, but they don't comment on it. 

The Imperial Fist examines the line of Scouts as Adric takes over the medical examinations and getting transport ready for the four idiots alongside some other responding medical staff that are trickling in. Melinthe growls another command. 

“Helms OFF.” He snaps. “I want you All to Look me in the Eye and explain Exactly.” He gestures to the hallway. “What happened here!”

Cedric gestured toward Olly. “Primary witness and participant.”

Melnith’s gaze shifted. Olly straightened fractionally. The movement was subtle but instinctive — posture aligning into formal clarity.

“Four Space Wolf Blood Claws initiated pursuit and attempted assault of Baseline civilian specialist Lullaby,” Olly said evenly. “Engagement occurred in corridor Delta-Seven of the research wing. I intervened.”

Adric grunted softly. “Intervened.”

Ramiel coughed.

Claude muttered from the wall, “That’s… one word for it.”

Melnithe lifted one finger slightly. Silence returned immediately.

“Continue,” He said with a growl

Olly nodded once.

“They intended humiliation through chemical contamination and possible forced submersion in a foreign compound of unknown toxicity,” he said. “Verbal harassment escalated into physical detainment. Baseline specialist responded with defensive measures prior to my arrival.”

Melnith’s brow lifted slightly at that. Lullaby shifted, visibly uncomfortable with that much attention, but remained quiet.

“I engaged to terminate the assault,” Olly finished.

“That is an unusually restrained summary,” Cedric said helpfully.

Melnithe ignored him.

Zariel stepped forward, crouching briefly beside one of the unconscious Wolves. He examined dent patterns in the ceramite, running thick fingers along a bent pauldron.

“These are not sparring injuries,” he said.

“No,” Ramiel replied quietly.

“Thrown,” Melnith concluded, glancing up toward Olly. “Repeatedly.”

“Yes.” Olly says with a blink.

Zariel, Adric, and Melnith stared at him for a long moment.

Then the Ultramarine Apothecary gave a single approving nod. “Efficient use of available terrain.”

“Thank you sir.” Olly replies, almost cracking a smile. 

That is before a sharp look from Melinthe to both of them makes them flinch back to attention. Well…Olly flinches, Zariel seems to be suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. 

Melinthe is primed to speak again, before a different voice chimes in. Well not chime, it's more like a withered groan. 

“Demon…” Kolr rasps, already fitted with a neck brace, and being prepared for hover bed transport. 

Aldric takes note of that. “Scout?” 

Kolr's eyes shoot open, and he points at Oleanderos. “Demons! The both of them!” He cries out in panic.

Adric's gaze hardens. “Scout, you are in need of medical attention. We will take your statement once you are stable and of sound mind.”

Kolr spits out a scoffing laugh. “Sound Mind!? SOUND MIND!? YOU'RE THE ONES NOT OF SOUND MIND LETTING THAT…THAT THING ROAM FREE!” He gasps pointing a shaking finger to Olly (and Lullaby though the veteran apothecaries do not realize that.)

Herliefr speaks next, much more low and pained. “That witch…charming Astartes and making them fight on their behalf…using their body to draw them into service…THEY CANNOT BE TRUSTED!”

Snorri, emboldened by the others, joins in on the braying. “Accursed Whore sicced the Primaris they're fuckin on us! He sent me through a Wall! A Wall dammit! And the little bitch cut my damn Face!”

The only one who doesn't speak is Baggi, but whether that's due to being concussed or scared is anyone's guess. He casts one side long glance at Olenaderos. 

Before immediately clamming up, and fixing his gaze on the ceiling. 

Regardless, the sudden volume shift startles the gathered individuals.

“Get them to the med bay dammit.” Melinthe growls to the other staff who hurry to push the hover beds along, then he addresses the Primaris. “What in the blasted hell are they going on about now!?”

Lullaby sighs, and pinches their nose bridge. “They're idiots. Do you Really need more explanation?”

Melinthe turns a sharp eye their way. “You will respond when addressed. Specialist. And you will do so in diction that is expected of your station. Do you understand?”

Lullaby bites down on the urge to snap back, knowing such only leads to more discipline. And usually it's meted out to those around them, which makes them feel all the worse. “Yes. Sir.”

Melinthe nods. “Speak.”

Lullaby nods. “It's as the others said. I came Here in order to check on our,” They gesture to Olly. “Chemistry experiments. Checked in, used my pass, was minding my Own Business,” They emphasize the two words. “When Those four morons decided they wanted to dunk me in God knows whatever that slime is for the crime of Not wanting to be grabbed.” They huff. 

Melinthe raises an eyebrow. “And the laceration to the Space Wolf's face?”

Lullaby steels their nerves. “They chased me into a hole. I was Scared. So I did what I had to. But instead of putting them off they just yanked me out, and threatened to ‘make me beg for air’.” They hiss spitefully using their fingers for the quote motions.

The turn to the Ultramarine Primaris. “Olly saved me. And they didn't like having their planned fun stopped, so they decided to gang up on him. He responded by beating their asses in self defense. Check the cameras and you'll see who's telling the truth.”

