Editing Republican Commando (section)

===(34) Mesneh Rek, Aqah Rek===
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The Blade holds position over Mithras, one of the continents burning blue-green, toxic clouds flowing. While numerous Squats have been brought to the Medicae deck for quarantine, recovery, and purging, Cyril has been brought to the Manufactorum, where Rockfist and Executor Thexus begin collecting necessary parts for a bionic. Cortain has spent his time since returning contemplating the possibility of egotism taking root. Emotionality is not something the Iron Praetor is used to, and this last mission was perhaps the worst case he has encountered thus far. For some reason, just knowing that a heretek was in Tiji doing something this...indescribable...set him off in a way even the Hellstar never did. At least the case was solved, though. No trace of life currently remains on that continent. There is no risk of uncontrolled spreading.

Brynjol is insistent on preparing Cyril for surgery, and is disappointed that the work is taking place in the manufactorum. For a battle automata who only understands efficiency, and a squat who's focused on getting the job done, moving the operating table next to the work bench was seen as efficiency. They make plenty of room for Brynjol, as some tools are brought down for surgery.

Brynjol looks lovingly down at Cyril, strapped on to the bed.
"Don't worry brother..." Brynjol croons, "Just the one additional leg."
Cyril, however, is beginning to stir, and does not particularly enjoy being strapped down. As Brynjol begins his medicae applications, Cyril begins wildly flailing about, insistent that the wolf priest not come near him. Bryniol is not quite used to working in the Manufactorum, as Vultarax Stratos-automata flash by, but he IS used to Cyril's squirming. He readies the stump for bionic integration just fine. Cortain takes some time to assemble Cyril's new bionic leg, but integration is...difficult.

"Sit down you fething moron!" Brynjol yells, the humor now gone and annoyance in its place, "You want this leg to go on wonky?"
"Back off, Brynjol!" Cyril commands, "Let the Techmarine install it!"
"He IS going to install it, you mongoloid Ice Wraith!" Brynjol yells.
"Lad..." Rockfist says, laying his own bionic arm down calmingly on Cyril's side, "'e's jus' tryin' ta help. 's his job."
"Can you two just stay silent for a second and let me put this Mars-damned thing on?" Cortain says, the annoyance creeping into him as well.
Cortain's attempts at connection are slightly off due to Cryil's constant movement, but Urist McCyberFamiliar adjusts the conduits, and the new leg is fitted in. Cyril is much calmer as he sees Cortain install the leg.
"Thank you, Cortain," Cyril whispers. A grumbling takes place of any response, his introspection still ongoing.
"Bloody children," Brynjol dismisses.

Brynjol throws his arms in the air despairingly, and turns about to head to the Apothecarion, his helots coming with him. Cyril mumbles something about if wolves would do their job properly, but Brynjol's unnatural senses pick up the very movement of the air molecules. He turns about once again, claws suddenly alarmingly close.

"I'm this close to snapping, Cyril. You don't disparage my work, not when I'm just trying to make sure these tech-heads don't solder your bloody nerve endings," Brynjol reminds him, "Astartes don't heal THAT well. That's why I'm here, and trained." Brynjol leaves, claws firmly sheathed this time.
"You are not the only one near snapping, Brother," Cyril says, calming down, "I do apologize for swinging."
"Why are you so defensive about Bryn's medical skill?" Cortain asks.
"Because he insists on restraints and makes constant threats of unspeakable surgeries on his patients," Cyril states, "If he did not insist on restraints, I would have far fewer issues."
"WOOOO, trouble in paradise?" the sudden voice of Inquisitor Marshall Shady echoes from behind a cogitator bank, "Don't let me stop you or anything."
"NOT THE TIME," Cortain is not amused.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9b0CPerywqU

"Well EXCUSE me," the Inquisitor shrugs.
"Hello, Shady," Cyril sighs, "When do we need to leave? I could do with a few weeks of rest in the resuscatrix chambers..."
"We leave immediately. I brought a shuttle. Let's go," Inquisitor Shady insists, "I got facilities aboard the The Real Shady."
Cortain helps to undo the restraints on Cyril and supports the new leg.
"Let's get to the landing bay," Cortain voxes, "Shady is bringing us to his ship."
"Before you go, take anything you think you'll need," Shady advises, "Shouldn't be that bad, or take too long, but still."
"We'll have our servitors ready," Cortain nods.
"Meet me in the launch bay when you've handled yourselves," Shady requests, heading out, leaving the Commandos to the necessary rites.
"We will arrive soon," Cyril promises.
"Soon is relative," Shady quips as he walks down the halls.

Cyril stands slowly, flexing the augmetic. "It is... cold. I like it," he steps forward awkwardly. "It will take some getting used to, though."
"PERHAPS YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN FORGED OF THE IV OR THE X, PRAETOR," Thexus blasts, "IT SUITS YOU."
Cyril growls at the mention of the Xth. "Bah. Despicable, misdierectedly hateful, short-sighted fools, the Hands are today."
"A POINT OF CONTENTION, PRAETOR. THEY ARE EFFICIENT IN WHAT THEY DO, BUT THEY HAVE FALLEN FAR FROM WHAT THE GORGON INTENDED. HE NEVER INTENDED FOR HIS SONS TO OBSESS OVER CYBERNETIC REPLACEMENT."
"They have never approved of my Chapter," Cyril says, "But I admit their zeal is effective so long as it is kept pointed at the enemies of the Imperium."

The Commandos begin outfitting themselves for combat. Given that they will not have the support of the Blade, they opt for a simple Oath to the Emperor rather than an extensive Rite of War.
"Lad, it seems ye'll be goin' with Shady on this one," Rockfist states, "So, whatever ya bring, is what ya got. We'll prep whatever ya need."

Heading to the Armorium, the Commandos meditate and arm themselves. Brynjol needs nothing - his relic claws are more than enough. Cortain selects a Volkite Caliver, while Cyril contents himself with a relic bolter. Temur, in addition to arming himself with a relic heavy bolter, seeks out Cortain and Executor Thexus, seeking out something specific.

"Ah, there you are, Brother, Executor," Temur begins, "I have a request I wish to make, if you are able to fulfill it."
"We are in a Crusade-Era ship," Cortain points out, "If you need it, it will be done."
"WE STAND READY, PRAETOR," Thexus affirms.
"In the Brotherhoods of Chogoris, we make use of both cybernetically enhanced birds of prey and even entirely machine constructs in their image, both to hunt as sport and on the battlefield in support of our operations," Temur explains, "Normally the strictures of the Deathwatch prevent their use, but in light of all we have seen and done, and the threats we face, I feel such a companion would be of use."
"It was restricted?" Cortain wonders, "Well, it certainly seems feasible..."
"Generally yes," Temur continues, "Though some stormseers in Deathwatch service have used live birds as familiars before."
"THAT WILL NOT BE AN ISSUE, PRAETOR. AT LEAST ONE WAS PREPARED IN THE CASE OF REQUEST," Thexus blasts, "IT WILL BE MORE AUTOMATA THAN FLESH, BUT IT WILL SUIT THE PURPOSE REQUIRED."
"My deepest thanks, Executor," Temur nods, "It is comforting to know that our use of them matches that of the legions of old."

Rockfist and Thexus produce the requested gear, including a Cyber-Hawk for Temur. Quite easily, considering it's only about a hundred meters away or so.
"Lad, don't worry about us," Rockfist nods, "We'll hold everything down while ya've gone. Ancestor O'Malley an' the lass are reviewing the survivors of the previous mission. We'll watch the Blade."
Cyril thanks them and twirls the relic bolter proudly before walks slowly to the launch bay, growing accustomed to his new leg. Temur decides to get to know his new companion - even machine familiars having their minor quirks. 

"Every one of the birds used by the brotherhoods has a name, as strong and proud and any of us," Temur muses, "I think.... Vachir .. will do nicely."

With Ordeci the Thanatar and Notomok the Yeti in tow, the Commandos stride to the landing bay, where an Aquila Lander awaits. Its door is open, and an "Honor Guard" of Hearthguard have been posted to ensure the Inquisitor is on his...best behavior. Seeing the Commandos head on over, the Hearthguard return to patrols, and the Commandos board.
"Take us to the The Real Shady," the Inquisitor requests, "We should be done quickly. The Chronoeider Engine's been set already."

Brynjol takes off smoothly, into space. Above the dull blue-green glow of Mithras's burning continents, waits the The Real Shady. A Grand Cruiser of unknown provenance, the vessel nonetheless bears the symbols of the Inquisition, and the nautiloid patterns that the Ordo Chronos seems fond of. Brynjol rides the Winds of Spess, piloting the shuttle cleanly into a launch bay. It's a soft stress-free (relatively) landing, where numerous (living!) crew begin landing prayers and maintenance chants. The Inquisitor snaps his finger, and waiting Chirurgeons stand ready to escort Cyril to the Resuscatrix Chambers. Cyril follows the Chirurgeons, Notomok in tow.

"Y'all ready to figure out how to beat the Hellstar?" the Inquisitor asks.
"I'm always ready to learn from my experiences, Inquisitor," Temur states, "Even the small and seemingly uneventful ones."
"Tight. You guys're a lot better than the stunted ones," Shady beckons, "This way, to the Bridge."
"Funny you mention Squats..." Cortain considers.
The Commandos follow the Chronos Inquisitor through his vessel. It thrums with strange chronomantic energies. 
"How you intend to collect the information without us potentially meeting ourselves, or causing other temporal distortions?" Temur asks.
"I do not believe that this will work without grave consequence," Cortain worries, "But it seems that there are worse fates than chronological incontinence."
"You don't need to worry about meeting yourselves or anything," Shady points out, "And if you do, it will be something to laugh about in the future."
"Hey! What can go wrong?" Shady laughs, "It's literally a perfect plan! Just like everything that comes out of me!"
Cortain shudders. "Perfect, perhaps not. Functional, however, I would agree."
Brynjol crosses his arms, saying nothing

At the vessel's Bridge, a number of tech-adepts are circling a glowing blue hemisphere, Great gears spin, every so often the tick tock of a great clock echoes through the decks. Clouds spin through the translucent covering.
"I set the Chronoeider to a few years ahead from now, should be ample time for our purposes," Shady says, "Y'all sure you're ready?"
"As we can be under the circumstances, provided brother Cyril will be combat-operational in time," Temur nods.
"Hey, remember, time is relative," the Inquisitor says as he gives the order. 

The The Real Shady reorients slowly, and accelerates.

"We'll be a few weeks of travel, but to your crew, it should be like 12 seconds," the Inquisitor says, a tearing noise echoing through the ship, and through the Winds of Spess. The Real Shady enters an odd blue portal, reminiscent of the warp, but quite different. Another tearing sound catches their ears, and Brynjol, Cortain, and Cyril can easily spot something through the windows, though Temur barely catches it - as the The Real Shady enters the blue portal, another Blue portal opens a few VU away. Out comes the The Real Shady, quite damaged and trailing flame. The Inquisitor raises an eyebrow as he sees it, the blue chronoportal behind the The Real Shady closing.

