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They Cometh From Iron

Discussion in 'Role Playing' started by DeranVendar, Mar 11, 2017.

  1. Lucius hissed, looking down to the shattered remains of his blade, and then the bloody body of the captain that lay before him. He heard the whispers coming from the man's lips, and with a shriek, he'd bring up his whip, unleashing his anger upon the marine. With a crack, the coiling lash would spring into the air, before coming down. Again and again, the cuts would spread across Maximilian's figure. The duelist, irritated by the loss of his blade, his pride, inflated to inhuman levels, tainted by the defiance of a loyal soul, would be enraged to the point where, instead of moving along, he'd dedicate himself towards dismantling this being before him. By the time Lucius would leave the underground chamber, sliding off to cause havoc behind enemies lines, Maximilian would lay in a pool of his own blood, terminator armour broken and shredded to shards of ceremite, limbs flayed, muscle torn, flesh flensed.​
  2. KnightReborned WanderingJester Well-Known Member

    Aridan turned his weapon upon the enemy leader, and soon the bastard child of Fulgrim got littered with bolt and plasma rounds. Despite all of the damage, he refused to fall; that was until Kourosh silenced the enemy with a krak grenade. By now, the daemonette had disappeared, hopefully back into the warp. At the sound of the enemy conductor's body dropping, the orchestra went into a frenzy, and unleashed torrents of noise in order to drown them all into madness.

    Aridan got knocked back at the soundwaves, just as he saw the worsening conditions of Tiro and Barron, as well as Charon moving to cover the former. Keeping his body low in order to avoid the worst of the attack, he pushed forward to them. Weapon in hand, the scout had a line to the squad open by the time he got to the besieged members of Squad Kennemon. "Barron, keep yourself and Tiro alive. Everyone else, I suggest we level the place as soon as possible. So if anyone has any explosives left, now would be the time to use them."

    With that, Aridan primed his frag grenade and lobbed the explosive in the direction of the nearest warped musicians, before ducking back under the burnt corpses of Tiro's last victims.

    OOC: Overwatch on Barron, attack on orchestra with frag grenade, defense on self.

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  3. Brother_Draconion Draconion Well-Known Member

    <Kourosh - First Blood>

    Even before his rounds smack home, Kourosh feels time slow to a crawl, his senses heightening with a familiar tingle as his huntsman's instincts parse the ebb and flow of battle to return a summarised result:

    Got him.

    Seeing the Cacophonist stagger with a four-leaf clover of bolt impacts upon his armour and then explode to bloody scraps amidst the focused detonation of a Krak charge brings an exultant thrill, the hunter's satisfaction that he has known since his seventh year, when, alone and afraid, he brought down his first harimau with nothing but a rusty old bolt-action slugthrower. He remembers clearly the pounding of his heart and the rasping of his breath in the silence of the swamps as he painted the great jungle lord's forehead with the crude iron sights, and sent a lead ball clear into its brain. But today...this was prey greater even than the striped orange kings of his jungle home.

    He is aware on a fundamental level that he has already died twice. The boy he had been at age seven had died that night in the swamps, killing a maneater, so a man could emerge. Today, that man had died, killing a traitor Angel, so a Space Marine could rise.

    At what point in the future would that Space Marine die, to give way to something else?

    Kourosh's reverie does not last long, as the disgusting 'Orchestra' kicks into overdrive , evidently intent on taking them all with it. As he is blasted to the ground with swimming eyes and pounding skull, he sees Charon - blearily, as though through cloudy water - motion with his hands. He is uncertain as to what the Librarius acolyte is doing, but the distorted light and air seem to flow around him , like rushing waters around a rock whose roots go to the heart of the world. Understanding enough, he crawls hand over hand, bleeding liberally from eyes, nose and ears, until, with a gasp of relief, he makes it into the blessed silence of Charon's protective dome.

    "My thanks, brother ," he manages to choke out.

    Wasting no time, he takes up a low kneeling position and begins pumping out round after round into the Orchestra, punctuating his point with a Frag grenade.

