Somewhere out in the Warp, on the fringe between the mortal realm and the domains of the etherworld Deamons, a huge ship is waiting. Waiting, for what, a human can never comprehend. The ship carries designs that would make one think it was Eldar, though it seemed too technologically advanced to be Eldar, ironically. As a matter of fact, it's the design of the old, fallen C'tan culture. On it, resides one of the last members of that ancient and powerful race, a race capable of creating new worlds and new races to inhabit them, to do their bidding. Despite that, the C'tan are forever gone, replaced by their own creations; Eldar and humans, although the Eldar have begun to dwindle in number them too. Of the many races in the galaxy, only the Orks, and the interstellar race of planet-eaters called simply the Hive Fleets, are not created by the C'tan. The deamons, being what they are, are the very stuff of our nightmares, thus making them linked to any creatures that thinks and has dreams...

Back to the ship; there's something else with it, that is wrong, or off, so to say. There's no artificial atmosphere. Whatever lives on it, is not biological.

In one of the part of the big ship, a chamber is situated. The chamber is a masterpiece of C'tan design. Not a centimetre of the adamant like Wraithbone is off. On Eldar ships, the Wraithbone would contain the souls of the dead. Here, its purpose is solely artistic. In the middle of the chamber a six metres high, battle suit-like piece of armour stands. It goes in the same moods as the C'tan architecture; with the great exception this was the design of war. The body is powerfully set, but there's still an air of agility over it. This is further heightened by its legs: long, lean legs, ending in bird-like feet. The arms are powerful and armoured to take shots that would pass through a Leman Russ battle tank. On the forearms, different weapons are mounted; on the right a beam-weapon like the ones the Necron warriors use and on the left, a huge, gatling, multi-barrelled high-energy pulse gun, designed to blow holes in the leg armour of Titans is situated. On the back of the big suit of armour, a jump-pack like flying system is placed. Its biggest difference from the jump-pack of the Imperium is that the exhausts are mounted on joints, making them movable, for increased agility in the air and that it takes its energy from an Eldar spiritstone, of the bigger size. The one thing spoiling the whole picture is that there's no head on the figure. The head rests on a platform nearby. Half of it still remains from its original lizard C'tan looks; the other half is a mechanoid death's mask. On the mechanoid head's half, on the right side, a tiny laser is mounted on the side of the head. Both the mechanoid and the biological eye are closed. The creature seems resting.

This creature is none other than Master War General Metallix, military commander of the Necrons. He was once C'tan in his nature, but that was so many thousands of years ago, he's even forgotten the name he used then. He doesn't even see himself as C'tan any more. He's Necron, and that's period. Those who beg to differ, find their viscera on the other end of the room.

A sound is heard from outside the chamber. The head remains still, but the body awakes and moves agilely over to the head. The three-fingered hands grab the head and puts it on top of its shoulders. Leads connect and electrical impulses are sent through the bionic brain of Metallix. Opening his eyes, Metallix looks at the chamber door. With a simple command, he knows, he'll allow the Necron Immortal ranked soldier on the other side to enter. By not uttering the word, the droid will remain outside, until it's let in. It won't complain over such treating. Inwardly, Metallix smiles, his outwardly face unable to project feelings since he received his new brain and face.

"Vostoria!" Metallix speaks in the hard-clipped tongue of the Necrons. The C'tan tongue, containing too many soft sounds for the droids to be able to master, had been bastardised over the aeons into Necron, a curt, hard language spoken by roughly one hundred million beings in the galaxy.

(For the readers convenience, I'm going to present just this first part in Necron, with human interpretation, but after that, the Necrons will speak English, but only when they conversate between each other. I could, of course, continue to have the Necron tongue represented, but as I'm lazy, that will only occasionally happen from now on. Vostoria means enter, by the way.)

The Immortal entered through the door. It stood a good pace over two metres, but it was bulky in its frame, giving it a clumsy but strong appearance, which was much the case of its abilities.

