Dustu clacked his beak, nestled amongst the branches. The Kindred’s prey had minimal avenues of escape, and he was tasked with guarding this one. The role of Long-Sight was not glamorous or exciting, and it often left him picking amongst the scraps once the true warriors had had their fill. Yet he did not grumble or complain; it was just tradition. Whilst those outside the Kroot species would call this biased or unfair, it was far from it.
A snap of a branch drew Dustu’s attention. The prey approached! He readied his rifle, the grip perfectly carved to fit his palm, and took aim, holding his breath and becoming one with the canopy.
The footsteps grew louder. The prey was distracted and not focused on stealth. The Kindred must be in close pursuit! Dustu’s gun remained inactive. The long barrel rested between a fork in the branch and the sight aimed at the one section of undergrowth he knew the prey would pass. He would wait to engage the weapon’s generator until the last moment, lest the almost audible hum alert the prey.
A roar echoed from the trees, a guttural death screech from a very Krootthroat; it seemed the prey still had some bite in them. This did not matter to Dustu. He had just one objective: don’t miss.
Closer, closer. Dustu focused on his enhanced hearing gained from consuming a nocturnal screeching mammal; the Prey was meters away. His peripheral vision blurred as he sharpened his gaze in preparation; a clawed thumb ignited the pulse generator of his rifle.
The first sight of the prey came as the sunlight reflected off its metallic armour; Dustu’s rifle provided a second flash.
Other flashes drew Dustu’s attention back to the peripheries. The hunting pack in close pursuit let loose a salvo of haphazard shots that joined his own, half a dozen glowing balls of blue energy soaring true at the fleeing target, a sure kill for any other prey. However, this was no ordinary prey, and even before the shot had left Dustu’s rifle, the prey’s immense bulk was shifting to dodge, turning each kill shot into a certain miss, except for one.
Only Dustu saw his attack land purchase, the rest of the hunting pack already lost in the trampled undergrowth, chasing the unflinching warrior wherever he sought to flee.
With his rifle swiftly strapped to his back, Dustu leapt from the branch to the surface below, sparing a moment’s glance towards the path of crushed vegetation. He could not have kept pace with the pack even if he had leapt instead of shooting. Instead, he let his gaze sweep the ground, seeking a prize only he and the warrior knew existed.
It was an arduous task, to be sure, with the dark roots and damp mud doing their best to obscure the trail. But even a fledgling Kroot knew to use all his senses, notably smell. He raised his head high and took in the cacophony of odours, his olfactory cortex filtering out the familiar until all that remained was the stench of fresh meat and chemically enhanced blood. He had found his prize.
It wasn’t a large prize—he knew that already—but considering the fury in which his kindred pursued the prey, it was the best he could get. One body could only be split so many ways. Each Kroot would barely receive a nibble, and that was before the hunting pack claimed their reward.
Dustu inspected the small piece of meat, the exterior digit of the prey’s right hand. Even as the lifeblood flowed from the severed arteries, it rippled with muscle and power. Dustu was quick to lap the coppery liquid up, savouring each drop like the ambrosia it was.
Tradition demanded he offer this piece to the Shapers’ inspection, to let them determine its value to the kindred, whether such genetic traits would help or hinder their future development. Yet Dustu struggled to stop his maw. Each drop was as addictive as the Lho-sticks were to the Gue’vesa, something he once mocked but now seemed to understand.
If the blood was temptation, the flesh was addiction. The slightest nibble sent shocks through Dustu’s very being as his tastebuds sampled the meat’s genome. He had never studied the way of the Shaper, even when he had been denied a role in the hunting pack, but he could feel the power in every sequence.
The long-term evolutionary benefits from this DNA would, at the least, only really take root in the Kindred’s future generations. However, he could still savour the short-term effects personally. After all, the pack was in pursuit. They would no doubt return to the camp boasting their mighty prize, alive or dead, and they wouldn’t miss one finger.
Dustu tossed the finger into his maw and swallowed it with delight, taking a moment to clean his fingers of remnant traces before he made for the camp.
Dustu’s return to the camp went unnoticed. Most of the Kindred were far too busy observing the Master Shaper scolding the hunting pack. Only a fraction of their number remained, and those that did bore many new scars.