    [Bolter Standard attack @ Orchestra; Frag grenade attack @ Orchestra]
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  4. DeranVendar DeranVendar Subordinate

    Death of a Critic
    Reality quaked with the Cacophonist's death. The garden of dastardly delights and manse overlooking it began to crumble and wink in and out of existence, thrown into disarray just like the cluster of musical 'organs' in its bowels. Another flesh drum is smashed here, a weeping angel of raw meat put to the torch there. A funeral dirge sprung from the neighboring organ, sinew stretched between rattling bone pipes, a spray of bolter fire snapped several discs and warped the sound into a series of half-breath screams and wheezes. Elsewhere a grenade erupts causing a bag pipes to burst in the middle of a long forgotten marching tune. Assault upon the Dawnbringers’ ears failing, the full fury of physical force erupts once more.

    Tiro turns his back upon the burning angel, its violin shattered upon the basement floor. With a wet slap it drops to the floor and begins to crawl toward him, size becoming apparent up close as it towers several heads taller even without the climbing flames. An arm reaches back and bow raised like a butcher’s cleaver, with force enough to split the tile beneath their feet the infernal musician splits the bold young scout’s body in twain. Concentrated bolter fire strips burnt flesh from the towering figure until only a pile of sizzling gruel remains besides the slain warrior.

    Room shudders and twists in on itself, more of the Orchestra clinging to the ceiling splashed on the floor, first floor and basement ceiling collapse in places dumping both Doom Eagles and Emperor’s Children alike into the chaos. Firefight above is only briefly interrupted, fallen combatants find their footing and engage with bolters and more exotic weapons in staccato bursts that splash the room with fresh color on each shot.

    Aridan takes a brief dive into cover, rubble from above, only for the Warp born masonry to wink out of existence as surely as if it had never been. Revealed beneath is a traitor legionary whom accepts the sudden freedom as a blessing and rises up seeking to repay Slaanesh for the kindness. A combat knife spears towards his throat, scout withdrawing and receiving a bone deep gash up his chin and through a cheek. Firm hold on his bolter Aridan does not bother aiming, firing point blank into the traitor several times until weapon goes dry on the fourth shot… a fist powered by gene-enhanced strength and fiber-bundle motivators clocks him hard enough in the chest for blood to reach his tongue. Traitor finds his feet and draws his bolt pistol in a single smooth motion, tracking the sprawled out youth for a kill shot. Shot never comes, both it and heartbeats interrupted by a hiss and the following birth of molten fury that leaves only a wax simulacrum of the marine behind. Akar lowers his side-arm and turns to another threat.

    “Sorcerer’s dead and this place is falling apart. Primary objective complete, Fifth Company pull back and prepare for extraction. The Doom Eagles can clean up any remaining hostiles.” Akar’s voice cut in loud and clear over the mayhem, voice itself seemed to ignore the cacophony of battle as opposed to commanding over it. Brass flew in every direction,all three walls of the Orchestra were either burning, steaming smears of gore, cratered masonry, or beginning to withdraw from reality in jarring slashes of multi-colored light.

    Barron and Kenemon loom over Tiro’s remains, Sergeant with both knives drawn to sever the threads of any encroaching enemies while Zeussinite examines the pair of bloody sleeves that were once Tiro, seeing if his progenoids might be salvageable. Both Dawnbringers pull away with little to salvage from the effort, Kenemon taking a moment to discharge a bolt into the flamer canister after having Barron claim the actual weapon, setting bodies and surrounding heathens aflame.

    “Squad Kenemon form up by the stairs!” The stairs were gone, as was much of the basement at this stage. Bare stone that had previously occupied the surrounding space seeped back in as the mansion fell to pieces and phased out. Through the open walls the sounds of greater combat reached them, combat bikes drifting across a properly dead landscape, and battle tanks chewing up the terrain and enemy. For the moment their foe was taking the worst of it, Emperor’s Children finding their structural cover and raised firing positions vanishing. An entire Whirlwind tank comes spinning to ground level, landing on its missile rack and detonating what remained of its warheads Ensuing blast sends many flying, dead or plenty vulnerable to a follow up strike. Among this number are the Fifth whom are left spread out in the chaotic sprawl, separated from each other and surrounded by a mixture of strangers, both friend and foe.
  5. KnightReborned WanderingJester Well-Known Member

    Aridan chucked his frag grenade, and fired his main weapon as the explosion ripped apart what was left of the rapidly dying orchestra. He turned just as he saw the burnt angel of flesh loomed over an unsuspecting Tiro, a still flaming limb held aloft. The young scout's mouth opened, even as the bolter began to swing around. However, the dying abomination's arm fell faster than his words, and struck his brother before a sound came out of his mouth. Aridan felt a fury well up inside of him: Tiro had not been the most affectionate of his siblings, but he still had more worth than any of these insane, treasonous filth.