"That looks bad," Cortain states.
"Eh, time is relative," Inquisitor Shady shrugs, as the The Real Shady is pushed through time by the Chronoeider Engine, "Well, we got a few weeks, so might as well get comfy. You ever figure out the significance of the little Nautiluses I'm gonna give you in a few months?"
"They represent you being an insufferable tit, clearly," Brynjol quips.
"You weren't even trying with that one..." the Inquisitor retorts, kicking his feet up, "Anyway, any takers?"

The Commandos are travelling for some time. Brynjol has offered his thoughts, while Cortain believes them to be specialized locks.

"My thoughts on them were simply that they represent the types of problems you have to deal with, time spiraling in on itself," Temur states.
Inquisitor Shady starts to prepare a witty quip for Cortain, before suddenly coughing up his drink as Temur speaks.
"There are those who see time as a line - a clear beginning and end," Shady recovers, "Similarly, there are those who see it as an unbroken circle, life and death as the Emperor wills, eternal."
"So how does a spiral fit with this?" Cortain asks.
"Both are, in a way, right," Shady continues, now looking at Temur first before all the rest of you guys, "If you combined, geometrically, the line and the circle, what do you get?"
"The nautilus's spiral is both and neither at the same time," Temur follows, "A repeating cycle with minor differences, but a beginning and an end."
Cortain considers adding a quip about a mobius loop, but decides not just out of fear of feeding his ego. Also, concerns about gigantic time-squids.
"A repeating cycle, minor differences. Time moving on, but history repeating itself," Shady yells, "You're the first ones to get it without hurting yourself. Damn y'all smart. The Emperor gives me geniuses, praise be."
Brynjol emits a noise from his helmet. Could be laughter, could be lung cancer. Who can tell.
The Inquisitor leans back, surprised that someone finally got it.
"Anyway, it'll be a few weeks, so if you need the services of my ship, have at it," Inquisitor Shady says.

The training facilities are less than suitable for a Praetor, but the rest of the vessel is standard Imperial, beyond the Chronoeider Engine. While Temur and Brynjol decide to keep Cyril company, Cortain decides to check in on the armourium. Mayhaps he might understand the secrets of those time-guns. He heads deep within the Armorium, numerous Chronophores and Wrist Jadgars lay on ordered racks. Veiled tech-adepts minister to each weapon, anointing them with sacred unguents and reading from old scrolls weapon blessings. Cells from each weapon are charged from the Chronoeider Engine itself, the chronomantic energy able to be focused offensively through the arcane contraptions. Cortain reviews the liturgy, listening carefully to the Adepts' sermons, and notes that each weapon has an attendant scroll. Most interestingly, not only are there prayers for times the weapon jammed, but there are prayers for when the weapon WILL jam in the future, all listed on the scrolls. Every adept continues with the rites, oblivious to Cortain's presence. For them, weapon maintenance is all.

"There are some things that can be changed," the Inquisitor says as he steps through a door, picking up a Jadgar, "I've seen it. But there are far more things that can't, that are, for lack of a better word, locked."
Cortain considers this sensible, considering the time-based powers it has. "Same as any other weapon."
"You'd be surprised," the Inquisitor says, "Knowing precisely when things will go right and wrong can be annoying at times."
The Inquisitor twirls a golden chronophore around.
"From an abstract sense, it can be hard to see," Shady says, "I mean, here I am knowing precisely when my gun will jam, but having no idea on what we'll see when we arrive."
"I presume that it ties into the scope," Cortain offers, "A gun is far less significant and has far less propensity for drastic change compared to an entire sector of space."
"Small things can be changed," Shady says, quietly, "But larger things, you get the feeling some events have to happen. Some things that, no matter what you do, will always occur without fail. Some things CAN'T be changed."
The adepts pause a moment in their ministrations, before resuming.
"For example...?" Surprisingly, Cortain finds the physics of time an intriguing matter to discuss.

"If there was any one event, one singular moment that you would try and go back to," Shady says, "What would it be?"
"The Golden Throne," Brynjol voxes, "The half-death of the Emperor."
The Inquisitor takes a seat.
"But we can push that further, can't we?" Brynjol continues, "The apotheosis of the Warmaster. Or even his genesis."
"I've tried. By the Emperor, I've tried..." Shady says, "All three. They're locked to me. I have visited the Scouring. I saw Unification. I grabbed this vessel from the Great Crusade. But those points in time, they cannot be changed or seen."
Shady closes his eyes.
"Sometimes you feel powerless," Shady looks up, "And it really blows."
"There are rumours of the Primogenesis," Brynjol suggests, "Their creation in the laboratories of Luna. Have you tried this angle of attack?"
"The Chronoeider sees only a black void, rather than the time that existed," Shady says, "And I can't stick around. The closer I get, the more disturbances appear in the Chronoeider, and we gotta haul ass or be lost in the spiral vortex of time."
Cyril stumbles into the room, helmetless hair still dripping with resuscitrix chamber bacta. "The death of Sanguinius? That, too, is immutable?"
"That entire siege," Shady says, "Impossible to visit."
"inquisitor, have you considered going to the time before the establishment of the gene-forges on Luna," Temur considers, "And simply living through that void in time?
"Because the Chronoeider grows more and more unstable the closer we go to such events," Shady says, "A groxshit limitation."

"Where are we to go, then?" Brynjol asks.
"We're heading a few years in your 'future,' remember?" Shady reminds, "We'll find out what we need and go."
Cyril sighs. "I have a question about today's mission. Why not just skip past the Hellstar entirely and ask yourself how it was vanquished?"
"Because I can't visit myself unless I make a mental note to visit myself," Shady says, as Inquisitor Shady opens a door, walks up, and high-fives Inquisitor Shady. Shady then gets up and walks through another door, leaving Shady to have a seat where Shady once sat, "And I can't be guaranteed that I'll visit myself in time."
Temur grumbles and rubs his temples. "As much as I can follow this most of the time, it requires far more effort than pleases me."

The Real Shady begins to decelerate, "Well, looks like we're almost here. Let's get ready t-"
The inquisitor blanches, standing up and rushing numerous floors and levels to the bridge, "Oh groxshit..."
"Smelly groxshit, or sticky?" Cyril asks.
"I just realized," Shady coughs, out of breath, "If you are here, with me..."
"Then..?" Cyril continues, quite concerned.
"...who was there to defeat the Hellstar?" Shady asks, as the The Real Shady suddenly rumbles.
"Were you not expecting that?" Cortain asks.
"Would it not be us having returned to the same point we left?" Temur asks.
"As Temur says," Cyril points out, "You did say that it was possible but a nonissue for us to meet ourselves."
This question, being one of the first big concerns he had with the chronal incontinence issue, pushes Cortain into a litany of binaric swears. The adepts all have bleeding ears.
"Meeting yourselves isn't the issue anymore," Shady says as he points out the Bridge armorglas windows, "We're not the only ones that can alter time..."

http://picosong.com/Bdwb/

A sickly brown pseudotentacle begins to wrap around the The Real Shady, the view being utterly overtaken by dull red. When a single giant eye focuses down, its piercing vision staring straight at the Commandos, the buzzing in the mind becomes almost unbearable.

"Ah, shite," Brynjol says, "Where is Crusader Invictus when you need her?"
"Here we go again," Cyril says.

A second pseudograsper begins to wrap around the The Real Shady, pitifully small in comparison, as the Hellstar's beak, itself the size of an asteroid, extends.
"Ideas?" Shady asks.
"...hooyóvo..." Cyril mutters, "What are the Real Shady's weapons?"
"If you have a 'rewind' button, now might be the time," Temur declares.
"Broadside mars Macrocannons, a dorsal kinetic lance, and a Phosphex Web Projector on the prow," Shady says, "I'm trying a rewind, we're...stuck. HOW ARE WE STUCK?"
"A creature from beyond our dimensional reality physically gripping the ship might have something to do with it," Cyril quips, "Voidship weapons have never affected its main body before, but the grasping appendages might be more vulnerable. If we can get a firing solution, then it is worth an attempt while other solutions are devised!"
"Phosphex web projector?" Temur wonders, "We have not field tested phosphex againt the damnable creature before, but I see no reason not to try now!"
"Do it!" Cyril commands.

The Commandos take to the The Real Shady's weapons.  There is one pseudograsper wrapped around the prow, and one around the broadsides. Cyril fires the odd lance weapon on the prow at the pseudograsper mounted on the prow. Unlike the beams of light the Commandos are used to, the kinetic lance's energy has more...substance to it. It seems to slice through the tentacle easily enough. The Hellstar's eye turns to Cyril as it begins floating ever closer, the gas-giant sized monstrosity an almost impossible distance away yet. Temur fires the Phosphex Web Projector at the impending monster's beak. The cloud of phosphex explodes near the beak, the corrosive poison eating away at it. The Commandos recall that Crusader Invictus struck the creature in its beak once before, shattering it, and as layers of bone give way to layers of metal, it becomes abundantly clear that the Hellstar too is no stranger to bionic enhancement.

Bionics indicate technology. Technology indicates intelligence. But at that scale...

The beak stops its approach. However, more tentacles are approaching, and will arrive in one more round. The one tentacle currently squeezes the The Real Shady so hard that cracks are beginning to form in the superstructure, and the Adepts claim damage to the Chronoeider. Cortain orders immediate damage control, while Cyril takes the broadside macrocannons against the final pseudotentacle. A battering of heavy projectiles impacts the tentacle, bruising it and causing a release. The Adepts, however, are terrified - the Chronoeider was damaged, and is stuck on maximum. Brynjol locks onto the beak, as Temur fires a parting Phosphex web at the Hellstar's beak, before the The Real Shady bursts forward, destination unknown.

The Real Shady continues to blast forward through time at maximum speed, no sign of stopping. The Chronoeider's clock is going fukken nuts, unable to track the Commandos' current position in time. The Adepts are intoning their rites, but the Chronoeider is showing no signs of stopping.

"Shady, how do you shut this thing down?" Cortain asks, "NOW!
"I...uh..." Shady says as he button mashes like he playing dankey kang. Cortain rushes to the Chronoeider itself, intoning the rites and hit the Emergency Stop button. The Real Shady is jolted out of time, and begins to shake and rumble violently - the voidship has left the blue chronoportal, and has...run aground. Apparently there was a planet in the way.

"We NEED to keep ourselves out of another tussle," Cortain declares, "The Chronoeider Engine is damaged. Repairs are necessary. And we just made landfall."
"Brynjol, do augurs show any lifesigns?" Cyril asks.
Turning to the augurs, it's bizarre - Brynjol notes the The Real Shady's augurs are picking up incredible amounts of life...in every direction, even though the armorglas bridge is covered in sand.