‘Recklessness has cost our tribe dearly. Our brothers and sisters lost with no prize to dedicate in their name!’ The grouchy ancient Kroot clacked, his Maxilla having grown so long in his old age that the snap of bone upon bone accompanied his every syllable.
The Long-Quill, Taci, was at the forefront of the pack and received the strongest admonishment. She had suffered the worst injuries among the survivors: her beak cracked, her crimson quills missing a few bristles, and her right arm bound tight against her chest.
Evidently, the hunt had gone badly; did the prey have allies? Is that where he was running to? That didn’t sound right. Taci was an excellent warrior, knowing well when to retreat from an ambush. This left only one possibility: the prey fought back and won. Dustu felt a finger-sized weight burning a hole in his stomach.
He knew he should see the Shaper immediately to confess his misdeed and face the punishment. Yet despite the addicting taste, which made his mouth water at the thought, he felt no shift in his body, no confirmation of the flesh’s power taking root. Perhaps the prey was one of those… half-machine creatures; Dustu struggled to remember the name; he just knew the oil usually left a sour aftertaste on his tongue.
Dustu would find himself justifying his silence repeatedly throughout the admonishment, so much so that he soon realised the crowd had retired and left him standing in the gathering centre alone, which he swiftly rectified by slinking back to his Wetus.
With morning came activity, every man, woman and child of the kindred hard at work dismantling the mobile structures of their hunting camp. Dustu despised this facet of life on the active warpath. At least under the frequent joint ventures with the T’au, they could set up in their residential quarter and be free with the hunt, their possessions kept safe by their diligent employers, and their messes coincidentally cleaned up. Dustu especially enjoyed that part.
Instead, they were in the brief intermission between the T’au’s minor expansions. Whilst the lithe, smooth-talking water caste emissaries would no doubt call upon them soon, the kindred returned to tradition, never slumbering in the same ground twice and ensuring any escaped prey would find no trace of the camp should they return seeking vengeance. Despite his disgust, Dustu was not slacking in his duty. His wetus poles were bound in synthetic tarpaulin and stored upon the cart, to which two mighty Knarlocs were bound.
Nearby, Taci was struggling with her damaged arm, though she was doing her best to mask her troubles, as was expected with the added weight on her shoulders. His temptation to offer assistance was quickly shut down when a swifter fool nearly found his hand of assistance bitten off by her sharp beak. Instead, Dustu took advantage of the diminished hunters and nestled himself in a tidy position among the flank guards, a place to earn notice but not at risk during an ambush.
That was too much to hope for. Dustu’s rifle blocked the swing of a whirring sword, the gnarled wood in his weapon’s barrel slowly carved away with each sweep of the sharpened teeth dragged along its bark.
Similar bundles of chaos were likewise taking place around him, the balance of power dancing back and forth as minor conflicts were won or lost. These were Astartes, like the prey from before, though these individuals seemed somewhat… lesser than that distant foe, their armour a dull blue and lacking in any of the extravagances of their golden counterpart, were there various tribes of these Astartes employed in the Imperium’s venture? The thought lingered in his mind, never had he witnessed such varied tribes working in tandem, not without a truly persuasive negotiator like the T’au’s water caste anyway. He turned his focus back to the current foe, their every action seemed dull compared to the way the golden foe moved, making Dustu question why the stronger Astartes pack hadn’t yet absorbed these weaklings into their numbers.
Now, however, was not the time for wasting brainpower on ifs or buts, especially as Dustu’s weapon finally fractured under the assault, a once elegant rifle split into two jagged sticks in the Kroot’s hands.
The hulking Astartes was not content with destroying Dustu’s armament. The sword swept downward to barely scratch Dustu’s torso, severing a strap from his travel pack. Now, his pack dangled uncomfortably against his lithe back, bouncing and bobbing with every step. Angrily, Dustu stabbed out with his bisected blaster, the sharpened break points slipping between gaps in the enemy’s plate, both chunks piercing through the soft throat guard.
To the common foe, self-preservation would be paramount. The Astartes, however, swung his blade at Dustu once more, swinging off course as the Kroot’s weapon impaired his neck’s mobility. Each swing still reeked of unrestrained power; one hit enough to end Dustu’s life in a flash. Thus, to deliver the killing blow, the Kroot gripped tight the two pieces of his weapon and twisted. The Astartes groaned in discomfort and pain until, with a snap, the transhuman’s spinal cord snapped, unrestrained signals flowing down its enhanced nervous system to make every muscle twitch, spasm, and jerk before becoming dead weight.