    Teeth grinded against each other in his mouth as the bolter in Aridan's hand sang, and mass-reactive rounds flew through the air, smashing into the angel and blasting chunks of it off. He did not know if he was the only one firing, nor did he cared very much; vengeance would be carried out this day. The impact trailed along its upright body, from the lower burnt section all the way up to its flame covered head. The last shot took off a majority of its misshapen skull, but before the young scout could even savour the victory, the ceiling caved in, and the contents of the floors above, living or otherwise, crashed down upon them. Acting on instincts, formed long ago from the village elders training their children to avoid avalanches, he dove to the side.

    However, the crash from the falling, warp tainted masonry never came. In their place, a traitor legionary stood up, and spotted Aridan. A combat knife in his hand danced towards the young loyalist's throat, only for its intended victim to jerk away enough to avoid death, but not the blow. A new hole in his face appeared, and the young scout felt the steel carve away not only his chin and jaw but the cheek as well. The urgency of the situation pushed away all pain, as his primary weapon came up and a flash of memory played in front of Aridan's eyes. That day in the ice cave, the firing practice, Tiro being disciplined, Sergeant Kenemon charging him to be better than to be sorry, the automatic bolter fire.

    Aridan's fingers wrapped around the trigger of the weapon even as his thumb flicked the safety to full auto. At this range he didn't even need to aim: firing in a general direction would hit the traitor regardless. How lethal those wounds were however, was debatable. Unfortunately, the young scout learned this the hard way, as the mass-reactive rounds punched themselves through the power armour with a vengeance, only for the weapon to click empty after only four shots, the rest of the rounds contributing to avenging Tiro. The reaction from the wounded legionary came faster than any thought of reloading or a follow up melee strike; an armoured fist collided with the side of Aridan's head, sending spit and blood flying out of the newly created hole of his face, and his body flying.

    Crashing to the floor, Aridan looked up in a dazed fashion to stare down the corrupted barrel of the Emperor's Child's sidearm. He closed his eyes with the thought of regret that he could not take this enemy of man with him, only to have a hiss reach his ears rather than the bolt shot. Eyes snapping open again, the young scout turned and saw Captain Akar already turning to face another enemy of man. Gripping his weapon with the fury of losing a brother and the determination to make the most of a second chance, he quickly popped the empty clip out of the bolter, spat out a mouthful of blood, replaced a fresh clip within it and sprinted to where Barron and Sarge attempted to retrieve Tiro's body.

    Arriving only to see them wrapping things up, Aridan turned his weapon to cover their resident swordsman, knowing he had suffered the most injuries out of the surviving members of the Fifth. As they retreated together amidst the flames from the detonated fire, new orders rang out. The young scout made sure that Barron got clear each time they moved, providing covering fire and using any spare time to keep his clip topped off. All other moments not firing upon the foes went to quickly scanning the bodies of the fallen and recovering extra ammunition for the extended battle.

    The orders had been to form up by the now nonexistent stairs, but in reality the sheer current of the battle pushed all the loyalists nearby up and out of the rapidly collapsing building they had just been in. The wave of bodies separated Aridan from Barron and Sarge, and he lost sight of the others himself. Trying to keep himself alive and useful, he retreated to a nearby cover to search for targets. Many of the sorcerous structures created by the Emperor's Children began to collapse, allowing the loyalist assault to take pot shots as covers disappeared without warning. Spotting two duelling combatants, the young scout turned his bolter's sights on them.

    Both of the fighters had jump packs on, showcasing their specialist class, and both sustained damage from the prolonged fighting. That consisted of the only similarities between them. The Dawnbringer, though wary and battered, continued his valiant struggle against the Emperor's Child, whose insane expression mimicked his ability to disregard all injuries inflected upon him. The loyalist's chainsword clashed with a strangely paradoxical blade of the traitor, its seemingly perfect surface radiating a sort of repulsion outward to Aridan's eyes, each weapon intent on spilling their master's enemy's guts out. Unable to get a clear shot, the young scout merely kept an eye on the situation, while making sure no enemy attempted to interrupt the fight.