Inquisitor Shady orders the Rites of Restarting the Chronoeider. He finds there is good news and bad news. The Commandos, ever pessimists, ask for the bad news first. Bad news is, the adepts report something is blocking the Chronoeider, preventing it from entering any timeways. The good news is, the damage is minimal, and with time it can be fixed with parts already aboard the The Real Shady.

"So...time to disembark?" Cortain asks.
"There's biosigns. Bloody everywhere," Brynjol states, "EVERYWHERE. Up, down, left, right, the other ones."
"The last time we detected life everywhere it was fungoviral microspores," Cyril suggests, "If we can safely stay inside, I would just as well do so."

Brynjol discovers one other thing. Reading the little bar that states what year the Commandos are in, the second half is busted, unable to get a lock. But the first part is stable.

It's displaying something to the effect of about 800,000 years since departure date.

"Oh, shite," Brynjol stutters, "It's... M841."
"WHAT" is the only reaction Cortain can muster.
Brynjol immediately heads for an airlock,  "I've got to take a look at this."
Brynjol pops a look outside the airlock, where two immediate things catch his attention. The first is a sprawling city amongst a vast desert, many kilometers away. Its buildings appear to be made of sandstone and simple metal. Very few, if any, are greater than three stories tall from here. The second are the eyes, hundreds of thousands of them, strewn across the sky. Pulsing red fibrous connections link them, as they stare here and there. Eyes instead of stars in the sky. 

Brynjol voxes in immediately.
"I think... I think we're in the reality where the Hellstar won," he states flatly, "Look... look up at the stars."
"Those...are not stars," Cyril affirms.
"Oh is that just lovely!" Cortain yells, "I was worried about chronological incontinence, I said it! And then this happens!"
As Brynjol stares at the eyes, which burst into and recede from existence every so often, the entire thing reminds him of a vast net of neurons, an entire organic matting of Hellstars across the kosmos.
"I think we need to get out of here right now," Brynjol insists, "I think we need to leave immediately. This is beyond anything anyone or anything has done before."
"Problem, Bryn: The Chronoeider needs repairs. Lots of repairs," Cortain says, "I can stand by and assist, but I have a bad feeling that I will be needed outside if we go expeditioning into this great Hellstarish beyond."

Cortain's siege auspex, once set properly, picks up residual traces of chronomantic energy all about. As he walks about, he notes the parts per billion slowly increase near that sprawling city.
"Feth the expedition," Brynjol disagrees, "We need to leave this place. If what I'm thinking is right, I want to leave right the feth now and get back to our time."
"This is bad," Shady says, quite shaken, "That shit's what you're fighting to prevent? Damn."
"Alright, who wants to tempt fate and go outside?" Cortain suggests, "That city seems full of time-energy." 
"Maybe that's what's blocking the Chronoeider from kicking in?" Shady suggests.
"An excursion seems like a bad plan. Unless we need something out here, we should stay close to the ship, if not inside it. It is our ticket out of this foul lie the Hellstar tells itself so that it may rest easy, so getting too far leaves it vulnerable to sabotage and us to being cut off," Cyril begins, before relenting, "...But if something is blocking the Chronoeider, then there may be little choice."

"You mentioned your ex-girlfriend was worse than this," Cortain prods Shady, "Feel confident now?"
It could be inferred that if Cortain had a mouth, it would be in the shape of a shit-eating grin.
"She's got some good competition now," Shady says.

"It seems our options are down to 2: investigate, or sit here stranded," Temur sighs, "I'd prefer the one with a chance of getting back to our own time."
"Let the Adepts manage the ship," Cortain suggests.
"Aye. The ship's anti-boarding defenses will have to suffice," Cyril says, "This may be a long walk."
Inquisitor Shady grabs a chronophore and a 40oz in a brown bag, and heads outside, "Lead on, I'll follow."

The Commandos begin charting a path through the harsh desert that lays ahead of them. Temur orders his Cyber-hawk Vachir to begin scouting ahead and around, looking for unpleasant surprises.

"That city resonates with a concentration of Temporal energy," Cortain says, "Inquisitor, what is the significance of this?"
"It probably means we're not the only ones who can mess with time," Shady states.

The desert is dusty and dry under a dull brown-red sun, partially impaled with a fleshy mass and linked to the great net above. Vachir can detect numerous things amongst the desert. There are occasional outgrowths of cactus-like plants, with pink flowers. Every so often, three-limbed kangaroo-like creatures bound around, grazing on shrubs and cacti. The most dangerous of the creatures appear to be gaunt, black, hovering predators with long, thin skulls, sharp claws on lanky arms, and no legs. These creatures appear to be keeping their distance for now.

Cortain can barely keep on the path of the chronomantic energy. He observes that concentrations of chronomantic energy seems to come in waves. The significance is unknown. As the winds pick up for a bit, visibility is still clear, if a bit dusty. The readings get stronger as the Commandos approach the city. It may or may not be a relief, but the Commandos' enhanced senses begin to pick up the commotion of human civilization, the general noise of humanity. Relieved to find they have two eyes, the Commandos observe the locals going about their business from the outskirts. Something's missing, though.

There is no sign of the Imperial Aquila.

"Keep all guns up," Cortain suggests, "These are either uneducated heathens, or heretics. We might need to commit mass homicide either way."
"These folk may favor subtler devotions," Cyril adds, though agreeing fully with Cortain.
"I'm guessing the heretic one," Inquisitor Shady suggests, "This time is a mess."

In this initial area of the city, the Outskirts, the Commandos can see a couple of stalls set up, selling strange unknown herbs and plants, as well as simple gear like fabrics and carvings. As time goes on, they are beginning to gather attention, as the people in their desert robes begin to stare and comment, before moving on with their lives. Finding the language is Low Gothic with a horrific accent, the Commandos spread out to recon the area, what they believe to be a feudal world. Taking a look at the carvings, they appear to be of three main subjects - the people, the local wildlife, and great winged solar disks. It seems they're for personal or entertainment use. The person at the stall stares the Commandos - he has no idea what to make of them. All around, there is a small ruckus.

"Who are they?"
"What are those things?"
"So huge."
"Never seen them around before. Not from around here."

Cortain tries to make the best of things, and hauls out some copies he has of the Commando Ledger. Even if they don't recognize Spess Mareens, they'll recognize newspapers, or so he hopes.
Temur intones his comm, "I think it is safe to assume that at least in this era there is no Imperial presence here, we should continue tracking the trail."
Cyril puts on his helmet as he hears Temur's voice in vox, causing numerous local women clouding around him to disperse, "I concur. I wish to purchase something first, but am unsure what to offer in exchange. Astartes weaponry would be unfitting to grant mortals, but I have little else to offer."
"You buyin' anything?" the stallkeeper finally asks. He seems quite concerned, as the Commandos are huge and he is manlet, even for a human. In fact, all the people around here seem short and malnourished.

Reviewing the markets, the area seems to rely heavily on barter. The Commandos, eager for souveniers, try to find something worth trading away. 

"We can also give some spent bolt casings," Cyril suggests, "Fire at me, I can withstand the pain."
"I also seriously need something to humble me from my ego," Cortain says to himself.
"I would rather not spook the locals with weapons fire," Temur suggests, "Perhaps some bone and metal carvings?"
"My thanks, Temur, that is a fine idea," Cyril affirms, "Aside from the attention it might draw, the last time I shot a Techmarine because he could take it I made Jamal cry."

Cyril fishes out some human bones and Hormagaunt scythes carved with Nixarterian and Gothic text and iconography. 
"Would these do in exchange?" Cyril asks.
Brynjol unhooks a scrimshawed bone charm from his belt, kneeling before the human and holding it up.
"What would you be willing to tell us for this?" Brynjol asks, "I carved this from the jawbone of the first wolf to attack me on the path to Asaheim."
The shopkeeper examines the bone charm, unknowing of its significance, gesturing to a number of small carved pieces of people and winged sun disks.
"I will trade for any of these," he states grudgingly, "Food would be better, the soil has been poor lately, but trinkets for trinkets is fine."

Brynjol examines the trinkets carefully. Humans in various poses and activities. Local wildlife. Those winged solar disks. On Cortain's suggestion, he pockets some Solar Disk Eikons.

Cyril checks his pouches, finding some scraps of grox jerky he'd been saving for Notomok and a half-eaten nutribar. "Do you like jerky? I will have these two." 
Cyril indicates a carving of wildlife and a multitheme textile. The shopkeep of the art stall nods, accepting the jerky. His nearby partner, an old woman, passes over the desired textile.
"Keep safe, traveller, may you avoid the attention of the eyes," the old woman nods.
"That's not weird or nothin'" Shady shrugs, "I'm gonna investigate around. I'll keep on vox."
Cyril signs the Aquila in response as he bundles his purchases into his belt, leaving the carved bones and chitin on the table. "And may you avoid their gaze also."
"Perhaps we should go deeper into the city," Cortain suggests, "Perhaps they have a Librarium of sorts to peruse."

However, the Commandos pause as they hear the a mechanical buzzing sound. Ducking down and intoning their autosenses, the Commandos see something they really would have preferred not to. Although, it does make logical sense - after 800,000 years, what alien race would be the most unchanged?

Cyril identifies the Canoptek Acanthrites floating idly above. They do not see the Commandos, and are on their own patrol. None of the locals seem to give a shit, incidentally. One guard nearby looks up absentmindedly, before returning to his patrol.

"Necrons are commonplace, apparently," Cyril muses, "Interesting."
"I would doubt that the horrors of the Hellstar could possibly find any purchase in a programmed Necron mind," Cortain hypothesizes, "Much less a construct's."
"The populace's apparent sanity is unusual as well," Cyril adds.
"Perhaps their sanity is being scared senseless," Cortain correctly observes, "They become inured to the terrors, the new normal."

The Commandos make their way deeper into the city, passing by sandstone alleys, low walls, and crowds of people. They ultimately come to a large, open courtyard. Within the courtyard, fountains and desert plants grow amongst ordered sandstone columns. Great statues of Solar Disks and hourglasses are ordered about. Vachir, in its patrols, picks up multiple zones of the city. There's a large building, this one metallic, as well as great collections of sandstone dwellings, an irrigated farmland, and wide, low buildings. The metallic building is the tallest building around, an honor usually reserved for Imperial Cathedrals. However, the Commandos all hear something suddenly. A great thronging. 

Brynjol, Temur, and Cortain note the guards reach into their pockets, pulling out some odd sort of dark grey crystal. Reminds them of salt. They take a nibble and put it back in their bag. Finally, the Commandos all see, out of the tall structure, a great blue wave. Cortain's, auspex is picking up MASSIVE amounts of chronomantic energy in a surge.

"This is it...!" Cortain voxes Shady. "Shady, get over here! I found our disruption! This structure is...some temporal beacon!"