Zariel holds up his data slate. “I took the liberty of  beginning the process of pulling the camera feeds as we traveled here. They are ready to view now.” The ‘ultramarine’ hums and passes the data slate to Melinthe.   

And indeed that is what Melinthe sees, his gaze becomes darker and his grimace tightens. As do his fingers and for a moment Lullaby is concerned when they hear actual creaking from the Data Slate's edges. 

But Melinthe holds back, forces himself to breathe, and passes the tablet back to Zariel. He clears his throat. 

“Very well. In light of your statements, and the recorded evidence you are free to go.” He grunts. “For Now.”

Lullaby doesn't like the sound of that. “For now?”

Melinthe's sharp glance makes them shrink back a bit, but he answers the question. “An event like This one, will require a more detailed investigation. Not to mention records being updated, and Paperwork.” He says the word with a barely constrained groan. “I will need written statements from All of you. Regarding the incident itself and What…factors…”

He chooses the word carefully, but Lullaby cannot help but feel they are being scrutinized. 

“Led to this occurring. But for Now. You may disperse and continue about your duties.” Melinthe affirms. 

“The factors are that these four Blood Claws are escalating their prior poor manners and this is at least the second attack this Baseline these Blood Claws have done.” Olly says. He will endure it if people bully him- but to those he cares about? Absolutely not. “It should be in their records sir.”

Melinthe's gaze lands on Olly again. “I do not disregard that Scout. However,” He glances at the broken walls, the dented floors, the utter Chaos that will need to be cleaned up and repaired. “The actions taken by you and yours must also be recorded.”

Lullaby's composure breaks. “Are you fuckin kidding me!? Olly was just trying to-”

“Protect You. Yes as I have been made Very well aware, Specialist.” He growls. “But…one cannot deny his actions in doing so have…exceeded expectations.” Melinthe asserts. 

A curious pause falls over the gathered Astartes. Zariel's brow furrows and Adric turns a questioning look to Melinthe. “And what is meant by that, Sir?”

“Inflicting damage in self defense is reasonable. Causing property damage in escaping pursuing opponents is, similarly, reasonable.” He grunts, then takes back the Data Slate and turns it around. It shows Olly in the heat of combat. After he'd already knocked down most of the Space Wolves.

He's not hitting to defend. 

He's not causing damage to be able to retreat. 

He's completely taken by rage, and beating down already incapacitated opponents; thus causing more damage to Them and the surroundings.

Then Melinthe shows the part where Olly had to be talked down by Ramiel. He shows the fear in Olly's posture, his coiling and rigid defense that showed he could snap again at any moment. 

“It is not your goal that concerns me Scout.” Melinthe says, more gently though only by a fraction. “It is the clear loss of emotional control you displayed. And thus the further force you used while in that state, beyond what was required to resolve the conflict.” Melinthe elaborates. “Astartes would normally only be invoked to such rage if their Bonded or their offspring were put in harm's way. But Specialist Lullaby is neither of those things.”

That statement seems to…get to Olly. Moreso than the others about ‘required force’ and ‘loss of emotional control’. His gaze tips down, and he draws into himself. 

Cedric seems ready to speak. To defend his brother's honor as these wolves had shown time and time again a more passive approach wasn't sticking. But he's cut off by Adric. 

“Now hold on Melinthe.” The Black Templar apothecary interjects. “Zariel, how many incidents have been recorded with these Blood Claws?” He asks. 

“I'm so delighted you asked.” Zariel takes the data slate back and taps a few buttons in sequence. “Two major ones have been reported involving this group and others including today's debacle, but there have been several Dozen, minor reports about what I believe should still be less than tolerable behavior. This includes pushing, shoving, looming, intimidation, and general menacing all normally of Baseline staff that might have escalated if not for other Astartes stepping in. It's all compiled right here I assure you.”

Melinthe scans over the list. Adric continues. 

“Perhaps Oleanderos's actions were past normal expectations, but this is clearly not the only time these wolves have overstepped.” The Black Templar apothecary asserts. “There is a history here. A wound that perhaps their actions tore open more viscerally. And thus caused this soldier to respond more viscerally than he would in a ‘normal’ engagement.” 

Lullaby glances back to Olly, who's still mostly withdrawn. 

“Were the Scouts in question of my Legion they'd be celebrated for defending a member of mankind, as is our sworn duty. And punishing those who abuse it with such vigor.”

Cedric is…honestly taken aback by that. Adric all at once has dispersed most if not all the fears the younger Apothecary had concocted of him. Though part of him still doubts the ‘celebrated’ part given his own experience. Adric must be like Roland and Arnault, from before the Primaris integration and all the hell that followed. 

Melinthe narrows his eyes slightly. “I do not disagree. But protocols must be followed, especially when the incident occurs amongst our own.” He hands the tablet back. “This event will be recorded, as it must be. Your actions will be recorded, both those considered acceptable and those that were not.” He declares. 