    Just then, an enemy whirlwind fell from its precipice, the platform below it literally disappearing. It flipped in the air, and landed on the ground below missile pod first, detonating all of its remaining content. The blast wave threw Aridan off of his feet, one of the many times today, but fortunately behind the cover he had been utilising. The two melee combatant had no such luck, as it crashed into them with enough force to break them apart from one another. The Dawnbringer hit the ground on his stomach and rolled over, only to see his opponent already on his feet and standing over him in an act of supernatural agility, blade rising in the air. Just as the weapon reached the climax of its ascend, several bolt rounds struck the pauldron of the traitor, unable to do any damage outside of the superficial, but had enough force to throw the legionary off balance.

    The chainsword came up and buried itself into the traitor's gut, the teeth ripping through the internal organs of the Emperor's Child with a seemingly joyous delight. The Dawnbringer assault marine then dragged it upwards, destroying both hearts of the traitor and through his excited face; the enemy delighting in the pleasures and pains of death even as his usefulness to the Prince of Pleasures came to an end. The body hit the ground, the top half reminding Aridan way too much of Tiro's split body. At the very least, the bottom half had been attached together still, strikingly different from the last image of his fallen brother. The assault marine spotted the young scout and gave him a nod, which he returned, before moving off to engage the next opponent.

    Just then, several marines appeared around Aridan's position, their colors indicating their shared allegiance and homeworld with the scout. The squad of tactical marines began raining fire and providing support wherever they could, and the young scout did his best to keep up, without getting in the way. Fire, take cover during return fire, round check in the clip in the meantime, pop out of cover during the lull, fire again. The repeating rhythm of the combat almost seemed tranquil, were it not for the fact that at any moment he could be killed. Yet the only notable thing outside of the casualties inflicted on each side had been when one of the tactical marines ran out of ammo, and Aridan tossed him one of his spare clips before both returning to combat, the former searching for new targets while the latter searched for any sign of his squad.
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  6. DeranVendar DeranVendar Subordinate

    Burning Fields
    Black gauntlets cradled the snarling serrated visage of a dragon- slain, MIA, or perhaps worse. Thumb drags across the interface ports where a cybernetic visor fit snugly just behind the lenses, shock absorbers ringing the whole interface to soften direct impacts against the face.

    “He breathes, Soul Smith. Though I do not think he--” A hiss interrupts the Apothecary’s report, breaking Soul Smith’s focus. A single drop of warm pyroclastic gel sizzles upon the helmet of Diokletious, a leak from the massive double-headed Excoriator leaning over Epimonos; one surefire sign that the spirits were restless, prodding the Astartes back out into the killing fields. “-- single heart barely functional, third lung under compensat--” This time Apothecary is interrupted by unofficial superior.

    “That will do Herstius. I need only know he breathes, the damage is useless to me if I have not inflicted it.” Epimonos comes to a halt at the first of the fallen Knights of Dawn. Wrists have been slashed, gashes lined up as if a garrote of barbed wire had been strung between arm and gauntlets. He taps a fist to the brow of his own ghastly helmet before knuckles press over plated heart of the slain. Epimonos makes a silent note of the triple puncture marks lined up on the gorget, and throat behind it, broad and narrow shadows caked with drying blood that looked like birds on a wire. A power spear had done this, one penetrating blow would of done the job, someone had clearly wanted to make a show of this. “Hhhmph.”

    Epimonos emerges from the underground bunker, having seen another of the four lost Knights of Dawn on the way out, and immediately spies out his assembled battle group of Temperer Agenar and just under twenty assault units from both Third and Fourth companies. Their Chapter Master was missing, his body guarded killed to the man, the Exemplar lay dead, Maximillian- Herchel on deaths door and perhaps bound for a walking tomb, and there were possible enemies loose behind the doorstep. And yet…