The rest of his Kindred were not handling themselves as well, and the already injured hunting pack was reduced even further. It would be many moons before they could return to the warpath, and Dustu would be brittle in the quill and dull in the beak at that point. His thoughts grew darker, even as he helped his Kin to repel the rest of the human’s assault. Theirs was not the only Kindred upon this planet. A half dozen were jointly deployed to this new hunting ground, the fauna vibrant and varied with potential enhancements for their species, if not for the humans who sought minerals instead of meat.
Dustu was afraid for his people; if a rival Kindred stumbled upon them in this state, they would be destroyed, and no Shaper Council would aid them. Sometimes, when a Kindred needed new hunting dogs or beasts of burden, they would invoke the ancient tradition of might makes right, and set upon another Kindred. The loser would be sentenced to genetic debasement.
‘Brothers, Sisters, tend to the wounded, store the dead upon the cart; we must keep moving to the next encampment!’ Taci declared, one clawed foot on an Astartes’ dormant helm, the blade at the tip of her rifle lodged in the shattered eye socket. It only slightly surprised Dustu to see her relatively unscathed; as the hunting pack’s Long-Quill, she had the first bite of the prize meat, with the shaper’s permission. By all rights, the finger should’ve been hers to consume too, and that thought made Dustu’s stomach rumble shamefully.
The second moon was high in the sky when the Kindred reached the new encampment. The ambush had delayed them enough that none bothered to set up their domiciles, instead they simply gathered around the muffled flame where the smoke dispersed before it dared emerge through the canopy.
Meanwhile, the Flesh Shaper had been hard at work in their righteous task, tending to the deceased, both Kroot and the few Astartes they could carry. There was no ritual burial, but careful carving and dismemberment were performed before the meat was dispersed amongst the Kindred, with new and old DNA returned for the tribe’s future use.
Dustu nibbled upon what formerly was an Astartes’ thigh, once a coveted piece of flesh to many Kroot. Each morsel of the transhuman DNA tingled his tongue. Yet he found no pleasure in this consumption, no tingle in his extremities as sequences were harvested within his maw, just the sensation of crunch, cut, and chew on repeat. No matter how much he consumed, his spiritual hunger remained. Each morsel was like ash on his tastebuds, depriving Dustu of the one true joy all Kroot subspecies shared: consumption. He tossed the stripped bone to the resting Knarlocs, the pair snapping at each other over the prize. Their handler would protest, but frankly, Dustu just didn’t care. His spirits were drained from the sour taste on his tongue.
To lift his spirits, or at least make an attempt, Dustu scanned the trees for a suitable branch to replace his destroyed rifle. The parts were already salvaged, and the wooden barrel offered unto the culinary flame. Finding such a branch would be difficult, each hopeful candidate felt soft in his grasp. Had they made camp in a desiccated clearing, and were the branches slowly succumbing to death via dehydration? After the dozenth branch failed to meet the Kroot’s inspection, comprise was forced upon him, his need for a replacement weapon outweighing his desire for quality material. Thus, with the thirteenth branch in hand, he sat on the edge of the flame’s light, readied his carving knife, and set to work.
The small blade peeled chip by chip off the branch, the bark giving way far too quickly under Dustu’s ministrations. Each sweep moved like it was gliding through the fat of an animal, not the dense trunk that comprised the branch’s core. The only benefit of the poor wood was that Dustu’s work was swiftly finished. The stock shaped to the crook of his shoulder, the grip carved until it matched his hand, and most of all, the slots bored for the advanced mechanisms that made his weapon an instrument of death. As Dustu confirmed for the third time that the rifle slotted perfectly in his grasp, he was silently thankful that he was not on a joint venture with the T’au, the blue-skinned technophiles, or even worse, their Gue’Vesa auxiliaries. They would no doubt lecture the Kroot on commandeering weaponry of the dead, caring not for Dustu’s people nor their tradition.
For the Kroot, there is no charity; all contribute and all profit. Even the fledglings are called upon, predominantly to handle menial tasks, notably, the camp’s upkeep whilst the hunters were away and the salvaging of the dead from a battlefield. Dustu still remembered his fledgling days vividly; he had been mainly involved with the latter, stalking the battlefield just as the conflict wained, harvesting trinkets that might be of use for bartering, ensuring those that had fallen were actually dead, and sneaking a very light bite when and where he could.