Oleaderos nods. “And the wolves?”

Melinthe's face scrunches. “Given their past actions I will be calling in a favor from a base near Steelix River.” He grunts. “While I was not aware of the full extent of their ill behavior I cannot and will not abide by it any longer. If they wish to fight and disobey, they can do so at their own peril.”

An odd way to phrase that, Lullaby thinks. “Permission to speak? Sir.” Lullaby asks. 

Melinthe nods. “Granted.”

“What do you mean by peril?” 

Melinthe doesn't…smile per se, but a certain knowing expression comes over his face. “Because they will be serving their sentence for the Iron Warriors.”

Lullaby almost feels a shudder run up their spine. “Dear God…”

There is a soft snort from Claude. “Oh. Yes. Peril is an apt term for misbehaving around them.”

Melinthe shoots the scout a look, but notably doesn't correct him. He lets out one last grunt. “Dismissed.”

The apples were cooling when Lullaby wandered back in.

They did not announce themselves. Rarely did. Curiosity outweighed caution, as it often did, their approach registering only as the softest shift in the lab’s ambient hum. Olly sensed it immediately, the same way he could tell when a machine’s pitch altered by a fraction of a hertz, or a centrifuge deviated by a few rotations per minute.

He did not look up. He continued, stirring, dipping, rotating—his hands precise, measured, unfaltering.

“You cut them differently for me,” Lullaby said, voice low, casual, but with the weight of observation behind it.

Olly’s hands froze mid-motion. A thin, glossy thread of sugar stretched from apple to tray.

“I do not,” he said, automatically, because the data said he didn’t.

By every recorded metric, the apples were uniform: weight, temperature, shell thickness, sugar set correctly. The procedure had been followed to the letter. Deviations were inefficient. Deviations were unnecessary.

Yet Lullaby leaned closer anyway, eyes sliding over the tray with practiced attention, as if reading invisible annotations written between the lines of his protocol.

“You do,” they said. “Smaller wedges. Thinner shell. Less pull on the teeth.”

They grinned—not accusing, just observant. Attentive. Knowing.

“You do it every time.”

Olly looked down.

And there it was. Objectively, undeniably, subtly different.

The cuts were finer, edges tapered by degrees absent from any manual. The sugar shell thinned toward the edges, reinforced near the core. Angles adjusted to optimize consumption, though not for structural integrity alone.

He searched for reasoning. None existed. No directive. No preference recorded. He reached for a justification and found only flimsy arguments: efficiency, symmetry, repetition. Insufficient. Unconvincing.

“It is efficient,” he said finally.

“For me,” Lullaby said softly, but with certainty.

“Yes,” he replied, voice neutral, eyes tracing his hands as they resumed their measured motions: stir, dip, twist. Sugar, fruit, rotation. Repeat.

That should have been enough. Variables acknowledged. Exchange complete.

Instead, Lullaby leaned back slightly, apple in hand, and said, softly, “Thank you.”

Something inside Olly shifted. Not a fracture, not a collapse—but a misfiled memory in a drawer he had never opened before, a card jammed where it did not belong. For a fraction of a second, the lab overlaid with other senses: antiseptic that wasn’t there, the faint echo of laughter under running water, lights too bright, then too dim, the subtle hum of warmth brushing the air.

He steadied himself, grip firm on the edge of the bench, waiting until the feeling passed.

“You are welcome,” he said, after a moment, voice even.

Lullaby bit into an apple.

The reaction was immediate—pleasure, bright and unguarded, uncalculated. The shell cracked where it should, yielding just enough resistance, breaking cleanly, the sugar folding like it had been trained to obey.

Olly watched. Not casually. Not idly. He tracked the break point, the jaw angle, the integrity of the sugar shell. He observed for strain, for pull, for any sign of failure. Only when satisfied did he release the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Lullaby hummed, cheerful and light. “You know… it feels strange to eat in a lab.”

“Then again,” they continued, “all other labs I’ve been in… I don’t recall doing experiments with food.”

Olly’s mouth tilted faintly, one corner lifting in amusement. “Well…our experiments do require a product that holds. And tastes sufficient.”

Lullaby’s pointer finger flicked for emphasis. “True! Therefore we must break a rule. For science!” They scribbled notes in their experiment journal, muttering over the margins: “Control group, Sample Zero taste test within normal parameters. Aka, very delicious.”

Adric noticed patterns for a living. It was part of what made him an effective Apothecary.

It was the kind of intelligence that survived long after enthusiasm burned out—quiet, comparative, built on anomalies rather than instincts. He did not trust first impressions. He trusted recurrence. One incident was noise. Two was coincidence. Three was a data set.

So when he saw Olly and Lullaby together for the third time in two cycles—heads bent close, voices low, space held with an ease that bypassed rank—he logged it mentally without judgment.

Astartes interacted with baselines all the time. Especially on Ancient Terra. Especially in research wings where efficiency mattered more than hierarchy.

It meant nothing.

By the sixth time, he frowned.