    The line held. Where Diokletious and the Knights of Dawn had nearly broken themselves in order to shatter the enemy blade masters, Marcus lead a talon of Dreadnoughts that spilled a small ocean of treasonous blood into the trenches. Where tanks possessed by beings as terrible as anything that had trod on Terra belched storms of hellfire into their ranks, the Gladius ad Sol and her Hoplikon defenders blunted such blows and roared back with power thrice-fold. Many were dead, a handful of thousands of tragedies on this battlefield. Yet the line held, and for the Iron Warrior at the core of every Dawnbringer that was more than enough.
  7. Brother_Draconion Draconion Well-Known Member


    Kourosh is too far away to intervene when Tiro dies, caught up as he is in fighting off fleshy tendrils extruded by the daemonic Orchestra to defend itself. Just as he turns around to hack into the embedded flesh-creatures with his paired combat knives, he finds himself in time to watch in dismay as Tiro is sliced in two by the daemon. Moving as one with his scout brothers, he levels his bolter and blasts the accursed creature from existence with accurate, vengeful bursts.

    The order to evacuate the enemy stronghold goes out, and not a moment too soon, as it begins to crumble about their ears. Piling out of the building, he closes ranks with the other scouts, snapping off shots at targets of opportunity as he scrambles from cover to cover in the now-open battlefield. Sticking close to Sergeant Kenemon, he lets the veteran Scout call his fire, pouring bolter shells into the backs of a flanked band of Traitor Marines while Tactical Brothers in full power armour advance to finish the pinned Traitors off.

    Just as the Tacticals close almost to blade range, one of them spins and falls as though struck, blood spurting from a shattered helm lens. A demented whoop of triumph from a distant ridge resounds above the thunder of gunfire, the roar of chainblades and the shouts and grunts of embattled transhumans. Standing upright in clear disdain of Imperial return fire, an Emperor's Children sniper levels his weapon for another shot. Despite the extreme range, Kourosh nevertheless levels his bolter. Staring down the iron sights of his bolter, he must seem a madman to the casual observer, to be taking on a sniper so far out of bolter range. Yet, this is routine to him, for had he not hunted beasts and monsters in the jungles of his youth with naught but an old rifle and its iron sights?

    His pupils constrict almost to pinpoint dots as his eyes adjust to the extreme range. The sounds of battle fade away, all sight likewise failing save that of his target, so total is his focus.

    Still not enough. More. I need more.

    In ever-increasing detail does his target resolve, his twin hearts slowing to a crawl as his concentration and breathing take him into the marksman's trance, dilating his perception of time so even the superhuman speed of the Traitor's rising barrel proceeds in slow motion. Only when an emerald helm lens looms as large as a truck wheel in his sights does he exhale and squeeze the trigger. The Traitor's finger is but a hair's breadth from completing his own trigger-squeeze, when his head snaps back, a helm lens exploding in blood and shards in echo of his latest - and last - victim's death. Kourosh watches, still entranced, as his target collapses slowly, leaking blood and brains from the ruins of his skull and helm.

    Abruptly, a firm hand smacks him back into the moment, and the sounds of battle roar in his ear as time snaps back to its regular flow about him.

    "Kourosh! Quit woolgathering and give me fire on those Traitors, damn you!" comes Kenemon's voice.

    "Aye, Sergeant! Right away!" stammers the scout, momentarily flustered as he takes up a low kneeling position and does as instructed.

    Roll on the next hundred years, I suppose.
  8. DeranVendar DeranVendar Subordinate

    A Farewell to Heroes, An Ending of an Era

    "I am not going to kill you Lucius. Such a fate is too pure for you, there must be shame and torment; torment beyond your understanding of the word. First I will have your hands, then your feet. Perhaps I will indulge in your arms and shins if the mood strikes me, that would not be too excessive would it? No, not in the slightest. Alexander has told me something of your...quirk. I do not understand it, nor do I know whether Diokletious invited you in or the doors were thrown open by your own hands or some other perfidious sorcery. Regardless of the truth, you have shed the blood of the Emperor’s own, the price will be your hide. When you are but a limbless stub of a warrior we will string you up atop the Torch of Atlos. Every sensation will be stolen from you, whether we turn you into a servitor or put every abused nerve in your body to rest, I promise you that when we return home you will be a husk and nothing more."
    Soul Smith Epimonos to Lucius the Eternal upon Saramanth

    Lucius fled the field that day. Beset by Maximillian’s implacable Hoplikon of squad Bruskus, and the blazing wrath of Epimonos and Hellscream, the sword master without a sword suffered the wound to his pride and retreated through the Dawnbringers trenches. Abusing knowledge ripped from the mind of the very same man whose face now sat beneath his gorget for all eternity, Lucius escaped without further issue. Epimonos and the veterans of First Company were left to deal with an open rift spilling daemons into the heart of their formation, a parting gift from the traitor whom had managed to eviscerate a Novamarine’s Codicier before being engaged by squad Bruskus.