The wave approaches, going faster and faster, outward from the building. It soaks over the Commandos, their visions going white for a moment, before it returns to normal. Sort of. Something feels...off.

The Commandos look around, noting everything seems much larger. Cortain is first to look down, and to his horror, finds himself, well, young again, before he began the Spess Mareen initiation rites. Worst of all, he is fully flesh. EVERYONE is younger, and their gear and cybernetics...gone. Cortain yells from his organic mouth, his voice much higher pitched, the voice of youth. Dressed in the simple robes of their homeworlds, the Commandos begin to comprehend the real shitstorm they've found themselves in. Looking around at the locals, however, the Commandos find they are not the only ones who have been affected. They were surrounded by people. They are still there, but different. One old man is now middle-aged. A young girl is now an old woman. Something very, VERY terrible seems to have happened. Only the guards remain stable. Cyril feels the barkcloth tunic and fur cloak in place of his armour, and trembles with fury, while Cortain struggles to find any sign of his augmentics. Brynjol is intrigued, while Temur merely stands there, trying to will it all away.

"Oh man..." an incredibly old crinkly man walks up to the Commandos, wheezing all the way, "This is some GROXshit I tell you what."
Wizened and bearded, Inquisitor Shady struggles to lean on a stick he found, his geriatric back barely holding on.
"Chto za huy?!?!!" Cyril gurgles, "What the groxfucking bloosoaked Warp - we have reverted, while mortals in the area have aged or reverted inconsistently, and MY SWORD IS GONE."
"I feel naked," Cortain says, curling up, "I feel so very exposed."
"Arrrrhhh. One heart," Brynjol laughs, "Feels weird."
"Inquisitor, considering the vast majority of our combat advantage just vanished, I suggest you help us figure out a way out of this mess," Temur demands.
"You think I like being old?" he gasps, "Trust me, it's first on my list..."

One weird thing the Commandos note - the little carvings and textiles they bought? They still have those. Looking around for any remaining advantages, Cyril picks up Notomok, downgraded to a fluffy babby yeti, while Cortain immediately scrambles to protect what was once a mighty Thanatar, now a two-slot toaster.

Well, this is certainly awkward.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7llHyaGaUpo

The last vestiges of the blue Wave begin to dissipate, chronomantic energy scattering about. Most of the locals treat it like ain't no big thang, continuing to walk about, pausing, then walking further with less drive and direction. A popping noise distracts the Commandos, as they turn to a series of bright bursts about a dozen meters ahead. In a blinding green flash, a...Zoanthrope materializes. It is bleeding profusely, and floats around screeching until it falls dead.

"Oh, come on Shady, you'd better have a plan in line...!" Panic is now in the normally emotionally...consistent Iron Praetor's voice.
"Yep..." wheezes the venerably-aged inquisitor as he stares at the gathering crowd and raising his brown bag, "I got a plan. I'm gonna see if rotgut ages as well as fine wine does."

Cortain, now reduced to a mere kid in the robes of the Forges of Firestorm, scrambles for his push-cart Abeyant and toaster Thanatar, while Brynjol stares in bemusement, dressed in naught but a Fenrisian bearskin loincloth. His skin is so pale it is almost translucent. Cyril pats himself down, finding the familiar pelts and barkcloth he wore so long ago on Nixarteria. Considering himself lucky he did not become an amorphous blob due to the way Blood Angels geneseed normally works, he squints at the light. It's less harsh than it should be. Temur adjusts the thick Chogorian hide-wrappings, feeling quite hot and bundled up.

As the aged Inquisitor takes a seat with his 40, and the Commandos hear the buzzing of Canoptek Acanthrites approaching the scene, there's enough time to take in the area. They are currently in a large courtyard, filled with carved sandstone pillars of a simple quality. In the center of the city, there is the large black and silver building, the tallest, which had this been an Imperial standard organization, probably a cathedral. They can also see a wide, heavy building with bars on its windows. There are pathways to assorted small Hab Buildings, a way to the shops they were just in out back, and an expanse out to the back of town, where they can smell fresh fruit on the wind.

"I feel naked. I don't like this." He hears the buzzing. "And I like that even less. We don't even have guns!"
"What the he- HEY!" Brynjol interrupts, rummaging around in his mouth with one finger, then a big smile breaks out, "My tooth grew back! My favourite gnawing tooth!"
"Stay alert and cautious. We will need to survive if we are to retrieve our guns and armour from the timestream..." Cyril fumbles his words out over a smaller tongue than he has been accustomed to in centuries, "And escape. That is important also."

Cortain and Cyril can barely make out the paths that are rapidly beginning to close as the Acanthrites head to the Zoanthrope.  Brynjol can see a number of clear routes about, and has already entered a stance to rush through.

"Perhaps we should blend in until we know who those Acanthrites serve," Cyril suggests, "Let us duck into the Centrum for the moment."

Babbymok resembles a stuffed animal, with nub-horns instead of fuckhueg antlers, downy white fluff all over, and no armour plates bolted. It on follows diligently as the Commandos break through the crowd, taking defensive positions with the Abeya-Cart and Thanatoaster in the center. They leave the Inquisitor and the ensuing mess, to see the Centrum. The first thing that catches their eye are a couple of people in their robes chanting prayers. It's...not a language the Commandos are familiar with, but the altars they bow to all feature winged solar disks, similar to the one that Brynjol bought earlier.

The Commandos find a large arched door, of metallic polished sheen, at what could be the front of the building. The door is slathered with more solar iconography, but ringed with beetles carved into the door. Cyril compares the beetles to Necron iconography, muttering a curse at the absence of his Memorance Implant. 

"Shady?" Brynjol begins, before facepalming, "Oh, right. We left him on the street, drinking like a fething degenerate."

Cyril takes a look at the beetles. At first, he can determine no easy markings. But then as he grab the handle, it hits him. Those DO look kind of like Scarabs.

"Cortain, do you recall whether the instruments indicated we were still in Tiji?" Cyril asks, "The local Necron Dynasty may be one we have encountered before."
Cortain, however, cannot recall any such information. Cyril nudges the door open enough to slip inside, holding it for his brothers. Stepping into the Centrum, it's clear this place has some sort of importance. They can see a carved Solar Disk in the center of the building, and small meditative alcoves where local hardy herbs and plants grow.  They seem to be a type of thick desert grass, green with yellow bands down the long end of each leaf, growing directly in the sand. 

A small layer of incense flows across the floor, as a robed man, evidently a cleric of some kind, walks past. He stops, and slowly approaches. Brynjol drops instinctively into a sort of half-crouch. 

"Welcome, Children," he nods, "Have you suffered damage from deharmonization?"
"What's it to you?" Brynjol asks, guarded.
"N-no damage. We are just disoriented, Cha- er, sir," Cyril replies, figuring out a cover story.
"We administer to all who suffer, so that they might be made whole," the robed man nods, grabbing a pitcher of liquid and pouring some out for you, "Disorientation is natural, Child. Please, drink."

Cyril takes the offered drink and sips it after an experimental sniff. it doesn't seem to smell wrong, although, it tastes kind of bitter, like water with some sort of extract. It is refreshing, though. Brynjol can definitely smell some sort of bitter fruit mixed in the drink, and so deigns not to drink.

"Thus is the covenant made between Man and the Transforming Strength," the cleric states, as he take's Cyril's cup when complete, "We submit our bodies and our minds to Him, and in return we are forever renewed by the Wave."
Cyril blinks slowly and mutters, "Khepri."
"Those scarabs weren't just for show," Brynjol notes.
Cyril bows and signs the Aquila. "Thank you. We will be off now."
"He rules through his Heirarch," the man says calmly, walking off into the Centrum, "Return to your homes and recuperate. To be deharmonized is harrowing - your duties can wait until you are restored."

Brynjol waits until the Cleric is out of sight before gently cuffing Cyril across the head.
"You think we still have our preomnors?" he whispers, annoyed, "Why are you drinking strange fluids offered to you by a priest? Didn't your chapter master teach you anything?"
"My Chapter Master was busy," Cyril retorts, "My sergeants tended to focus on killing over defense; preomnors can handle most things. Better to just drink it than to risk discovery, if these people's allegiance is to the Transforming Strength."
Brynjol raises one black eyebrow
"Also, I was thirsty."

"Better to drink it than to risk discovery?" Brynjol scoffs, "Really? Not one backwards step, Cyril."
"It smelled of nothing more than fruit," Cyril insists, "All the same, I would prefer to resolve this issue sooner rather than later in case it contained anything that may affect me."

Babbymok has begun to gnaw on one of the plant stalks in the alcoves. Cyril clicks his tongue, calling the Yeti to his side and peeking out the door. The Commandos can see one or two rather ragged people stepping forward through the door. They are quite disoriented, and pass the Commandos by wordlessly. They finally stop by the Solar Disk, evidently for a cleric. A thrumming noise soon begins to overtake all, as some Canoptek Wraiths begin slithering out of a sandstone building, towards the Centrum.

"Wraiths inbound, coming towards this building," Cyril says, searching for a place to hide.
"I mean... I don't know if there's anything we can do," Brynjol suggests, "They'll tear us apart like this."
Cyril identifies some concealed alcoves, overgrown with sand herbs.
"We can avoid them," he notes, "Human children should be beneath their notice. Just stand at an alcove and listen."

The Wraith's float forward, through the doors. One floats on forward, but the other pauses to look at the Commandos. Its purely mechanized head stops to stare a moment. They do their best to remain nonthreatening, and after a few tense seconds, the Wraith continues on its way, rejoining the other and phasing through the statue and nearby wall.

"Guys, you know how they say 'And they shall know no fear'?" Brynjol asks, "Can we add 'or nostalgia' to that? I'm rapidly disillusioned with being tiny. I want to be huge again."
Cyril mutters something about Red Scorpions not appreciating stealth and regroups in a team huddle. "The Wraiths are here, but they will be difficult to shadow through walls, and one already took note of us. I suggest we investigate elsewhere."
"It is best not to attract undue attention until we can remedy our situation," Temur suggests.
"I agree with the Scar," Brynjol sighs, "I want to be huge again." He flexes his fingers sadly, remembering the mighty sausages that once were.
"We all wish to be restored to normal," Cyril offers, "I, for one, want my new leg back. But we must find a way to do that. Some sort of reharmonization."
"We need to figure out a pattern to those time-waves," Cortain offers, a simple enough suggestion.
"Difficult without instruments," Cyril replies, "Perhaps we should check on Shady and then the wide building."