He did not know when reminiscence had given way to slumber, but he knew the dream had ended when a clawed foot kicked him into consciousness, and the War Shaper looked down on him in annoyance.
‘Get up! We are not waiting in ambush like you’re used to—we march!’ The grizzled warrior grunted, holding his staff tight in his right arm. The rest of the Kindred were already in mid-preparation, arguing and brawling for prime placements amongst the guarding positions, notably in the vanguard or flanks to better grant action. Unfortunately, Dustu’s extended slumber had denied him either. Instead, he served as one of three taking up the rear, a role full of danger and lacking in glory.
With a groan, he rose and slung his rifle; the lack of structures to disassemble meant they were quick to set off. The Trail Shaper had departed much earlier, and the Kindred followed in his tracks. Serving in the rear guard left Dustu much time to think about the past, present, and, in his case, the near future. They had suffered too many losses to continue in the expedition alongside the other Kindreds, and their numbers were too dwindled to face any serious attack from both foe and friend. Exodus from this world was upon them, he knew.
Deep into the journey, over the dozenth or so hill, Dustu felt a shiver run down his spine, followed swiftly by a tingling in his olfactory cortex; the smell triggered a faint recognition he couldn’t immediately identify. This put him on edge; his once lax rifle grip suddenly tightened, and his vision expanded to reduce his blindspot to a narrow ninety degrees, the best he could achieve with his skull’s configuration. Nothing that met his gaze matched the scent that gripped his senses tight; every sight, sound, and smell perfectly matched except what was truly important.
Suddenly, movement danced at Dustu’s periphery, his head snapping in a futile attempt to track it. He had only seen one beast move as fast, and in a flash, recognition struck. It was the golden warrior; he was nearby!
Dustu’s salivary glands suddenly became active, and his feral subconscious was already amplifying his craving. But he was not the fledgling who would leap to battle. His years of experience, if mostly spent waiting in ambush, tempered his craving with chains that struggled to restrain their charge.
He could not just slip away; the Kindred were fragile at this stage, and no matter his desire, the bond he shared with his fellow tribesmen was too strong to put them at risk. But the crimson sun was already beginning its descent, and the time to camp was soon upon them. Perhaps then, he would have a chance.
Luckily, or unluckily, both seemed apt to Dustu. The Kindred’s reduced numbers provided plenty of blindspots for a lone Kroot, one apt at the talent of stealth, to slip past the sentries on guard. It did, however, somewhat limit his… quest, only a few hours at most before he would be called upon to serve his time defending the Kindred’s slumber.
For whatever reason, the prey had stuck close through the Kindred’s journey, always lurking just out of range of the average Kroot’s detection, though for what reason Dustu couldn’t grasp. Did it want something? Did they have something? Whatever the purpose, Dustu would not give them the chance to strike. They would be his prize, his alone.
He froze. The prize was for his Kindred as a whole, to better them all, not just him. But why could he not shake the craving to consume it whole, to savour every morsel for his betterment alone? After all, he could feel the changes finally taking effect upon his body, his reaction time, his senses, everything slowly expanding, including his hunger.
The snap of a branch made Dustu freeze. The prey’s DNA made it hard to focus, and his synapses were unprepared to process the sheer torrent of data his senses provided. Muscle memory triggered, and he swiftly sought cover. Not too soon, either, the slight shift of the prey’s scent reaching Dustu. The average Kroot could pinpoint a prey within an accuracy of one meter, but for Dustu, it was as if he was viewing one of the T’au’s holo drones, every inch on clear display, the wriggling insects emerging under the pale moon’s light, the patient nocturnal avian sat watching and waiting, and of course the golden warrior, looking his way suspiciously.
Patient and paranoid in one, the warrior stared immovably in Dustu’s direction, predator and prey locked into a stalemate neither dared to break, neither breathing nor moving an atom, lest their whisper became a whirlwind. A scurrying mammal, obviously not sensing the titanic standoff outside its burrow, dared to emerge on a hunt before an opportunist avian whisked it skyward. The golden warrior seemed sated and returned his gaze to the encampment.