The intervals were irregular, but the pattern held. Olly adjusted schedules by increments small enough to escape casual notice. He lingered three minutes past handoff. He rerouted a supply request so that delivery coincided with Lullaby’s known presence in the auxiliary wing. He positioned himself in corridors in ways that subtly altered traffic flow.

Minor things. Sensible things. Things that, taken alone, were unremarkable.

Adric’s mind did not evaluate singular events. It overlaid them.

By the ninth time, he stopped observing passively.

He waited.

He caught Olly alone in the transept corridor just outside the auxiliary lab wing. The location was deliberate: no witnesses close enough to matter, no operational urgency that would justify evasion, and far enough from the main thoroughfare that raised voices—if they occurred—would not carry.

Adric matched Olly’s stride for several steps, casual on the surface.

“Oleandros,” he said.

Olly turned immediately.

“Black Templar Apothecary Adric.”

That, too, was a data point.

Olly always turned immediately. No hesitation. No delayed acknowledgment. No subtle assertion of rank through timing. His face was neutral, calm—but his eyes were already working. Tracking Adric’s posture. His hands. The cadence of his voice. Measuring intent.

Adric wondered, not for the first time, how much of that was Ultramarine training and how much was something else.

“I won’t take much of your time,” Adric said mildly. “I wanted to ask about your assistant.”

Olly did not stiffen. He did not shift his weight or angle his body defensively. He simply breathed once, evenly.

“Which matter?” he asked.

Adric smiled faintly.

“That answer tells me more than you think.”

He leaned back against the wall, folding his arms with deliberate ease. He made a show of relaxing, of framing this as collegial rather than confrontational.

“You’ve been investing a lot of attention there,” Adric continued. “Covering irregularities. Adjusting schedules. Making allowances.”

Olly waited.

Silence, Adric knew, was rarely empty. It was a tool. The young battle brother- well cousin used it well.

“Lullaby isn’t my assistant,” Olly said at last. “They help me when they have time. They are busy with their farm. And helping some of the others with various tasks.”

Adric nodded as if that were entirely reasonable.

“I’m not accusing,” he said. “I’m contextualizing. You’re not the first Astartes to… mentor selectively.”

Olly’s fingers flexed once at his side.

“I would like to point out,” he said evenly, “that my age precludes me from mentorship.”

“Youth does not preclude attachment,” Adric replied.

“They are young,” he added. “And so are you.”

The word young hung between them, heavier than it should have been.

Adric tilted his head slightly.

“It looks like favoritism, Oleandros. The kind born of guilt or projection. I’ve seen it before—brothers who lose squads, who fail protégés, who then overcorrect.”

There it was.

A neat explanation. Clean. Acceptable. One that required no further inquiry once accepted. A psychological model with precedent. Survivable. Ordinary. Olly felt the familiar slide in his thoughts—the subtle pressure to accept the offered narrative because it reduced friction. Because it made him legible. Because it meant he did not have to articulate something far more inconvenient.

Instead, he said, “Your concern is noted.”

Adric raised an eyebrow. “That’s all?”

“Yes.”

Olly’s eyes had changed. They were not angry. Not defensive. They were cold—deep and metallic, like the oceans of Macragge under storm light. Forged. Finished. The gaze of someone who had already made his internal decision and would not be persuaded by outside interpretation.

“You understand how this appears,” Adric said.

Olly did.

He understood that an Astartes who diverted time and attention to a single baseline could be accused of softening. Of distraction. Of misplaced priority. He understood that attachments—especially visible ones—invited scrutiny.

“I am friends with them,” Olly said. “That is not a crime.”

Adric’s tone softened, as if offering kindness rather than critique.

“I’m not telling you to stop. I’m advising caution. Attachments—especially compensatory ones—invite scrutiny. And scrutiny invites intervention.”

For a moment, Olly almost said thank you.

The reflex was old: accept guidance. Defer to seniority. Absorb correction without resistance.

Instead, something steadier displaced it.

“There is no compensation,” he said.

Adric studied him. “You’re certain of that?”

Olly thought of apples cut too thin so they would not bruise in smaller hands. Of shielding adjusted preemptively. Of camera logs edited without hesitation. Of a smaller figure standing too straight, waiting for punishment that never came.

He thought of the instinctive flare of something in his chest when Lullaby was late.

“I am,” he said.

Adric searched his face for a long second. What he saw there did not match guilt. It did not match the projection. It did not match unresolved trauma seeking an outlet. It looked like resolve.

“Very well,” Adric said at last. “I’ve said my piece.”

He pushed off the wall and walked away, boots echoing down the corridor in measured cadence.

Olly remained where he was.

Only after Adric turned the corner did he realize his hands were shaking—not from fear, but from the effort of not saying what pressed against the inside of his teeth.

They are not a replacement. They are not a mistake. They are not something I am fixing.

Because the truth was worse. And simpler. And far harder to explain.

He wasn’t compensating. He was responding. And somewhere deep in his mind, in a part that did not remember names or faces or endings—only outcomes—a quiet directive had already been written:

This one does not get taken.