"Ser, ortetie nardho terha nakin voklen panra lurin. Armageddon." the Immortal said simply, saluting the leader with the Necron salute.

(Sir, report of human scum on captured world. Armageddon.)

"Duutame sankre plantra etsi lurin nardho terha nakin?" Metallix asked, as softly as possible in his tongue.

(Did you not clear this world of human scum?)

"Mant, ser, sener imoe pontre nedanse." the Immortal replied, a slight tone of disgust in its mechanical voice.

(Yes, sir, there have appeared recently.)

Metallix had made them self-conscious, but not so self-conscious that they got moral qualms. They did, however, have feelings, but not to the same extent as true mortals. Metallix thanked his friend Daimien (as the humans called him) for this extra bonus. To have robots feeling hatred but no remorse, that was deliciously horrible...

Metallix walked over to a wall, in which a hole appeared from out of nowhere. Opening his hand and showing his palm before the hole, tentacle like cords shot out and attached itself to the hole. Before his eyes, Metallix saw what the recon robot had seen. It displeased him, and amused him at the same time. It was an odd feeling. It had been an odd feeling to attack their own creation, as Daimien had put it, but in the years that had passed, it was obvious that the humans didn't have any memory of their creators. Metallix couldn't see why this was; he remembered the humans clearly. How they'd served his every whim... And now he was systematically exterminating them. The universe was insane, he concluded, as he saw the collection of children by the statue. Metallix got a sting in his 'heart', as he remembered past times, when he'd been joyful to see human families at his old home. How the children had run around, playing and joking. Metallix had liked children, be they human, Eldar or even the few C'tan children that had been born... Metallix knocked the sentimental feeling away. These people were obviously there to destroy him, no other reason than that!

He changed perspective and saw the three Marine officers. His reconnaissance Necron had proved well in its duty, taking good shots of their faces. Metallix knew the armour colorization: Death Angel Legion. He tapped into the databank he had found on Ichar, the Death Angel's home planet and compared the faces of the Marine officers with the records form Ichar.

He received the service records for three men: Eddie McGranth, Edmund Charleston and Edward McKenzie. He studied them all, showing great interest for all of them. The Charleston-human had obviously defended Armageddon with that old commissar that the Ork Ghazghkull Thraka had been ranting about. Good that the Ork was rid of now... Metallix thought.

The McKenzie was a psyker; a very powerful psyker. Necrons didn't have psychic powers, but the C'tan had. Maybe Damion would find the psyker useful?

Metallix almost stopped reading and calculating data as he got to McGranth. The service record and honour roll of the Grand Commander was immense. His losses had only come at an early age, as eager and over-zealous warrior, but as he'd grown older, it was obvious he'd become an opportunist of grand scale, but also a great tactician. McGranth had obviously out-witted someone called the Dark Lord in these references many times. Metallix had no idea as to whom this Dark Lord was, but he kept wondering why the humans had settled down in a cluster of systems so rife with deamons? Oh well, that didn't matter now.

"Perhaps, I've found a worthy opponent at last, but only perhaps... Firstly, a test... " Metallix said to himself in his deep voice. He released himself from the databank and turned to the soldier. "What do we have stationed in that area?"

"In Hades Hive, Armageddon, we have one host stationed, sir!" the Immortal replied rapidly.

"Send three squads of Warriors and accompanying Scarabs to the humans location. I don't think we'll need more, do you?" Metallix said, trying a smile on his dead face. It was an odd feeling having no mouth any more.

"No, sir, we don't." the Immortal replied, bowing and leaving his lord alone.

As the soldier left, Metallix walked deeper into the chamber, into the darkness of the unlit places of it. Metallix superior C'tan vision adjusted easily to the gloom and he walked up to a glass tube of gargantuan proportions. Inside the glass tube, giving the closest surroundings a ghostly green highlight, a huge, emerald green crystal hovered. Metallix gently touched the glass surrounding of the crystal, something ancient and longing in his one, biological eye. The crystal was surrounded by what seemed like smoke...