"Shady!" Cortain, yells, "How bad's your hearing?"
A number of people outside the Centrum stare at Cortain yelling. They find him odd. 
"Well, some folk heard you," Cyril says calmly, "I suspect Shady is too inebriated by now even if his hearing is not deteriorated."
"Dammit. Well, I tried," Cortain shrugs.
"Child, return to your home," one says, "The Transforming Strength has punished you with that form for your transgressions, learn from them and be restored."
"Transforming...?" Cortain says, the issue now confirmed, "Oh, by the Emperor..."
"Yes. Khepri is these people's Lord, apparently," Cyril reminds him, "One of many reasons this future must never come to pass."

Returning to the open courtyard, Shady is nowhere to be found, but neither is the dead Zoanthrope. Continuing on to the barred building, the Commandos can identify it as some sort of prison, sturdily built in local style. As the eyes in the sky grow and recede, they have finally found Shady at least. He's successfully determined if beer can age, at least, as he sits at a bench heckling some people in stocks, who have evidently performed minor crimes.

"Oh, you're back," the aged Inquisitor says, "Did you find anything? Better yet, have you seen any places that sell medicae? My back is killing me..."
"Necrons running the place count?" Cortain asks.
"Khepri, specifically," Cyril clarifies.
"The prize winning question has to be: What's the connection between the Hellstar and the Necrons?" Brynjol asks, "After all... just look at the stars. The Hellstar clearly had something to do with this. But the Necrons?"
"I suspect the Transforming Strength merely endured," Cyril correctly surmises.
"Against a force that has literally linked every star in the galaxy?" Brynjol asks in disbelief, "No."
"Necrons have no minds to break," Cortain considers, "Most likely, the Hellstar can't even sense the Necrons."
"I do even not see why the Hellstar would have any interest in eradicating them," Cyril concludes, "It needed only to outlast its rivals."
"I don't know, but from what you've said, it makes sense," Shady coughs, "But you said Khepri? Then there are multiple fukken xenos around."
"Multiple xenos?" Cyril halts, "Shady, you found evidence of others?"
"I heard that there were signs of Necron in the Hab Blocks," he gurgles, "And given how a few canoptek constructs were apparently dispatched, it's now clear to me that Khepri has competition."
Shady leans back, kicking up his boots.
"I mean, that's what these idiots are in for," Shady's twitching hand points, "Obstructing the Eternal Will of the Transforming Whatever."

"That pretty much confirms that they're a bunch of heathens..." Cortain declares, "For whatever good that does for us with only a cart, a fluffy yeti, and a toaster."
"And I can't even find an Electoo outlet," the old Inquisitor laments.
"We still have our fists, but open conflict is probably a poor idea without our armour and implants," Cyril says, "We need information if we are to reharmonize and rescue our wargear."
"Well, way I see it, anything that's got Khepri bothered is a good thing," Shady takes a swig, "It's a possible angle, at least."
"The enemy of my enemy is the enemy of my enemy, and thus a potential weapon," Cyril nods agreement. 
Brynjol counts the negatives for a moment.
"You could have excluded at least two enemies from that, and it'd still work," he says.
"Yeah," Shady nods, "Enemies working against each other for the good of Mankind, I can deal. Just keep your head low if it's dangerous. if you guys die, I'm stuck here."

Truly, the Inquisitor has his priorities in order.

Shady takes a swig from his 40 and leans back, grumbling about back pains.
"It would seem that the Hab Blocks are our next destination, if we are to learn more," Cyril considers.
"Aye," Brynjol agrees, "Let's give it a looksee."
"I suppose that will be easier with mortal eyes," Cyril admits, "I am not used to shadows looking so... dark."

The wind blows through the sprawling sandstone expanse as the Commandos navigate the alleys and passages. Crystalline golden octahedrons drift lazily through the sky, as they traverse the sun and shade. Finally, they reach the alleys and alcoves of the Hab Blocks. Shady was right - a number of canoptek constructs are patrolling about.

"This feels alien," Brynjol mutters, "Humanity subjugated."
"It's all been alien," Cyril reminds him, "It's 800,000 years in the future, we've been accidentally retconned out of existence by Inquisitor Genius, and now Necrons are patrolling everything."
"Canoptek constructions, no less," Cyril adds, "Not even proper Necrons."

Cortain and Brynjol note that while the Adults and Elders are going about their business under the watchful canoptek constructs and eyes in the sky, amongst the shadows there are other Children darting about. Curiously, they're all heading the same direction. Cortain taps Cyril's shoulder and points in their direction. It's a good enough lead to follow.

"Hm," Cyril considers, "This is... familiar. I think we should follow them."

In the sand, the Commandos can barely see tracks as they rush about. Anyone can give Tracking a go at +20, since the sand keeps tracks well. Fluffamok can see the tracks, clear as day, and the rest of the Commandos follow carefully. Weaving through the alleys, they follow the tracks, which get more pronounced over time. As they turn one corner, however, they hear a girl's scream. Running further down, they see a set of Canoptek Scarabs facing down a young boy and girl. One Scarab nips the boy, causing him to disappear in a bright green flash of light. The four Scarabs, however, see the Commandos, and begin scuttling closer.

It's time for initiative, and the Commandos look down, hoping their fists (and the Thanatoaster wielded as a simple flail) is enough.

Brynjol immediately charges a Scarab, landing a solid punch. Temur too rushes forward to distract another scarab, a swift kick denting it somewhat. Cortain and Cyril opt to join Brynjol, for both ganking bonuses and because Brynjol is by far the most dangerous in melee, even without implants and armor. Cyril flanks a scarab, kicking it forward to Cortain, who swings the Thanatoaster by the plug like a flail, crushing the Scarab. 
Cortain praises Mars that the cable is stronk enough to withstand the abuse.

>Note: Temur steps away from the episode at this point for a little bit.

The three remaining scarabs counter-attack, nipping at the Commandos. However, they are deft enough to remember their training, and work to dodge around energized pincers, though with FAR more effort than before. Brynjol continues to kung fu through another Scarab, as Cortain and Cyril pummel another Scarab down. 

"Useless creatures!" Brynjol yells.

Weathering another storm of pincers, Brynjol uppercuts a scarab and stomps it down, while Cyril moves to punch the final scarab. He trips, however, unfamiliar with his tiny meat-leges, leaving it to Cortain to swing Thanatoaster around and finish the final Scarab.

Cyril takes a moment to kick the dust where the scarab was. "I really need my guns back... Are you okay?" he asks as he turns to the girl.
The girl peeks around the alley, "I'm fine...thank you for saving me."
"They're gone now," Cortain asks, "Can you tell us where you're headed?"
"There isn't much for us to do," she says, "We can only pray and wait for the next Wave. But there is one who knows a lot, and we listen to his words. He speaks of strange times, before the Eternal Transforming Strength. It's hard to understand, but they are fun to hear."
"Where is he?" Cyril asks.
"Who is he?" Cortain continues.
"Who are you?" Brynjol demands, staring at the girl, "Or who were you, before the wave took you?"
"Who am I?" she asks, "I'm me. You saved me, so I'll take you to him."
"Um...we asked you for your name," Cortain clarifies.
She stares at him, "...what's a name?"

Cortain is not in the mood or in the proper fleshmindset to begin explaining names.

"A designation of an individual. For example, I am called Cyril," Cyril attempts to salvage things.
The girl begins to lead the Commandos through the alleys, "I...guess I don't have one. The Wave takes our memories, and the Heirarch dictates our jobs for the Transforming Strength.  We don't really need 'names' in that case."
"I will call you Mathilda, then. Lead on," Cyril requests, "What happened to the boy the Scarabs hit?" 
"He's probably dead," Cortain suggests.
I doubt it, Cortain, given what the clerics said about the Transforming Strength's punishments," Cyril disagrees.
"He'll be back," she whispers, "With the next Wave. It will be painful, and he'll remember nothing, even less than what the Wave normally takes. It will be up to the Clerics then. But why do you ask? All know of the Wave."
"We wish to know more than the librariums provide," Cortain interjects. 
The girl the Commandos have apparently dubbed Mathilda leads them to a small out of the way hovel in an alley of the Hab District. Smoke flows from a primitive stone-hewn stove, and the sound of laughter echoes from within.

Walking in, the flame of the oven casts shadows over everything. There are numerous of the Children around, as well as, to the Commandos, an unbelievably imposing tall Necron Phaeron.
"WHY HELLO THERE, TI~NY ENFLE..."
The Phaeron pauses.
"COMMANDOS?" it yells, "AH~, IS IT NOT THE REPUBLICAN COMMANDOS?"
"Hello, Ramsestron," Cyril says, "It is surprisingly good to see you."
"I don't think I'm gladder to know any nuisance besides you," Cortain admits.
Brynjol merely crosses his arms and sits down.
Ramsestron leans down.
"In the flesh," Cyril declares.
"And only flesh," Cortain shivers.
"BUT YOU'RE SO...T~IIIIIIIIIINY!" Ramsestron's bones rattle.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d13DV0gMDXE

"Blame Khepri and his weird time-devices," Cortain says.
"I assume his damnable bearded Cryptek is involved," Cyril says.
"HONORED ALLIES OF MY DY~NASTY," Ramsestron states, "INDEED, IT HAS BEEN SO~ LONG!"
"We wouldn't be here if it weren't for this one Inquisitor," Cortain states, "Emperor forgive me for asking this, but please tell us you can help."
"This is a timeline that should not be..." Cyril adds, "A universe in which our disappearance left the Hellstar unchecked."
"IT IS INDEED TRU~LY BIZARRE," Ramsestron states, "HOW YOU WOULD RE~APPEAR AFTER SO LONG AFTER THE RENDING OF THE SKY, AND THE UNION OF THE PHASES."
"What happened?" Cortain asks.
"IT WAS SO~ LONG AGO," Ramsestron muses, "YOU MA~Y WANT TO HAVE A SEAT."
Cortain sits on the Cart, while Brynjol squats. Cyril leans out on his elbows, treating Babbymok as a soft pillow.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HoEInpNAFVc

"I REMEMBER, WHEN TIME STILL FLOWED, AND THE SKY HAD NOT YET GROWN EYES," Ramsestron states, "THE HELLSTAR TRAVELLED, IT~ SOUGHT SOMETHING."
"It wasn't Rose, so then...the Star Bomb?" Cortain asks.
"Hush, brother," Cyril suggests, "Listen to the story."
"IT CONSUMED WORLDS, THE~N TURNED ITS EYE ON SPECIFIC WORLDS, GAS GIANTS," Ramsestron continues, "EVENTUALLY, YOU COMMANDOS STOPPED APPEARING, AND DEEP WITHIN THE CORE OF A GAS GIANT, IT FOU~ND WHAT IT WAS LOOKING FOR."
The Commandos regard each other - a useful bit of information.
"It desires something in a gas giant, then," Cyril notes, "We can use that information to prevent its expansion from occurring."
"IT CONSUMED, AND COLL~APSED ON ITSELF," Ramsestron says, "FROM THERE, IT INVERTED, EVER~EXPANDING. A~LL THAT WAS IT, WAS NOW US."
The fire snaps in the cool shadow of the hovel.
"THOSE WITH MINDS CLAWED THEIR EYES, TO REMOVE THE INSIGHT THEY NOW ACQUIRED," Ramsestron  "SOME OF US, UNCHANGING AND ETERNAL, FARED MU~CH BETTER THAN OTHERS."
Cortain and Cyril nod at Brynjol.
"THERE ARE N~O EMPIRES AMONGST THE STARS," Ramsestron concludes, "THERE IS ONLY SCRA~PS TO FIGHT OVER, AS THE BEING YOU CALL HELLSTAR POUR~ED ITSELF ACROSS SPACE AND TIME."
Cortain concludes that this is still all Shady's fault.
Ramsestron bows, "THI~S WORLD IS THE DOMAIN OF KHEPRI, THE TRANSFORMING STRENGTH, WHO HERDS YOUR PEOPLE LIKE SHEEP, IN A MOCKERY OF THE C~OURTS OF OLD. I AM MERELY A TRAVELLER AT THI~S STAGE."