Dustu waited longer, avenues of approach dancing in his skull and the downfalls each would encounter before he began the approach, brushing no leaf, disturbing no branch, reaching closer to the optimal striking range until…
A squawk of alarm came from the camp, silence giving way to panic as the entire Kindred rose from their slumber. Dustu momentarily lost his focus on the prey, and evidently, it was a moment too long; the sound of rustling leaves was the only evidence that the golden warrior had ever been there.
The prey would not get away! Dustu launched into a pursuit; damn the Kindred discovering his absence; they wouldn’t dare admonish him when he brought back such a prize! The pursuit continued over fallen logs and beneath low-hung branches, yet no matter how accurately Dustu took each step or how perfectly he timed each jump, the gulf between them expanded. But Dustu was too invested now, adjusting his senses from the still-settling leaves to the traces of the warrior’s passing, then guesswork and hope instead.
But even instincts and belief would soon prove useless. The enraged Kroot came to a halt at a deep river. He let loose a primal squawk of fury and struck a nearby tree, the bark crunching under the impact. He had risked everything and failed!
As if doused in the frosty falls of Mt Mickung on Pech, his fury washed away into despair. He had brought himself shame and jeopardised the future of his genome! He turned and sprinted back to the encampment. Maybe they hadn’t noticed his absence. Whatever alerted them might’ve drawn their attention so much that one missing Kroot would go unnoticed.
The camp was chaos. Fires burned brightly in the firepit at the camp’s centre and the Wetus that surrounded it, their synthetic materials doing their best to resist the flame’s destructive touch. Burnt flesh drew his attention, burnt Kroot flesh. But it wasn’t time to eat… He dashed after the smell and was greeted with viscera aplenty, slashes and blood scattered as if a cyclone of blades had strolled through, the only clue to the origin being the deep bootprints that marched calmly through the camp.
Dustu’s heart started beating against his chest, adrenaline pumping through his body like Orks on a racetrack. He knew those tracks well; he’d spent the last hour chasing them! Did the warrior have an accomplice? Did he flee to draw Dustu away? But why? He was but one Kroot; what purpose would it serve?
Crouching low, Dustu inspected the tracks. They weren’t just similar to the Golden Warrior but a perfect match in shape and smell. But how did he double back without Dustu’s notice? It just didn’t make sense.
He followed the tracks with heavy steps, never daring to overlap any footprints as if doing so would invite a great curse upon himself. Each of his fallen kin he passed altered a counter in his mind, ticking down the remaining members of his Kindred, twenty, nineteen, fifteen…
It was as he reached single digits that he found another living Kroot. Taci was cradling the Trail Shaper as his lifeblood flowed like a torrent from the gash along his abdomen. He was whispering something in her ear, using words Dustu knew not, making his eavesdropping unfruitful.
‘Where were you, Dustu?’ Taci growled, resting the Shaper on the ground as his last breath slipped his beak. ‘Where were you when the Kindred was in peril?’ A knife accompanied her words, the trajectory aimed to miss, thus not triggering Dustu’s reflexes.
‘I… chased… hunted the prey, the Golden Warrior…’ he stammered before losing his voice at the sight of the other two corpses nearby; they had lost all their Shapers… now who would guide them?!
Taci did not believe his words, especially since she had been a front-row witness to the warrior’s slaughter; the death of the shapers was the only slaughter the warrior cared for, and the rest were left to their fate.
‘You are a coward, Dustu. Were the Shapers not dead at our feet, you would be punished for your actions!’ She clacked, unable to look him in the eye. ‘Unfortunately, they are unavailable, and our Kindred is on the brink of collapse. We shall depart this world and return to Pech. Until then, you may attempt to redeem your genetics; the Elders shall determine if you succeeded or not…’
Dustu marched in the rearguard alone now, none of his remaining brothers or sisters even glancing back in his direction. Had Taci spoken of their conversation to them? He knew not; all he knew was that his stomach was empty, his mind fatigued, and if he were to fall behind, they would not stop to wait for him.
At the vanguard marched Taci, guiding the Kindred’s remnants this way and that, following a map only she had access to, shifting from an hour-long march to a sharp right at one tree amongst many.
Marching in the rear, Dustu could only stare at how dwindled his family had become. Once, they could easily muster a half dozen upon each flank during their march. Now, they struggled to cover their blindspots, relying on the weakened and the damaged, for they were all that remained.