    Catastrophe averted, the conclave of loyal psykers began to gain ground on Fulgrim. One by one across the globe, lesser rituals siphoning further power to the Daemon Primarch were snuffed out as Fifth Company, the Doom Eagles, and even one of the Dawnbringers’ own elite Seventh Squads slew the sorcerers of the Third Legion. Fulgrim’s many apparitions would be struck from the skies and his defenses sundered. Saramanth’s surface cried out for mercy and deliverance would come, a wash of azure flame consuming the skies and banishing the transmogrifying energies gripping her surface.The ensuing backlash of energy would rock forces on the ground and dueling fleets in orbit. When the dust settled those corrupt souls that had not been banished into the Warp with Fulgrim himself would be put to the blade.

    "A being whose existence actually mattered in the grand scheme of our galaxy: dead. It was a tragedy and I mourn Guilliman’s loss, adopted bastards or no, we owed him. That is not what weighed on my heart though. It was the deaths of my own boys that saddened me, more than the loss of a Primarch. Each loss hurt, but it did not grieve me so much as the moment I realized they were all lost. Technicalities argue that Marcus and Herchel are still alive, however as of writing this I do not know how long Herchel, as we know him, will survive in the shell. He was always a tough one, but I am well aware of the Temperers’ sayings about hope and faith. Marcus is almost entirely himself still, perhaps Herchel will hold better than Brumdar as well, all of my Seventh ended up achieving greatness in one form or another; Xerxes aside, but of my entire squad I had long assumed he might make something of himself, even being a witch. I wish he found peace after Terra."
    Passage from 'The Last of the Emperor's Iron Warriors', Akar's memoirs

    They were legion and Macragge threatened to burst at its seams. Pilgrims in their billions stood many miles out from the shrine, many more hung in low orbit watching pict screens. Between them and the slain Demigod stood his sons: Ultramarines all briefly restored as a legion in honor of their fallen patriarch. Stasis capsule and the legend stolen from the ravages of time sat enthroned surrounded by the kneeling forms of uncounted admirers. Surrounding Roboute Guilliman’’s throne was the Temple of Correction, a veritable fortress and work of art all in one sitting upon one of Macragge’s freezing poles. Joining the Reagent of Ultramar were his finest sons, living and dead, lords of the Ultramarines and their descendants attending in person, many freshly promoted following Saramanth. The fallen joined in spirit, names engraved in the bricks and walls of the temple; names like Orious, Ludon, Andros, and Diokletious.

    Respects paid the Dawnbringers would load up for the trip back to Zeussar. Positions and fresh appointments required honoring and recording, the tally of deaths passed, and Zealot's Rest required at least one new statue. In a weeks time since returning Menelaus the Captain of Third Company would be elected as Chapter Master, the reigning council citing Diokletious as having groomed him for the role just as Akar had tutored Dyzek in an age passed. In the coming years it would be a controversial choice, one that rankled with First Captain Metron whom had harbored aspirations for the role before Maximillian had even been interred. It would not be the first scandal either, for rumors ran that one day a reckoning would come between the chapter's adherents of the new Imperial Creed, and those who still staunchly supported the Imperial Truth. These are tales for another day though...

    "I was the Torch Bearer. I have led Third Company since the Dawnbringers’ inception, and now the honored heads of our chapter’s council have seen it fit to observe Diokletious’ intent that I lead our chapter into the future. I am the Torch Bearer, and I wield the flame of our forefathers, their example, and the light of the Emperor himself. It is only together though that we will carry this flame into the darkness! Brothers! Light the Dawn!"
    Chapter Master Menelaus of the Dawnbringers upon mustering for the Dawnbringers' first deployment since Saramanth.

    "Wake me when you need me."
    First Captain Maximillian upon being placed in stasis

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