"Don't you remember what they said? The High Lords?" Cortain says, "I remember them mentioning the Star Bomb, which they got set back on when they found Invictus."
"My memorance implant is not online, and I was rather distracted by their awesome fleet, and their ship's decor..." Cyril muses, "Of course! Their secret weapon! Perhaps the key to the Hellstar's destruction - of course it would desire to destroy such a thing!"
"I TOO RECALL THIS," Ramsestron states, waving it away, "AND YET, THE MEMORY IS SO DISTANT. A GREAT STAR WAS DETONATED, BUT THEIR WEAPON, IT WAS INCOMPLETE, AND IT FAI~LED TO HALT THE CREATURE."
The Commandos sit back.
"BORNE OF YOUR RACES ATTEMPTS AT SCIENCE," Ramsestron explains, "IT COULD NOT BE READIED BEFORE THE CREATURE FOUND WHAT IT DESIRED...A WAY TO ITS OWN DIMENSION, TO BRING ITS I~NSIGHT FORWARD."
"I..." Cortain chokes, the final reality of the terrible future sinking in, "It's all gone then. They're all gone."
"NO," Cyril yells, "Only if we accept their reality is our Imperium gone."
"FROM THIS GREAT RENDING, IT FLOWED OUT," Ramsestron lowers his head, "IN YO~UR WORDS, ALL THAT YOU SEE IS NO~W...HELLSTAR."
The Commandos feel a terrible weight in the pits of their stomachs - it must be a human thing.
"IF YOU DO NO~T MIND ME ASKING," Ramsestron says, "WHA~T CAUSED YOUR RETURN?"
"We haven't returned," Brynjol states, "This is time travel."
"The Ordo Chronos Inquisitor brought us too far to the future," Cortain adds.
"THEN YOU BEAR THE SAME ABILITY OF KHEPRI AND HIS HERALD AMON-RAKH," Ramsestron says, "I BELIE~VE YOU CAN STILL SET THINGS RIGHT."
"And we shall. But we must find a way to return to our time, preferably after restoring our bodies and wargear," Cyril reaffirms, "If we are fortunate, we will also get to claim Amon-rakh's head for his crimes."
"TIME DOES NO~T USUALLY LOSE ITS CONSISTENCY," Ramsestron shakes his head, "YOU SHOU~LD HAVE BEEN THERE IF YOU TRA~VELLED BACK, UNLESS...YOU WERE INTERRUPTED IN TRANSIT?"
Cyril slams his forehead into the ground. "Damn it, Shady..."
"Yeah. The Hellstar itself attacked," Cortain nods.
"It burned for its trouble, but the damage was done," Cyril sighs, "The ship is damaged, but not too much to slip by the tendrils while our past selves distract it."
"THEN YOU MUST ENDEA~VOR TO RETURN," Ramsestron says, "TO YOUR TIME, AND SET THINGS RI~GHT. REGRETTABLY, I CANNO~T FIX YOUR CHRONAL DISTORTION, ONLY AMON-RAKH'S WAVES CAN DO THAT. BUT I CA~N TELL YOU WHERE TO FIND AMON-RAKH."

"SPLENDID!" Cyril yells.
"Let's cream the sucker," Brynjol states, "But where is our wargear? I used to have such big arms."
"I don't think that the toaster can kill Necrons," Cortain says, 
"SEE~K HIS MONASTERY ACROSS THE DESERT," Ramsestron says, "AND YOU WILL FIND THE SOURCE OF THE WAVE. YOUR WARGEAR STILL EXISTS AMONGST THE WAVE - FIND THE WAVE, FIND YOUR EQUIPMENT...AND YOUR BODIES."
"Thank you, honoured Phaeron," Cyril says, to Brynjol's disapproving snort.
"Yes, thanks, Ramsestron," Cortain admits.
"I CANNO~T SAY WHEN A WAVE WILL OCCUR," Ramsestron says, "BUT DO YOUR PEOPLE NOT HAVE A SAYING? HAVE 'FAITH?' GOO~D LUCK IN YOUR SEARCH. IF YOU TRULY RETURN TO THE PAST, THEN THERE IS STI~LL TIME TO FIND BARCAROLLE..."

As Ramsestron returns to his stories, the girl the Commandos saved, Mathilda, steps up.
Cortain gets the cart ready. "Thank you for everything, Mathilda. I promise, we'll find a way to get at least something right."
"If you're heading into the desert, you should find a Tripodon, the Great Desert is harsh, we dare not go there," she says, "A good Tripodon should carry you quickly. I saw many in the Farmlands."
"Would they be in the market?" Cortain asks.
"They do not allow us Children near them normally," she says, "The Elders usually keep close eye on them."
The Commandos decide that a stealthy approach may be for the best.
"Please be careful, though!" she says, "The Guards are very unforgiving."
"We understand," Cyril nods, "We will not let them catch us."
Cortain taps Cyril. "Think you can do this?"
"I am a passable driver at best - but beasts?" Cyril boasts, "Beasts I can handle."

The Farmlands of the expansive city stretch out before the Commandos, after a short walk through the city. Strange trees with oddly coloured fruits sway in the reddish-yellow light. People go about with simple tools of iron, tending the grounds. There are guards in light armor patrolling every so often in pairs. 

Cyril sniffs a fruit, comparing it to the drink he imbibed in the chapel. The purplish-pink fruit seems to have a hard outer covering, and a bitter aroma. He returns to the others before anyone notices him by the tree.

"Don't eat the fruit, Cyril," Brynjol advises, "I don't trust anything here, not when it's got khepri-taint all over it."
"It could also be poisonous to our non-immunized biologies," Cortain points out.
"I ate none. I wished to check if it was the stuff I drank earlier, that we might analyze it later," Cyril insists, "Amon'rakh is a higher priority. I look forward to seeing that bearded ruststain again..."

The Commandos take a moment to review the guard patrols. Each guard grouping is a pair. They march back and forth, past the fields and animal pens. Cortain can identify at least five groups in the immediate facility - two groups are heading out, two groups are coming in, and one group is standing by the animal pens, where a set of saddled three-limbed creatures bray and call. They are much larger than the Commandos in their current form, resembling a cross between common terran horses and kangaroos. They appear to be grazing on some desert cactus. They don't appear aggressive.

"Distractions," Cortain muses, "We need distractions."
"Only if we start something here," Cyril points out, "We should be able to move past to our enemy without trouble - these people see only children."
"Three legs. Nothing has three legs," Brynjol mutters, "It's... wrong."

Three legs and saddles. Cyril determines it's quite reasonable that those were the Tripodons Mathilda spoke of. Given how it appears to be a draft or riding animal, all the standard methods of driving one should be the same.

"The galaxy is a big place, Brynjol," Cyril shakes his head, "Many beasts have three legs, even in our time. Even if they unsettle you, those Tripodons may prove an asset. I did not tame Notomok without knowing how to command beasts. They will move us faster than these stunted legs."

The Commandos identify a set of roads that lead out into the desert, a set that leads back into town, and a set that leads into the Farmlands proper. Palm-like trees line the roads, as the heat beats down.

"If we can requisition a cart, by guile or by speed, then it can get us to Amon-Rahk's compound for reharmonization and reckoning," Cyril states, "We could walk, of course, but speed might outweigh subtlety."
Cortain stops him, however - it is bad enough to be stuck in mere mortal form that they will never survive the desert in, but he vaguely remembers those black skeletal creatures that Temur's cyber-hawk saw. They avoided the Commandos when they were huge, but now, well, they lack that advantage, let's say.

There are a few tripodons barded up already, watched over by a pair of guards. The rest of the guards are marching about, ensuring the locals are doing work.

"I will distract them," Brynjol declares, "I just need...a costume..."
He looks down at his loincloth. Perfect.
"Perhaps a wolf mask and furred suit?" Cyril says dryly.
Brynjol waves him off, "Even prepubescent, I will beat the taste out of your mouth."

So begins the Commandos' master plan. Brynjol sprints past the guards, windmilling his arms and hooting excitedly, in an attempt to mimic a feral child returned from the desert wastes. He may be unaware that the concept of feral children have not existed for 800,000 years, but this works to his advantage, as the guards have no idea what the fuck he is doing.  The guards stare at each other - if the concept of payment still existed as well, they would lament they were not paid enough. 

"WHO AM YOU?" Brynjol hurrs.
The pair watching the tripodons begin to chase after Brynjol, thinking him some reharmonized nutcase.
"You there, Child, you have been deharmonized," one guard says, "Return to the Centrum, the Clerics will tend to you."
Brynjol makes a noise like SKREEONK and skedaddles off, making sure to let the guards stay fairly close. 
"NO HARMONY," he durrs.

Cyril ninjas his way into the Tripodon pens. He can see a simple wooden gate latch. There are a pair of leather-barded tripodons and an unbarded one. He selects the unbarded one, which bears only some ropes and a textile covering. Cyril coos softly to the creatures, extending his hands for them to sniff and get used to his scent. The beast hops around a bit, but Cyril can get a handle on it. The guards are looking increasingly hostile at Brynjol, currently. Cyril finally does a birdhoot in Space Wolf chapter ciphers, stating that it is time to board transports.

The guards hear the vaguely-wolflike hoot, looking back, then back at Brynjol. They look angry, and draw some sort of shock maul. Cortain can see Cyril howling and Brynjol dancing about.
"OOK. No am hurt Bryn! Bryn good child," Brynjol durfs.
Cortain grabs Bryn out of the way.
"Time to go, brother!" he yells, "These nice men won't give you candy!"

Cyril opens the gates, grabs the reins, and runs out to his brothers with the tripodons. Concerningly, the barded tripodons are spooked and rush out. The guards begin to advance, but Cyril pulls up nearby. The ropes are huge, and the Commandos realize that the tripodon will only fit two. Cortain and Cyril hop on the Tripodon, while Brynjol leaps into the Abeyacart.