Mile by mile, they passed in every known method of silence. There was no faint coded clack between friends or the faint pheromonal tease of the bonded. Just the slow, repetitive roll of the cart’s wheel and the faint whimper of the lone Knarloc, his packmate, the first casualty of last night’s assault. Just one more heap of guilt upon Dustu’s shoulders for him to redeem.
Little to no activity occurred throughout the trek, each hopeful ambush never occurring; each pass over the hill met with an empty pathway until Taci ordered them to a halt.
‘We have arrived. Scout the surroundings whilst I prepare for our departure; you have until the sun begins to set,’ she announced, drawing a few confused gazes. They had halted at what to all assembled was just another hill.
‘L-long-Quill… we do not understand… where is the Warsphere?’ queried one amongst their numbers, only to be dismissed with an annoyed scowl.
‘Silence. The shapers knew well not to leave our vessel without safeguards.’ With her words came a flickering from the hill itself, dust, grass, and a few unfortunate insects scattering as a navy blue vessel took shape from beneath.
In moments, what once was just a mound of earth had shed its disguise, revealing a mighty battleship of Krootish creation, capable of carrying a Kindred over a hundred strong. Now it would be reduced to running with a skeleton crew at best.
Dustu moved to join the patrol, only to find Taci’s blade against his chest, the rest of the Kindred not missing the chance to make themself scarce.
‘Not you. I wouldn’t trust you with our safety, not again. You will load our dead upon the Warsphere; you owe them that at least,’ she scowled, leaving Dustu with the cart as she set about waking the dormant ship.
Each body weighed heavily in Dustu’s grasp; he knew each one’s story, their hopes, aspirations, and, unfortunately, how they had died. First, he loaded the Shapers, their status granting them a key place atop the pile, which was their right.
The Shapers always preached equality amongst the Kindred, claiming only the most essential benefits that their station provided. Yet, as Dustu slowly filled the ship’s pantry, the Krootish word identical to the word morgue in the human tongue, he couldn’t help but question that belief. As the slabs assigned to the rank and file of a Kindred’s dead reached maximum capacity, indoctrinated tradition prevented him from storing the rest in the compartment reserved for the Shapers alone. Instead, his brothers and sisters were stacked unceremoniously in rows on the floor.
When the patrolling Kroot finally returned, reporting to Taci before boarding the Warsphere, not one offered Dustu aid in his task. A few lurked to watch him gradually reduce the pile. Not that he blamed them; he had stained his reputation deeply, and a simple act of manual labour could not fix it. Thus, he soldiered on, a stack becoming a lump, a lump becoming a bundle, a bundle becoming nothing.
Taci waited for him at the entrance, a scowl still upon her face as she barred the entryway.
‘I should leave you here, let you suffer the fate of genetic termination, but that is not my decision. The prey has bloodied us and still hunts these grounds. Are you satisfied with that?’ She gave him no time to answer, retreating into the ship.
The Warsphere departed the ground’s embrace, rising high in the sky with the Kindred’s future stored within. Yet Dustu was not inside, having left only a parting gift before he slipped out of the airlock. He waited until the ship was the size of a marble before he broke from his cover. They would not notice his absence until it was too late, though would they even care? He had to hope his gift would be redemption enough. He focused on the only thing that mattered now: the hunt.
This time, however, he had no trail to follow, no tracks to discern from the undergrowth, just instinct and prayer. He knew two things: the prey could cover large distances with ease, and both times, he fled in one direction, towards imperial lines. It wasn’t much, but it was a start, so Dustu sprinted, his heartbeat steady despite the miles he covered, barely breaking a sweat when he found his first track, a Gue’la track.
It wasn’t the Golden Warrior – he wasn’t that lucky – it belonged to one of the regular Astartes. Following said tracks soon led to more until he had an almost perfect row of synchronised steps to lead him, drawing him to the Gue’la’s camp. It was not hard to find. The Imperium was not subtle.
Gue’la of all shapes and sizes littered the camp, some patrolling its enormous stone walls, others engaging in entertainment Dustu didn’t care for. Yet there was no sign of the Golden Warrior. Where would such a figure make camp? Knowledge of the Imperium led Dustu to look for the largest, most extravagant structures. The Gue’la always preferred the more grandiose displays of command. And he wasn’t found wanting. A metal spire, one of the pre-constructed deployable bases he’d seen the Gue’la employ before, rose high over the canopy in the centre of the camp, with various communication equipment at the peak.
