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HERESY

Talia looks up, hearing the voice of the chef, and she gulps a mouthful of liquor. She isn't sure how much bigger it can get than the red-horned creature, but this is a temporary stay. She didn't know chefs could have such a temper; this place seems a bit high-strung.

Her eyes meet the Black Widow's, and they should stay on separate sides of the room. Between them, it will be more than guns.

Talia's thoughts wander to Jason Todd; he's recovering, and she's in the midst of finishing his training. Bruce has gone too far, or maybe not far enough. The Lazarus Pit will have some influence on Jason; it always does. She's not been the same.

The motor pool stretched like a steel valley beneath the vaulted roof. Filtered daylight bled through layered glass high above, catching in the hanging haze of machine exhaust and incense smoke. Overhead gantries creaked as servo-arms lowered ammunition crates with careful precision, chains swaying, hooks clanking in slow rhythm. The air tasted of promethium and metal. Below, the new Chimeras stood in perfect formation. Fresh paint still held a dull sheen across their armored hulls, regimental midnight blue broken by the sigil of the 12th Balion Mechanized: a split shield over crossed treads. Identification numbers were stenciled sharp and clean. Track teeth unworn. Auspex masts unscarred. Their forward ramps were lowered in uniform angles, like a line of iron jaws awaiting inspection.

They looked ready.

That meant nothing.

The platoon stood at parade rest beside their assigned carriers. Flak armor properly seated. Helmets clipped. Gloves on. Lasguns vertical against chest plates. No shifting. No whispers. Just the low, ambient thrum of a facility that never truly slept. Then the hangar doors parted. Not with urgency. With authority. Lord General Von Drakenfell entered the bay at a measured pace, greatcoat moving in a slow, heavy sway behind him. Storm-grey fabric, crimson lining. Polished boots striking ferrocrete in a cadence that echoed farther than it should have. Medals rested across his chest in disciplined rows, catching the high light with restrained glints. Campaign honors earned, not displayed.

He walked alone.

Officers waited halfway down the line, the platoon commander, a captain with a scar pulling at one eye, and the attached Enginseer whose mechadendrites twitched with quiet irritation at the presence of unblessed fingerprints on sacred hull plating. Von Drakenfell did not acknowledge them yet.

He stopped at the first Chimera. His gloved hand ran across the forward glacis plate, slow. Feeling for imperfections more than looking. His fingers paused at a weld seam.

“Forge origin,”

The Enginseer stepped forward immediately. “Arpat Primaris sub-spire manufactorum, my lord. Lot sanctified three days past. Machine spirits responsive and compliant.”

Von Drakenfell gave a small nod, then stepped to the side, peering into the troop compartment. His gaze swept over interior benches, weapon clamps, stowage, emergency medicae kit.

“Driver.”

A trooper stepped forward. Young, but not green. “Sir!”

“Primary terrain concern?”

“Urban rubble fields and narrow transit corridors, sir. Risk of track fouling and mobility kill.”

“Mitigation?”

“Dismount drills under thirty seconds. Alternate advance by bounding vehicle cover. Infantry clears choke points before armor commits.”

A beat.

“Acceptable.”

The word landed heavier than praise.

Von Drakenfell continued down the line. He checked vision blocks. Tapped a heavy bolter mount once, listening to the resonance of the metal. Looked at track tension. He never hurried. Each vehicle received the same time, the same scrutiny. The platoon felt it, the weight of being measured not as bodies, but as capability. At the fourth Chimera, he stopped longer. There was a scratch along the side hatch. Superficial. Already repainted, but not perfectly.

He looked at the squad assigned to it.

“Who commanded this vehicle during transit from depot?”

A corporal stepped forward, jaw tight. “I did, my lord.”

“Cause?”

“Loading gantry swing misjudged during rail transfer. No loss of function. Full systems check afterward.”

Von Drakenfell held his gaze a moment.

“Your report was honest.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good. Steel can be repaired. Lies corrode.”

The corporal swallowed. “Understood, my lord.”

Von Drakenfell moved on. By the time he reached the end of the formation, the entire bay felt different, tighter, sharper. The platoon stood a little straighter. The vehicles no longer looked like new equipment. They looked claimed.

He finally turned to the waiting captain.

“The 12th Balion Mechanized will operate as forward breach support for the Vortane advance,” Von Drakenfell said. “Your task is not speed. It is reliability. When infantry moves, your carriers are where they expect. When they fall back, ramps are down before they ask.”

“Yes, Lord General.”

He cast one last look across the line of Chimeras, engines still cold, machine spirits waiting for purpose.

“War is won collectively and efficiently” he said calmly. " Campaigns are survived by transports that arrive exactly where they are needed, exactly when they are needed.”

His eyes shifted to the platoon.

“Do not fail at being where you are supposed to be. In your duty.”



No raised voice. No theatrics.

Just the standard, delivered with a gravitas befitting Imperial command.

He turned, coat sweeping behind him, and walked back toward the hangar doors as the Enginseer began a low chant of ignition rites and crews moved to mount up not with panic, not with noise, but with the smooth confidence of soldiers who now understood the expectation placed upon them.

The Widow takes the vodka bottle and sits down on the end of the bar. "Thanks." And she overhears a conversation about Thanos and Iron Man, and she realizes that was another lifetime; bittersweet.