"All aboard!" Cyril yells, as he gives the signal.

Grabbing the reigns, Brynjol rides the Abeyacart like a Tripodon-drawn chariot.  With Cortain riding bitch and Cyril blazing a path, they are off, into the desert.

"DASVEDANYA!" Cyril waves, leaving the guards in the dust, as the Commandos are off into the dusty desert road.
"NEXT STOP: CRYPTEK TRASHCANS!" Cortain declares.
"And this time I have read the Codex's section on fighting in low-visibility environments," Cyril affirms.
"They have the codex here?" Cortain asks.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FAT2XCdIsVU

The Tripodon continues for a fair bit before slowing down. The Commandos have a moment to catch themselves before they can resume. While I question the choice of going without barding, it does make for a slightly faster ride.Despite the incredible desert heat, the Commandos can still see the outlines of roads through the desert. There is little but dried shrubbery throughout the endless expanse, and the sun is beginning to beat down heavily.

Cyril sweats profusely. "This is hell. I have died and gone to hell. The Emperor is testing us."

The Commandos ride the tripodon for hours, following the path carefully. They begin to feel exhausted, and yet, there is no Night. Time doesn't seem to have much meaning here. Brynjol gains one Fatigue, and worse, he gets some sweat in his eyes. It is the most terrible of feelings. Cortain too is exhausted, but Cyril's hatred is his shield against the heat.

"WHERE IS THE BLESSED DARKNESS IN THIS BENIGHTED AGE?" Cyril yells.
"This is worse than being mauled by a kraken," Brynjol flops over the abeyacart, "At least then you get scars... to show off in the Hall."
"And it is not so cursed hot, I assume," Cyril sighs.
"My skin... my beautiful skin!" Brynjol groans, as the hot red light metamorphoses him into a terran lobster, and twice as odorous. Cyril tosses one of his furs over the him, grumbling and scritching his lapyeti, which squeaks.
"I hope I get skin cancer and die before someone sees me..." Brynjol laments.

Luckily for the Commandos, they can still barely keep the path as it ducks into some canyons. It's slightly cooler here, but still illuminated red-yellow by the light. Traversing the Canyon, Brynjol's noise echoes through, bouncing off the canyon walls. It is at this point the Commandos notice the walls are pockmarked with holes, and they hear a bizarre screech, and then thumping.

"Ah shite, what now?" Brynjol yells.

One of the floating creatures surges out of the canyon, its elongated head and empty eye sockets staring at you. It raises its claws, and...begins to glow green, a familiar green to Cyril. The same green of chronomantic energy his weapons fired.

Brynjol and Cortain are immediately out of the Tripodon and Abeyachariot, charging forward. Brynjol howls, leaping from the back of the abeyacart onto the creature, landing a solid elbow and a headbutt. The creature looks to be armored with natural plates and very tough, but something seems to barely get through, as the creature does recoil a bit. The creature tries to claww its way through, but Brynjol is skileld enough to parry and counter-attack. Cortain catches up to assist, but fails to land a hit with the Thanatoaster. Cyril too is having issue getting the tripodon to go - it is spooped and waffles about.

Brynjol finishes off the creature with an uppercut, only to see that three more of them have taken the high ground amongst the cliffs. Firing chronomantic energy at the Commandos, Cortain is hit severely hard, and it is now universally agreed that discretion is the better part of valor. 

"Tripodon, hear me. If you do not make haste, those beasts will catch you," Cyril implores, "FASTER!"
"Gronk-chirp," the Tripodon gronk-chirps.
"I just hate today...!" Cortain sighs.
"I think we need to retreat," Brynjol says.

With a good burst of speed, the Commandos can bug out easily. The problem is the Tripodon is a bit upset. Brynjol first considers intimidating it into fearing him more than them, but remembers it's an animal. It doesn't differentiate between scary things. He then considers deceiving it into thinking it's safe. He runs into the same issue - it's an animal. He finally decides on the direct approach. Charging the tripodon and falcon-punching its butt, the Tripodon bleats in terror.

"WHAT IN BLAZES ARE YOU DOING, WOLF?" Cyril yells.
"TEACHING IT THE MEANING OF FEAR!" Brynjol replies, "Cortain, get the feth on the cart!"
Brynjol takes another hit of chronomantic energy, as he and Cortain board the Tripodon and Abeyachariot. The punch, however, has aligned the Tripodon's head in the right direction.
"FORWAAAARD!" Cyril yells, passing Wrangling and rushing forward. The Tripodon understands the meaning of terror, and bolts the fuck out of there.

Breaking out of the screech-filled canyons, the Commandos open up to an absolutely bizarre sight. There is a silver-black metal cylinder, floating above what appears to be an ocean. The ocean's wave's are still, as if frozen. And yet, they can clearly hear the waves crashing against the sand. There is a series of floating platforms, of the same silver-black metal, connected by primitive rope-bridges. The bridges have a start or two on the beaches.

"This is... I remember this," Cortain states, "If we have any luck left among us, that should be where they're hiding."
Cyril growls at the xenos device.

As time goes on, and they stand on the beach, they can begin to feel themselves cook and crisp up under the dull red sun, the eyes in the sky bursting in and out of the cloudy existence. The Commandos briefly wonder if you will forever have tans. The Commandos are fixated on the fastest way to the floating cylinder, but Brynjol pauses a moment. Seeing sparkles in the sand, he kneels by a number of murex-like seashells polished to opal reflectivity. One or two even have a pearl in them. Brynjol stoops before one, picking up a shell with a pearl in it and examining it. Looks kind of shiny, a little bigger than the size of his hand. Brynjol takes the pearl, thoughtfully tucking it away before advancing to the cylinder. Cyril follows, panting in the heat, while Cortain's nerd-complexion is burned away.

The bridges sway as the Commandos step on them, and no few amount of times do they need to pause and catch balance. However, they can reach each platform ascending ever higher, until they get to a small platform with a door on it. It is emblazoned with scarabs. Recognizing the scarab ciphers, Cyril determines this is definitely the domain of Khepri. The ciphers read as the Chronofortress of Amon'Rakh, Through Whose Will Thy Subjects Gain Eternal Life, He Who Holds The Wave.

"Jackpot." Cortain grins through the heat and possible brain damage.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4EpRowYQF4

There are other writings, but they are a bit more specific than mere ciphers. Cortain touches a skull emblazoned on the door, and the door itself retracts a bit, opening in four quadrants. Brynjol is the first to walk in. The outside was a cylinder, and yet he walked into the inner ring of a donut arrangement. That...doesn't quite follow. He feels the onset of a headache, but his iron will holds strong. Cortain, however, is not so lucky, getting a headache and feeling dizzy. Within the ring, the Commandos can see the occasional human push around carts of black salt. They pay them no mind. From one side of the donut, they can hear heavy machinery. On the other, there is a series of lifts that go up and down.

Cyril pokes his head into one of the occasional doors where a human or two walks out of or in, on their own business. Seems to be a lot of simple industrial equipment. Passing a Scholastic Lore (Geology) test, it appears to be refinery equipment overall. He can see numerous salt rocks go in, and black salt crystals come out. A menial pushes a cart of them away, quite busy. Cyril ducks back out. 

"They refine the rocks to black crystal," he declares, "We will take a lift."
"Up or down?" Cortain asks.
"We shall see what options the controls have," Cyril says, "But I would not expect our prey to be content at the bottom."

Cortain and Cyril discuss amongst themselves which floor to take, as Brynjol steps forward and touches the top-most button.
Cyril slaps his forehead. "We need to get you a hat that smacks you every time you get too close to a control panel."
"I made an executive decision, Cyril," Brynjol states proudly with his best executive lobster-red face.
"And you look like a Khornate with your skin like that," Cyril taunts.
"Re: My previous comment about slapping the taste out of your mouth," Brynjol points.
"I hope you have ointments for sunburn in your medicine bag," Cyril concludes, "Oh wait."

The Elevatus carrying the Commandos, Fluffamok, Thanatoaster, and Abeyacart begins to rise. After almost a minute of rising, they are finally greeted with another scarab lined door. Taking a deep breath in case it's another mindfuck, the Commandos  open the door to an interior of a perfect black sphere. Floating in the center is an amorphous blue crystal, pulsing with light. And beneath it...

"What is this...?" Cortain asks.
"Who disturbs my...oh...I remember you," the Cryptek Amon-Rakh states, "It has been so long. You come now, though it is evident the wave has touched you."
Cortain grips his Thanatoaster in the most threatening way possible. It doesn't quite help.
"I want my claws back!" Brynjol yells.
"This...this is far too humorous. The Ancient Codes would normally demand your surrender, but...I know you. You will not surrender, and you will fight, even in your weakened form."
The Cryptek beckons, as the doors seal behind the Commandos.
"Come. As my ancient nemesis, the least I can grant you is eternal life, and freedom from your memories within the Wave."

The Commandos sieze the initiative and debate their options. They still have no weapons. But there's a fukken xenos there, and it REALLY needs to get purged. Brynjol is first into the attack, but his punches are caught within the cryptek's timesplinter cloak. Cyril and Cortain, not as fast as Brynjol, advance forward in defensive positions. While the Cryptek narrowly misses Brynjol with his staff of light, Cortain is not so lucky as chronomantic orbs land near him, damaging and fatiguing him into the criticals.

Not giving up, the Commandos prepare to attack all as one. However, they suddenly hear a groaning within the sphere. All around, tiny holes open up, and dozens of Scarabs begin swarming about.

"Republican Commandos...you have come 800,000 years to challenge me...you have chosen poorly."
Cortain gasps for breath as he witnesses the swarms. "Oh..."
"Phaeron, leave these insects to me," the Cryptek demands.
"No. You have performed your task," the all-encompassing echo states, "There is nothing left for you to do."
The Scarabs begin to swarm over Amon-Rakh, as he is lost within the pile. The crystal above begins to shudder and pulse.
"Khepri, you've finally come," Cyril says.

The sounds go silent as the scarabs organize themselves. Khepri draws a potent-looking warscythe.
"I have waited 800,000 years for this," Khepri states.
Brynjol drops into a crouch, fists bloodied, skin torn, and grins.
"Come and have a go, then!" Brynjol yells

The crystal finally releases its energy outward, however, soaking the Commandos in its radiant blue energy. The world, briefly, goes blue, and then the Commandos are back. they feel different once more. They are Old.

But old for a Space Marine...

"Ahhhh... I believe you have erred, Phaeron," Cyril taunts, "WE ARE BACK."
Notomok roars a challenge, his grey fur rippling with fury. Brynjol remains in his crouch. But this time, claws sprout from his clenched fists.
Cyril coughs. "Something is... not right. But that is a concern for later."
Cortain feels taller then everyone as his Abeyant has returned.
"Omega Rho Decima online. All systems nominal. Weapons hot. Xenos detected," Ordeci recites, "Destruction protocols engaged."