With his target selected, all that was left was to reach it, a challenge to be sure. If his Kindred still walked this soil, the task would be simple: one team would cause a distraction while another entered from the opposite side. But he was alone, with no allies to help or save him if things went awry.
Luckily, he had plenty of information to draw from, such as which plants contained which chemicals and which minerals caused them to react violently. He still wasn’t entirely sure where this knowledge came from—perhaps a gift from the gods? But he didn’t care. He was too focused on crafting the incendiary device that would distract them.
It was a crude device, to be sure, mostly a fragile container that, when introduced to fire, would break down and allow the two substances inside to dance the dance of destruction; he only had to hope he gave himself enough time before detonation.
Distraction created, he found the smoothest incline to deliver it and set about his mission, the canister barely starting to roll when he began his sprint, skirting the sentries’ detection as he used every ounce of strength. He had but one chance at this, and it would not be by his hand that he would fail.
The Gue’la reacted as was expected, alarms blaring and screams of panic reaching Dustu’s ears. They also withdrew guards from the more idle quadrant, leaving only a skeleton crew to defend against the true strike.
With reduced numbers, it became easy to monetise blindspots, a lone Kroot slipping over the wall in a flash, the only thought on the guards’ minds was whether the building blaze would reach the residential quarters.
Inside, the complex was much as Dustu expected, any traces of nature suffocated by dull, inorganic stone, with mighty boxed buildings arranged in organised rows. It made his task easier, though, with no winding pathways to mislay him on his journey, just straight avenues crisscrossing the complex.
He had expected some form of patrol, but not a single Gue’la could be found. He looked towards the inferno; it burned much more extensively than he had predicted. Had they all been called to aid? He noted that response; if he managed to survive this ordeal, it would prove helpful in future conflicts.
He shook his head. He needed to focus on the here and now, not a doubtful future. After all, his prey was a great warrior who had butchered his kin with utmost ease. Fighting in open conflict could only result in Dustu’s death, so he had to think more… creatively.
Creativity would strike him in the form of the Gue’la’s armoury, one of the few structures still bearing guards at its entrance. They were simple Gue’la, so they were dispatched with a few well-aimed, sharpened rocks, their bodies looted for the key.
If this were a T’au armoury, entry would be much more complex, their belief in peace and prosperity resulting in many safeguards around their weapons of war. But with only a tiny piece of metal, Dustu gained entry, his mind amazed at just how excessively the Gue’la prepared for war, bombs, bullets and bolts stuffed to the breaking point within. He could make this work.
The blazing storm had been mostly tamed when Dustu approached his target, watching from the roof as Gue’la of varying sizes filtered back to their positions, reinforcing the command structure’s entrance and no doubt sealing off Dustu’s escape route. He hadn’t planned to enter through the main door, even if his diversion still burned on; the large, automated weapons mounted above the doorway saw to that. He aimed higher, striking where the Gue’la often forgot to protect: from above.
With a mighty jump, he leapt from the roof to his target. The command structure’s metal walls barely gave way under the sharp pressure from his claws. Up he climbed, each handhold carved requiring the same strength one would use to sever a Krootox’s neck. The tower seemed empty, and each window he passed had no occupants. Theoretically, he could sneak inside one such aperture but decided against it; too much time would be wasted unlocking doors and avoiding detection. Also, for his plan, he needed access to the exterior.
The Golden Warrior’s smell reached him mid-climb and he knew his prize waited at the top of the tower. He set about his preparations, readying himself for the conflict to come, for once it began, it would require every neuron’s attention.
Within, the Golden Warrior was tending to his armour, his arms bare as he tended to one of his shoulder plates, purifying it of the jungle’s traces, microscopic dirt particles disintegrated with an odd tool. Dustu scanned the room. The warrior’s weapon was close, but if he was fast enough, he could strike before they reunited.
Slipping the weapon free from his back, he waited until the moment he leapt to fire up the pulse generator, unleashing a salvo of quick shots at the warrior before launching with outstretched claws, swiping and slashing with all his might.
But a being like the Golden Warrior could not be caught unaware, taking the Gue’la’s paranoia to a new level. His shoulder pad found use as a shield against blast and blade whilst the cleaning tool found new use, tossed Dustu’s way to crack his beak before impaling itself in the wall.