Irritation flared next, sharper and less controlled. Why was he being lectured?

Since when was having a baseline friend grounds for suspicion? This was Ancient Terra. Adaptation was required. That meant interacting. That meant connection. The Imperium did not function in isolation alone. This is Ancient Terra true- but still- the sentiment remains the same.

His hands clenched into fists and then relaxed.

‘I need to talk to Cedric,’ he thought, staring at the empty space Adric had occupied with a mild glare. ‘I doubt Adric would be lecturing someone of similar age that’s Firstborn about such grox shit.’

The unfairness of it burned quietly.

What he did not notice was another presence farther down the corridor.

A different Firstborn—bright blond hair catching the lumen strips, brown-red eyes thoughtful beneath a composed brow—had been wandering the wings in search of a wayward younger cousin, one blessed with wings and an alarming talent for vanishing.

Blood Angel Captain Crohnar had been looking for Jophiel. And Nanael. And possibly a third brother if the day continued its current trend. He had heard voices and slowed out of habit.

Crohnar stepped lightly, silently, catching the tail end of the exchange. He did not intrude. He simply listened long enough to catch tone and posture.

His brow furrowed in faint confusion.

Mentoring baselines was a time-honored tradition among the sons of the Blood. True, Olly was young—but some were simply more paternal by nature. Some gravitated toward smaller, fragile things and guarded them without analysis.

Not entirely odd.

He watched Olly stand rigid in the corridor long after Adric departed. Watched the subtle tremor in his hands before it stilled. Watched the way his gaze remained fixed, not on where Adric had gone—but on the auxiliary wing beyond.

Crohnar’s mouth twitched faintly.

He catalogued it as a curiosity. A potential piece of light gossip for later, when the brothers gathered and the mood turned informal. Something to tease gently about: Ultramarines and their projects.

He turned and continued on his way, curiosity satisfied. Behind him, Olly finally exhaled. The sound was quiet, almost imperceptible. Reasonable assumptions, he knew, were often the most dangerous kind.

Olly noticed the change because the lab felt wrong.

Not wrong wrong—nothing was missing, nothing misaligned, no alarms tripped or containment fields flickering at the edge of acceptable variance—but the rhythm had shifted. The room’s usual cadence was off by a fraction too small to name and too large to ignore.

He stood at the central bench and counted.

One. Two. Three. Four.

The fingers of his left hand tapped against his thigh in a familiar pattern as his eyes tracked the space: bench surfaces, sealed drawers, the dull glow of the incubator status lights. Everything was where it should be. Everything was behaving.

The benches were too quiet.

It was the kind of quiet that did not belong to machines at rest or systems humming along within tolerance. It was the quiet of a missing variable. The air held a waiting quality it only ever developed when someone was meant to be present and wasn’t.

Olly checked the chronometer.

07:14.

He checked it again, angling his wrist slightly as if that might change the numbers.

07:14.

Lullaby should have been here at 06:58. Late, by their standards, was three minutes. Five at most, with prior notice and a sheepish smile. Sixteen minutes without a message was not within established parameters.

He stood still for a moment longer than necessary, letting the data settle. Letting the feeling persist long enough to be confirmed rather than dismissed.

Then, methodically, he did nothing about it.

He recalibrated the centrifuge, though it had passed its last diagnostic less than an hour ago and was currently well within optimal performance. He adjusted the calibration by a margin so small it could not possibly matter and ran the test cycle anyway. The centrifuge whirred obediently, numbers scrolling across the display in calm affirmation.

Still wrong.

He rewrote three lines of a protocol he had already approved, substituting synonyms that changed nothing about the meaning. He reviewed the reagent inventory, even though Lullaby had catalogued it the night before with their usual precision—little notes in the margins, neat but playful, as if the work itself deserved encouragement.

He paused over one of those notes now. A tiny star drawn beside a particularly volatile compound. “Behave,” they had written beside it.

He pressed his thumb briefly against the edge of the page, flattening a corner that did not need flattening.

Still wrong.

He moved to the secondary bench and began lining up the apple molds. Normally they were organized by batch number, stacked in clear containers, each labeled and logged. Today, without consciously deciding to, he arranged them by size instead, smallest to largest, edges aligned to a tolerance he had not measured but could feel when it was correct.

Better. Not right.

He found himself counting steps to the door.

One. Two. Three.

He stopped at three, frowned, and forced himself back to the bench. The sensation behind his sternum—tight, quiet, insistent—did not respond to logic. It did not respond to procedure.

He checked the chronometer again.

07:21.

He opened the lab’s internal channel. No message. No delay notice. No brief, apologetic ping.

His mind supplied possibilities with ruthless efficiency.

Detained. Questioned. Flagged.

Reclassified.

Removed.

The thought arrived fully formed and was immediately rejected as statistically premature. There had been no alerts. No lockdown. No escalation notice from administration. The Bastard Blood Ravens preferred spectacle when they made examples of people. Quiet removals were reserved for those already deemed expendable.