The Commandos can feel their armor, weapons, and gear back, as well as the cold feeling of new service studs, and mighty Beards of Experience beneath their helmets. Cortain is surprised and curious as to how he got a beard despite lacking a jaw. A shake confirms it's a bunch of mechadendrites.
Cyril laughs. "We got a trophy off your Cryptek after all; he has granted us his beard!"

Khepri splits off into three different forms, his normal ones, and two translucent blue ones. One blue translucent one surges forward, towards Brynjol. Surprisingly, he sees a blue outline of himself rush forward to deflect the attacks. It feels...weird.

"Come, Republican Commandos, you face Khepri, the Eternal Time Lord. I will strike you down!"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VQRqylWKaw4

Khepri, the Eternal Time Lord has consumed Amon-Rakh, and wields his chronomantic powers. With a terrifying War Scythe and a body made up of hundreds of tiny scarabs (essentially, an entity with the durability of a Horde), the Phaeron adds new chronomantic weapons to his arsenal, including attacking in past and future rounds. 

Brynjol charges, claws outstretched. While one claw is stuck in the timesplinter cloak, it is enough to burn out the cloak's shield, and the second claw shears away a bunch of scarabs. Cortain is next, ordering Ordeci to explode more scarabs with mauler bolt shots, while a well-placed Frag Grenade causes more to phase out.

>By now, Temur has returned.

Cyril rolls his shoulders, relishing the presence of his armour, and speaks as he whips his weapons out and unleashes a barrage at Khepri. "Ahh... Machine spirits, it is good to have you back."

Beginning with a salvo of storm bolter shells and chronophore shots into Khepri, dozens of scarabs begin to sink down from the barrage. Notomok the Yeti  brings down his claws, and Cyril notes they've been reinforced. Adamantite, Diamantite, Titanite, you name it. The Yeti's claws rip through and force a few more scarabs out. The real Khepri proceeds to attack Brynjol, landing a pair of hits. While he dodges one, he tries to raise his arm to parry, but he cannot. He is exhausted, almost as if he parried already...

The Warscythe cuts deep into the Space Wolf's leg, hurting him hard. Khepri, however, is already gone, attacking Temur first with a teleporting charge attack, and finally ending with ANOTHER teleporting charge behind Cortain, who barely parried. Nothing personnel, kid.  There is a blue ghost Khepri standing next to Temur, and also one near Brynjol. Brynjol tries to charge once more, but the blue phantom Khepri attacks from his previous position, attacking Brynjol as he charges away. This cut is deep into his arm, slicing off numerous fingers but keeping him in the fight. Sadly, as one of Brynjol's attacks is parried by the Khepri of the present, the Warscythe cuts him in the leg again, finally downing him. Brynjol burns fate to manmode and stay in. He lets loose a guttural roar, his tone ululating as the massive hit of pain suppressant mainlines straight into his body.

"Okay...this is going downhill faster than I care to think about it," Cortain advises, "We seriously need to re-assess how we're going to manage this."
"There is no management you need concern yourself with," Khepri states, "I can see your past, present, and future. You are corpses."
"This future is a lie, Khepri," Cyril corrects him.

Temur raises his relic heavy bolter, and calls White Scars Swift Assault, disengaging and going full flex into Khepri. Almost fifty scarabs fall, as Khepri's dodge is hampered by Temur's Bolter Expertise. Temur strokes his Beard of Experience. Seeing so many dead scarabs is pleasing. While Ordeci slams down with a grav fist, Cortain's bolter unfortunately jams, to his concern. Cyril continues Storm Boltering down, and having his yeti rip things up as a tide of scarabs phase away. Calling a furious charge, Brynjol and Cyril charge together with Burning Claws and Photonic Blade to reduce Khepri to only a handful of scarabs, setting him on soul blaze as well. He calls Feel No Pain to benefit himself and Brynjol, who has been severely hammered.

Khepri teleport-charges at Temur, landing a number of attacks, which the White Scar works to parry away, countering when he can. He then appears near Cyril, stabbing with the scythe, but Cyril dodges out of the way. Thinking they weathered the storm, the Commandos prepare to finish Khepri off, but he begins to glow green, and shake. He collects massive amounts of chronomantic energy, and releases it in a blinding flash.

Khepri's Chronobreak damages Ordeci, as everyone (though they shield the damage) is briefly blown about by the force. Their world flashes, and they find themselves in the positions they had at the beginning of the round.

Except for Khepri, who's going in AGAIN on Temur. While Temur is able to shield one attack, a second gets through, cutting deep into him. Temur has rarely been hit before, let alone wounded, so he is slightly caught off guard. With the Past and Future Khepris in combat with Cortain and Cyril, Brynjol is open to charge. He forces himself to his feet, pupils blown way out from the pain suppressant doses. Extending out both claws, Brynjol and Khepri hit each other once. Brynjol takes even more damage, losing another leg, surviving barely thanks to Feel No Pain, but he pushes on, THROUGH the Warscythe.  Khepri may have restored some scarabs with the Chronobreak, but Brynjol is almost full Wulfen now. His claws strike into Khepri, striking the last of the scarabs composing his body. Khepri the Eternal Time Lord begins to destabilize, and he roars in absolute rage. He phases out, and the Crystal is beginning to shake once more.

"Oh not again..." Cortain sighs. Logic dictates it might be time to hightail it back to the The Real Shady. Cortain gets Ordeci to haul the absolutely crippled Bryn out.
"Cortain, get all the scans on that crystal you can on the way out," Cyril commands, "TIME TO GO!" 

Surging across the desert fields, their mighty Beards of Experience swaying in the desert wind, the Commandos find it MUCH easier to travel. The local creatures don't fuck with them anymore, their Tripodon following as fast as it can. As they rush, lightning fast, the Commandos note something odd - every so often, one of them flickers in and out of existence, before restabilizing. Brynjol here, Temur there, then maybe Cortain, and Cyril, before another flickers. Finally reaching the City, the Commandos keep on keeping on until they reach the The Real Shady. They briefly wonder why a child is standing near the access path, and then it hits them.

"Ah'll say," Young Shady says, "This sure ain't somethin' ah wanna tell the folks 'bout."
Brynjol lolls in the grip of the robot, his neck cording as the pain suppressants wear off.
Cyril slows to a jog to pet the Tripodon and soothe its panic, ready to carry it if it slows.
"Hold up!" Cortain requests, but everyone else is adamant.
"No time, get aboard!" Cyril insists, "Shady can sort it out later!"
"Alright. I seriously hope he can fix this though," Cortain sighs, "I doubt a child can pass for an Inquisitor, Chronos or not!"
Cyril heads in with Notomok and the Tripodon. "Time to go home!"

As the Commandos board, a final blue wave extends outward, as all eyes in the heavens suddenly stare down at the Commandos. Their world goes blue, one last time. The Commandos find themselves normal, though the loss of their Beards of Experience hurts a bit. Brynjol looks down, finding his limbs are back to normal, since all the damage happened to his future self and not his present self and...he feels the onset of another headache.

The Enginseers have completed the rites, and the The Real Shady engages its Chronoeider. Trailing smoke, the The Real Shady blasts forward, back through time.

"By the Emperor, that sucked," Shady sighs, kicking his boots up, "Let's never speak of this again."
"Well, even if we did not learn the method to remove the hellstar, we DID learn an effective way of removing the Transforming Strength should we be required to do so."
"And we still learned the Hellstar's goal, that we might thwart it," Cyril adds, "We need to keep watch on gas giants in the sector. "But right now I need to bandage the tripodon."
"That felt... bloody weird," Brynjol admits.
"It's worse than weird," Shady says, "I saw you. You were flickering."
"What is the flickering?" Temur asks, "You sound as if you have seen it before."
"Are we temporally dislocated or something like that?" Brynjol asks.
"I have, when I watched every other member of the Ordo Chronos assassinate each other in their cradles," Shady says, "Are you sure you want to know?"
"Ignorance is not always a virtue, Inquisitor, I have kept myself alive thus far by knowing my enemy," Temur states, "So whatever knowledge you can impart would be appreciated."
"It means yours is a future not guaranteed," Shady says quietly, "But if you all flickered, then it is unknown yet who will live or die."
"So we face a nexus in time then, when all becomes uncertain," Temur says, "I'd venture that as a better option than certain defeat."
"In the end...I see three..." Cortain reflects on the Master of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica's message, and it again bothers him.

"Every other member?" Brynjol raises a brow, "Except you. What made you special enough - or good enough - to be the last baby standing in that little tete-a-tete?"
"Damn straight I'm the last one," the Inquisitor says, "I locked myself in the timeline by becoming my own ancestor, if you catch my drift."
The Commandos choose not to press the subject further.

Cortain points at the Tripodon, "Question: Do these things exist in M41?"
The Inquisitor stares and shrugs, "Nope. Yep. Maybe. Perhaps they once did, or will."
If Cortain had hair he would probably rip it out.

The The Real Shady begins to shudder and shake, as it finally leaves a blue portal. Returning to the blessed Materium, the Commandso can see off to port the The Real Shady beginning its journey through time, the portal closing behind it. The Blade of the Long Watch stands ready to receive the arriving The Real Shady.

"Lads! Lads!" Rockfist yells over vox, "We've got a problem!"
"When do we not have a problem?" Temur asks, "What is it, Rockfist?"
"We've received word that the Hellstar was approaching the world of Femor," Rockfist states, "And...and...and Catalyst Station tells us that Crusader Invictus has gone missing!"
"Oh, for FETH'S SAKE," Brynjol roars in rage, cursing violently in Juvjk, "We need to find it. Now."
"DAMN IT! Make for Femor!" Cyril commands.
"Lads, we've set a course for the gas giant Femor already," Rockfist states, "We'll depart once you're aboard."
"Have they any further information than 'missing?'" Temur asks.
"Nay, lad," Rockfist shakes his head, "Just that it 'jumped away,' or somethin'."
"You guys go," Shady says, "We'll be in touch. I might find more ways to help."
"So it begins... The crux Ramsestron has said," Cortain says, realizing that Femor is a Gas Giant.
"If it is gone, then perhaps...either the others have come," Cyril muses, "Or something far, far worse. It may know it is needed and be en route to Femor already. If not, there is no time to look for it... I had a feeling this might happen after reviewing logs of our travel to Oculus Aquila. If Femor is the gas giant, we must make haste. To the launch bay!"

Inquisitor Shady waves the Commandos off, before taking out a smoke.
"May the Emperor be with you, Shady," Cyril nods, "Until next we meet."
Cortain gives an informal salute as he begins contemplating the whole mess.

Popping into an Aquila, the crew rapidly bring the Commandos back to the Blade. With Shady's Aquila leaving, the Blade makes full progress into the Warp, to the world of Femor and its garden moon.

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