‘Xenos, I would’ve thought you departed with the rest of your ilk; oh well, I suppose it doesn’t matter if you die before them.’ The warrior taunted, still holding his shoulder guard like a buckler, his other hand free to strike.
Dustu said nothing, his mind too focused on preparing for the next strike. He was not hunting a fleeing prey now; this was a battle of predators, the most dangerous conflict of all.
‘Silence? Very well, let us converse in the most ancient dialogue, like the beasts we are.’ To Dustu’s surprise, the Golden Warrior reached up and released the seals on his chestplate with a loud hiss. Was this out of chivalry or cockiness? He couldn’t tell.
The engraved golden chestplate struck the ground with a loud thunk, though Dustu did not care. He could only bear witness to the muscle revealed, the mighty flesh he had craved for so long. He had starved too long—it was time to feast!
Despite his attempts to remain in control, the feral beast that lurks in all Kroot broke loose, dominating his thoughts and sending Dustu running at the warrior like a Greater Knarloc preparing for winter. His claws flexed in anticipation of ripping, tearing, and striking his prize.
Yet nature’s fury was nothing compared to the power of science. Each blow was deflected, each swipe countered, and fatal strikes were rendered useless. It was like a fledgling battling a Long-Quill for their first bout: every move made, every attempt, bested by experience.
‘Xenos, I know of your Krootish genetics, how you steal the worthy DNA from your betters!’ He flashed his hand, noticeably missing a finger. ‘But to think you could face me on equal grounds because of it? Your arrogance knows no bounds!’ He mocked, sending Dustu skittering across the ground and against the wall, a few of his quills snapping to coat the floor.
The warrior retrieved his weapon, a large halberd with a gun below the blade, twirling it in one hand before snapping the blade to press against Dustu’s chest, a thin trickle of blood flowing down his chest.
‘Come now, I must admit you showed some promise, though that was only to be expected since you sampled our superior DNA. Grant me the name of the Xenos who tasted superiority!’
Dustu winced as the blade sank deeper, his thick skin and bones unable to resist its entry, no matter how his hand, a finger missing from its edge, futilely grasped the blade. His eyes stared up at his killer before letting loose a primal screech; the dead man switch he held in his beak clicked as it was released.
‘I am Dustu!’ Those were the last words the golden warrior would ever hear. The explosives around the exterior walls detonated in unison, forming a mighty explosion that even one of his calibre could not escape unscathed.
Taci watched the human structure collapse from the Warsphere’s view screen, a tinge of sadness scratching her cold heart.
‘Gue’la warships have noticed us; we can afford to remain no longer; we must depart whilst the escape window remains open!’ A Kroot nearby squawked, distress in his voice as the blips upon his radar grew closer.
‘Very well, make for Pech. These are no longer our hunting grounds.’ she ordered, watching the Gue’la complex shrink into obscurity before the planet followed. ‘I shall be in my quarters. Inform me when we have arrived.’
She left the ship’s bridge, headed for her domicile, and stopped at the suspiciously open pantry door. Her entire crew was busy on the bridge; nobody should have been there since takeoff.
She ventured inside, seeing nothing odd in the general section, and moved to the Shaper’s compartment, only to stumble upon an oddity. The Flesh Shaper was not bound like his cohorts but held his hands around a small object.
Fighting the rigour mortis, Taci peeled away the deceased Kroot’s digits until she could grasp what dwelled within, snatching the small object before the bony fingers snapped shut once more.
It was a finger, a Kroot finger, which still rippled with power in Taci’s grasp. The digit was still fresh in her hand as she raised the object close to her face, a drop of blood falling free to land upon her maw, which she lapped up greedily, feeling her spine tingle. Carefully, she took the smallest nibble, tearing a sample of flesh and muscle that resisted her. She swallowed it whole, relaxing her thoughts to allow her body to focus on analysing.
At first, nothing, but that was not surprising. This flesh had been dead for some time, but soon flashes began, of jungles, giant warriors, of… of…
‘…Dustu…’ she chuckled as she turned to depart the room of the dead, eager to share Dustu’s gift with the rest of the Kindred. ‘Such a shame you sought the path of a Carnivore; you make a much better Shaper.’