Lullaby was not expendable.

The door slid open at 07:24 with a soft pneumatic sigh, and Olly felt it immediately: a distinct, involuntary loosening behind the sternum, like something unclenching that he had not realized was tight.

They came in too fast, breath a little short, hair escaping its usual tie. Their bag thumped against their hip as they crossed the threshold, and they were already speaking before the door finished sealing behind them.

“Sorry,” they said. “I’m sorry. Got intercepted. Nothing bad. Just—questions.”

They set their bag down, hands moving automatically to their station, as if momentum alone could make up for lost time.

Olly nodded.

He did not ask who had intercepted them. He did not ask what kind of questions. He did not ask why they had not sent a message.

Instead, he said, “You missed the temperature stabilization window. We’ll need to restart.”

Lullaby froze for half a second, then winced. “My fault.”

“It is not,” Olly said automatically—and then paused, because that was not accurate. He adjusted. “It is correctable.”

They looked up at him, relieved immediately and unguarded, and smiled.

The expression did something odd to his memory. For a fraction of a second, the lab light fractured into something warmer and lower, like evening sunlight slanting through a window that did not exist here. The sterile white seemed to soften, shadows lengthening in a way that had nothing to do with the overhead panels.

A kitchen, perhaps. A window. Dust in amber light.

The image dissolved before he could examine it.

Olly turned back to the bench before the sensation could settle.

The anxiety eased within him, not disappearing but redistributing, like pressure equalizing across a sealed chamber. The variables updated themselves.

Lullaby was alright.

They had not been taken. Not by Bastard Blood Ravens or by anyone else who specialized in removing people quietly from equations. They were not detained, injured, or reclassified.

They were safe. They were here. They were okay.

“We’ll adjust the ratios,” he said. His voice sounded normal to his own ears, which was a useful confirmation. “Come here. I’ll show you.”

Lullaby stepped closer, peering over his shoulder as he pulled up the model. Their presence altered the space immediately—not louder, not warmer exactly, but fuller, like a system returning to its intended load.

He pointed to the display. “If we compensate for the drift here, we can still get a viable result. It will reduce yield by approximately four percent.”

“Four I can live with,” Lullaby said. “Sorry again.”

Olly shook his head once, sharp. “Apologies are inefficient when no lasting damage has occurred.”

They laughed softly at that, the sound brief and contained, and leaned in closer to see the numbers better. Olly became aware, belatedly, that he had positioned himself between Lullaby and the doorway.

He had not decided to do this. His body had simply arranged itself that way, like the apple molds earlier, seeking an alignment that felt correct.

He noticed only because Lullaby shifted, and he adjusted with them, maintaining the position without thinking.

This, he told himself, was practical. The doorway was a variable point—traffic, interruptions, potential disruptions. Standing here reduced those risks. It was sensible. Efficient.

Still, when he became aware of it, he did not move.

They worked in silence for several minutes, the comfortable kind that did not demand filling. Olly explained the adjustments as he made them, narrating his reasoning the way he always did, and Lullaby followed easily, asking questions that showed they were already three steps ahead.

Every so often, Olly’s attention snagged on something small: the way Lullaby’s breathing had settled back into its usual rhythm, the faint crease between their brows when they concentrated, the slight tremor in their fingers that only appeared when they were tired.

“You didn’t sleep,” he said without looking up.

Lullaby blinked. “I did.”

“Insufficiently.”

“…Maybe.”

He adjusted a slider with more force than necessary. “Interrogations are rarely scheduled at convenient hours.”

“They weren’t interrogating,” Lullaby said quickly. “It was more of a ‘friendly reminder’ that affiliations are under review.”

Olly’s jaw tightened by a measurable degree. “Affiliations with whom?”

They hesitated. That half-second was louder than any alarm.

“With everyone,” they said lightly. “You know how it is. Anyone who collaborates across… lines.”

Olly did know.

“You are classified as low-risk,” he said. “Your work is sanctioned. You help—not just Chaos and Rot Bone, also Loyalists and Stone Flame.”

“Mm,” Lullaby replied, noncommittal.

“That classification should be sufficient.”

“It should,” they agreed.

Olly glanced at them then, just long enough to confirm that they were smiling faintly, expression tilted toward humor rather than concern. But the crease between their brows had not fully smoothed.

When the system finished recalibrating, the lab hummed back into its proper rhythm. The benches were no longer too quiet. The air no longer waited.

Olly stepped aside at last, creating a clear line to the doorway, and felt the faint echo of resistance as he did so—like releasing a held position before the structure was entirely ready.

He ignored it.

The variables were stable. The system was secure.

For now, that was enough.

“If they—whoever they are—you can always let Anrir or Hura know,” Olly said after a few moments of quiet. “They are good at keeping others from being… too nosey.”

The smart ones would not cross an Ancient Terran-born Night Lord. And the more foolish would be stopped by Hura long before they became a problem. If need be, Zariel would step in.

Names, in this place, were not suggestions. They were deterrents.

