Over the horizon, squads of traitor Guardsmen moved into position in silent, ominous order, completely contrasting the hordes of red-daubed heretics that burst from behind them.
"FIRE!!"
A wall of orange and red met the crazed cultists, blasting them apart, but still they came with knives aloft and eyes glinting with twisted, maniacal bloodlust.
"Fix bayonets!" a sergeant shouted. "Here they c-"
His next words were cut off by a dagger hurled into his throat; he fell, gurgling, next to the screaming girl and the veteran who kept firing into the approaching mob. A moment later, Imperial and heretical forces smashed into each other.
Logan's blades had opened up several torsos before his autogun magazine even hit the floor. The melee was confusing, tight and left absolutely no room for anyone but the opportunistic traitor Guardsmen outside to fire uncaringly into their midst; Sarah was holding her own amidst the impenetrable wall of Hellgun-toting Shock Troopers, but their position was on the verge of being overrun. As he chopped another cultist in half, a grenade clinked to the floor next to him - Jeremy booted the thing clear out of the building, where it exploded to the tune of screams and tearing flesh. They might just make it through. They might -
The entire side of the building bulged for a nanosecond, then caved in.
It was a Traitor Marine in all his twisted form, nobility stripped away by mutation and tributes to the foul gods, the insignia of a planet being devoured barely visible beneath millennia of trophies and crudely carved symbols. A tremendous roar shook defender and attacker alike before the behemoth barreled into the melee without thought nor care from whence the blood flowed, only that it did.
Everyone hurled themselves out of the Marine's path with varying levels of success. Those caught in his rampage were cut into bloody giblets by a large flaying knife the length of an entire leg; Logan rolled away into the dust and stabbed a heretic without even trying.
The former World Eater screamed in fury again and tore a Guardsman in two with his bare hands, laying into the battered loyalists as heretics cheered. Las-bolts bounced off his ceramite plate and defiled armour - sparing Sarah a glance, Logan scramble to his feet and shot at the hulking beast, teeth bared at this new challenge.
The Marine swung about with superhuman speed. Only the presence of a human skull - he had no idea whose - in between his own and the cannon-shell-sized gauntlet saved Logan from losing his own head. For a moment, he was awash in brain matter and viscera, his vision clearing only to see the Chaos Marine charge at the girl cowering in the corner.
No!
Slipping on the gore, the Trader barely avoided being skewered by a bellowing cultist; he separated the heretic's waist before whirling about to behold a scene that nearly stopped time itself.
The only reason the Imperium still stood.
An old man, rifle empty and smoking, charging a post-human super-soldier with nothing but a knife to save his granddaughter.
There was not even time to formulate a prayer for the veteran's soul and courage when a huge combat knife rammed itself straight into the old man's gut. The Traitor Marine shook the corpse off his weapon almost disinterestedly before turning its gaze towards the screaming, weeping girl, who was swept up into a Shock Trooper's arms - he made to pursue, but Logan was already on him.
Marines, traitorous or loyal, were beyond the human spectrum; however, the World Eater made to grab him and misjudged spectacularly. Logan leapt over the bulk of the traitor and slashed into his breastplate, getting in deep enough to elicit a roar of pain. His small victory lasted up until a hand as large as a dinner plate collided with his face: he was airborne, flipping head over heels and into a wall, cracking it and sliding to an undignified heap.
"You cannot win, pitiful wretch."
Unlike Brother Hakken's voice, distorted and metallic from under an Astartes helmet, this one was deep, booming and thunderous like the pits of Hell were vomiting words from volcanoes.
Seemingly without effort, the Marine punched a Guardsman flying; unlike Logan, the loyalist did not get up.
"You will watch as the blood of your friends and the girl satiates the Blood God... your skulls shall fit the Throne, all the sa-"
Why did they like to talk so much? Even Orks got straight to the point. Logan sprang up and met the combat knife with his claws, seething foam and blood.
He had no advantage. Strength, speed and power were things Space Marines were built into; besides, he had broken something against the rockcrete when the Marine slapped him around like a ragdoll. His arms vibrated painfully with every parry, his stamina drained as men died all around him; the traitor was barely breaking a sweat, but Warp damn him if he was going down without a fight.
A familiar clink reached their ears. The Marine tried to dodge and slash at him at the same time, failing both and taking the brunt of the krak-blast from behind. A horn-infested helmet flew past Logan's head - without missing a beat, he kicked off a pile of rubble and lunged straight at the monster's chest, driving his claws into the plate all the way to the hilt. Somehow, he'd activated the power field just before hitting the near-unbreakable ceramite.
The Marine screamed, his ugly, mutated face torn in agony, then fell to his knees, gurgling.
Logan placed a boot on the broken breastplate and yanked out his right arm-claws.
"Bring the false gods your own skull, traitor."
With a hum of energy, the blades flensed the meat straight off the heretic's neck before decapitating him messily, three blades turning a lower jaw into flapping ribbons.
The armoured body went limp. Logan Howlett pulled out his other arm and pushed the hulk back into the dirt, where it landed with a final, crashing thump.
Cultists turned in shock and were immediately fried by vengeful las-rounds; the remaining Guardsmen - a paltry amount at that - rallied around their momentary victory and murdered the fleeing cowards in droves. With their champion dead, the heretics retreated and left piles of smoking corpses behind. Even the Traitor Guardsmen vanished into the shadows.
Breathing heavily, Logan collapsed into Sarah's grip, which struggled for a second to contain his weight.
"You're hurt bad," she said simply. "We need to get you back to medicae."
Limping by, Jeremy made to clap him on the shoulder, then reconsidered. "Ah, suck it up, man. The rest of us got knocked about pretty hard too, you know." He forced a bloody grin. "Besides, we won."
The pathetic remnants of their squad were already taking salvagable gear and ammo from the dead. Every one of them dragged bullet wounds, knife gouges and the occasional bite mark; hard as they were, the Cadians were fatigued and demoralised. They'd lost more than they could save - there were only a few civilians left alive in the aftermath of the battle, as many of them had willingly charged to their deaths. The sound of crying rent the air: a short distance away, a girl cradled the body of her grandfather and wailed in utter despair.
"No." Logan coughed, spattering his wife's armour with crimson splotches. "We didn't."