"Let's see what the great Grand Commander of the Death Angels can do, shall we?" Metallix said to no one in particular.

The glow from the crystal increased in pulses.

Back on Armageddon, McKenzie and McGranth had joined up with the kids again. Charleston wasn't with them, but McGranth said he'd gone to see if there was any Thunderhawks left.

"If we're going to get off this rock, we'll need one." McGranth said and sighed. He leaned himself at the foot of the great statue of Sebastian Yarrick.

McKenzie was pacing up and down, obviously unnerved. Something was not right when McKenzie behaved that way; McGranth knew it very well. Involuntarily, he gave a shrug. There was something not quite right with Hades Hive...

Charleston was nearly a kilometre away from his friends, walking up and down the lines of Thunderhawks he'd found. He was happy that Hades wasn't like other Armageddonian Hives, having its ports quite far down, in relation to the others. It seemed Hadesians cared more for the workers and common habbers than the nobles. The Thunderhawks weren't pretty sights. Charleston cursed silently as he walked down the line over the incompetence of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Although they had claimed to know everything about machines, when it came to it, they didn't know a crap. They thought, just like McKenzie, that there was a machine spirit in the mechanical things that were created, and that these spirits could be soothed by sigils and incantations. Charleston snorted at such behaviour. He hadn't uttered one sacred litany over his jump pack ever. Instead, he'd maintained it precariously, and it had never failed to him. He'd taught all Assault troopers coming after him the very same, putting him under the scrutinizing gaze of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

Charleston stopped by a Thunderhawk that seemed to have been spared by the worst rust. He saw that the name of it was Nighthawk. He was still muttering curses under his breath towards the Adeptus Mechanicus. He checked the landing gears; they seemed okay. Pulling a finger across a joint, finding it soaked in oil, he smiled. He took a look on the wings; they were strangely enough armed with two Strike IV rockets each and an assault-cannon gatling each. This ship was apparently meant for escort of the others. Now came the horrible part, where most ships maintained by the Mechanicus failed in Charleston's tests: to see if the engines were in working order. The Thunderhawk transports had two kind of engines; two on the wings for atmospheric travel and three in the rear for interstellar travel. Most didn't have a proper Warp-drive. Charleston checked the interstellar rocket engines first. They had some dirt in them, but otherwise they seemed fine. Before checking the atmospheric drive, he opened a hatch and went into the Thunderhawk. A rush of air hit him, some hundred of years old. It smelled odd, a bit thicker than the air that Charleston now breathed. Stepping into the 'Hawk, Charleston checked the fuel; the levels were okay, but if McKenzie had ideas for longer trips, he'd need to refuel. Something on the control board caught Charleston's eyes: he'd never seen this in a Thunderhawk before.

He took a inspection of it all, and made the conclusion that it was a Warp-drive. This sucker was meant to travel between systems! Charleston felt the joy rise inside him. No wonder it seemed in better shape than the others. The Warp-drive equipped 'Hawks were just developed when Kharn attacked and the Imperium fell, so there was never any greater use for them. But it seemed such a highly industrialized world as Armageddon had managed to nab a few.

Stepping out of the cockpit, Charleston decided to check the main engines. There was one mounted on each wing. The left one was okay, but the right one was full of dirt, for unknown reasons. Charleston started to take it out and soon realized it wasn't only dirt... I was the remains of a very long dead body. Bacteria had broken it down into dirt. Some poor son had been thrown towards the engine. Why, Charleston didn't want to know.

As he pulled out the dirt, he threw a quick glance to the left and froze. He looked again. Charleston saw nearly a hundred, red, slanted unblinking eyes staring at him. He heard the creeping sound of the Scarabs' legs as they crept closer. Pulling out his plasma pistol, Charleston hoped that nagging feeling of being watched had been McKenzie.