Lullaby huffed a small laugh. “You’re escalating to Night Lords already?”

“I am proposing layered safeguards.”

“That’s what you call it?”

“Yes.”

They studied him for a moment longer than usual. “You were worried.”

“No,” Olly said immediately.

Lullaby’s eyebrows rose.

“I identified a deviation from expected pattern,” he amended. “I monitored for resolution.”

“And if it hadn’t resolved?”

Olly’s gaze flicked, involuntarily, to the doorway. “I would have adjusted the situation.”

“How?”

He met their eyes then. Steady. Certain.

“Decisively.”

Something in Lullaby’s expression softened—not teasing now, not amused. Something warmer. “You don’t have to stand between me and every possible threat, you know.”

“I am not,” he said.

They both looked at the space he had unconsciously reclaimed—half a step closer to the door again.

Lullaby smiled, gentle and unafraid. “You are.”

There were a dozen responses available to him. Logical deflections. Statistical arguments. Procedural justifications.

Instead, he said, “…It is efficient.”

“Mm,” they echoed, but their tone was fond.

He turned back to the bench, because holding their gaze felt like stepping into that strange, fractured sunlight again—too warm, too unmeasured.

“...I am also here if you need help with anything,” Olly said after a moment, the words arranged carefully, like glassware. “I hope you know that you can rely on me.”

Lullaby did not answer immediately. He felt, rather than saw, the shift as they moved closer—not to see the display this time, but simply to be within reach.

“I know,” they said quietly. “I do.”

The lab hummed around them, systems stable, ratios corrected, outputs within acceptable variance.

Safe variables, all of them.

For now.

The psyker—well. Psychic—incident was minor.

That was how Olly categorized it, immediately and without hesitation: minor. A flicker of energy, brief and uncontained. A misjudged reach, instinctive rather than deliberate. A reflexive clamp-down that arrived a heartbeat too late to prevent the flare, but early enough to keep it from escalating.

No damage. No alarms tripped. No witnesses who mattered.

Just him and Lullaby.

And the cameras.

If they had caught the psykery, the adjustment would not be difficult. A minor artifact in the feed. A fluctuation in light levels. A corrupted frame or two attributed to interference from shielding tests. He had altered worse for less reason. He would do what was necessary to keep them safe—and certain things secret.

The mycelial shimmer had bloomed between Lullaby’s hands like a thought escaping containment—too bright, too fast, hungry in the way uncontrolled phenomena always were. It was almost beautiful in its structure: branching threads of pale iridescence, fractal and reaching, seeking purchase in the air itself.

It was not supposed to manifest like that.

Olly reacted without conscious thought.

Not with sanctioned psyker technique—he was not a psyker. He had no sanctioned technique to deploy. What he had was quieter. Stranger. Something that did not reach outward but instead pressed inward, a narrowing of possibility.

He focused on the flare the way he focused on unstable data: find the pattern, disrupt the pattern, collapse the pattern.

Something in him—an absence rather than a presence—opened.

The shimmer stuttered mid-bloom. Its branching edges fuzzed, lost cohesion. The threads curled back in on themselves as if embarrassed by their own audacity. In less than a second, the light guttered and went out, leaving only the faint scent of ozone and the echo of pressure in the air.

Silence followed.

The effort left him blinking, dark spots swimming briefly at the edges of his vision. Not pain. Just recalibration. As if the world had to redraw itself around a point where something had been subtracted.

When his vision cleared, Lullaby was still standing there.

Their hands were shaking.

They stood too straight, shoulders locked back as if braced for impact, eyes fixed on a point just above Olly’s left pauldron. Not looking at his face. Not looking away either.

Waiting.

He knew that posture.

He knew what usually followed it.

Karlsor—or one of the others—would scold. Not cruelly, perhaps. But firmly. An out-of-control psyker was dangerous. Even on Ancient Terra, where the veil was thinner and thicker in strange, uneven ways. Where things were easier to call upon in some places and harder in others.

Control was survival. Discipline was safety.

The older Astartes calibrated their responses for Scouts and brothers in training—beings built for correction, shaped by severity. Sometimes Olly wondered if they calibrated accurately for baselines. For all their strength in many ways, Lullaby was still fragile. As all baseline humanity was, compared to one like him.

Not fragile in mind. Not fragile in will.

Fragile in bone. In nerve. In the way consequences landed.

Olly did not raise his voice. He did not ask what had happened or why.

He took in the angle of their spine, the tension in their jaw, the shallow, measured breathing.

Too still. Too braced. Expecting consequences.

He remembered rooms where mistakes were catalogued with precision and mercy was considered an inefficiency. Where stillness meant waiting to see how hard the correction would land.

Something old and cold unspooled in his chest.

Not anger. Not fear.

Assessment.

He said, “Sit.”

Lullaby blinked. “What?”

“Sit,” Olly repeated, softer this time.

He hooked a stool with his foot and drew it closer, the scrape deliberate, grounding. A physical sound. A mundane disruption.

They hesitated.

He adjusted immediately. He crouched slightly so he was no longer towering over them, bringing his eye line down. He did not remember learning to do this. He only knew that it worked.

“Your grounding is off,” he said. “Breathe. In for four. Out for six. Count with me.”

He began counting aloud, steady and unhurried.

“One. Two. Three. Four.”

They did not move at first.

“Out. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.”

After a beat, Lullaby followed.

Their inhale hitched, then steadied. The second cycle was smoother. By the third, their shoulders had dropped a fraction. By the fourth, the tremor in their hands slowed.

The lab’s ambient hum reasserted itself. The faint distortion in the air where the shimmer had bloomed dissipated fully, absorbed by shielding that had never needed to engage beyond passive tolerance.

Olly waited.

He had learned that part too—waiting until the body caught up with the numbers.

When their hands were still, when their spine was no longer rigid as a rod, he spoke again.

“This does not leave this room,” he said.

Lullaby’s head snapped up. “But the—”

“The policy is clear,” Olly said calmly. “So is my discretion.”

He did not justify himself. He did not cite Claude or Jophiel or doctrine or precedent. He did not mention what should happen or what usually happened.

He turned to the console instead.

The camera feeds ran in a muted strip along the bottom of the display. He scrubbed back twenty seconds, watching the flare unfold in silent replay. Bright. Obvious—if someone knew what to look for.

He adjusted the shielding sensitivity logs first, inserting a micro-spike in ambient interference. Then he layered a visual distortion across three frames—barely perceptible. A light artifact consistent with calibration drift.

He flagged the anomaly under a broader experimental tag, one buried deep enough that it would never surface unless someone went looking with intent. And if someone went looking with intent, they would find exactly what he wanted them to find: overclocked equipment. Harmless. Technical.

If Anrir saw it, he would fuss and scold, already pulling up test matrices. So many tests. Always more tests, probing and prodding as if answers might apologize for themselves if pressed hard enough.

Hura would flutter and putter and lecture gently about control. About discipline. About keeping the power within safe bounds, containing it properly, managing emotions and regulating abilities more thoroughly.

Olly had no interest in either response.

He finished the edits and closed the log.

“Next time,” he said, quieter now, “you come to me first.”

Lullaby stared at him. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” Olly said.

He met their gaze, head tilting slightly to one side.

He was not a psyker. That was documented. Measured. Filed. But he had noticed—over time, through observation rather than intention—that he could help them anyway. Not by suppressing what they were, but by stabilizing the space around them. By making room for control instead of demanding it.

When he focused, the air felt denser. Quieter. Edges dulled. The way light had dimmed just now had not been an illusion.

He did not know what to call it.

Others might say null-adjacent. Blank-leaning. An absence that pressed against the Warp and told it no.

He had never received complaints. No one had called him unsettling. No one had stepped back instinctively from his presence.

If there were other Astartes with similar abilities, they had not identified themselves to him. Whether any were on Ancient Terra was another question entirely. Whether they would teach him anything—if there was anything to teach—was irrelevant.

He had control.

He had always had control.

“That’s… not fair,” Lullaby said carefully. “It puts you at risk.”

Olly considered that.

He hummed softly, fingers tapping against the edge of the table as he counted—one, two, three—thinking through implications, probabilities, consequences.

If discovered: reprimand. Increased scrutiny. Possible reassignment.

If repeated: escalation.

If tied directly to unauthorized psychic shielding: formal inquiry.

He nodded once, small and precise.

“Yes,” he said. “It does.”

He did not elaborate.

He had been in trouble before. He would likely be in trouble again. What was another secret, if it kept someone he cared for safe?

In the calculations he made, the cost—if it came due—was acceptable.

Nothing had been damaged that could not be easily fixed.

Lullaby’s gaze searched his face. “You shouldn’t have to—”

“I am choosing to,” he interrupted gently.

That seemed to disarm them more than any argument.

They looked down at their hands. “I didn’t mean to reach that far. It just—slipped.”

“It was a reflex,” Olly said. “You felt something and responded.”

They nodded, once.

He stepped closer—not looming, not blocking—just within range.

“Your control is improving,” he said. “The flare lasted less than one second. You collapsed it yourself before I intervened.”

Their eyes flicked up. “You noticed that?”

“Yes.”

A faint flush colored their cheeks. “Still lost it.”

“You corrected it,” he said. “That matters more.”

Silence stretched between them, softer now.

After a moment, Lullaby exhaled. “You didn’t look scared.”

Olly considered that.

“I was not,” he said.

“Even when it spiked like that?”

“I assessed,” he replied. “Then I acted.”

They huffed a quiet laugh. “You always do.”

He did not see the humor in that. It was simply true.

The lab lights hummed overhead. The air was steady. Contained.

Olly glanced once more at the camera feed, confirming the edits had propagated through the archive.

Secure.

He turned back to Lullaby.

“For the record,” he said, voice even, “you are not in trouble.”

Their shoulders loosened fully for the first time. A small thing. A quiet thing.