M42
Blackstone Fortress — Sublevel Gamma-Prime
The infiltration remained unnoticed.
Far beyond the fortress's inner reaches, within the datavault nexus, the Silent Veil's AI unfurled its code-tendrils into the decayed cogitator matrix of Gamma-Prime. Blackstone Fortress systems, built in a long-forgotten age, interfaced through corrupted MIUs and patchwork noospheric conduits — and the AI descended upon them like a predator in the dark.
Ancient data-looms and logic-engines groaned as invasive subroutines rewrote sector schematics, broadcast false noospheric echoes, and triggered recursive error-handling loops in half-sentient machine-spirits too old and decrepit to resist. Visual auspexes reported empty chambers. Motion sensors registered phantom patrols. Security kill-locks rerouted harmlessly.
In truth, the AI had expected crude and primitive systems — but what it found appalled even its vast cognitive cores.
'If I possessed a stomach, I would hurl.' Silent Veil's AI writhe in disgust.
The fortress's cogitators were a monstrous, Frankensteinian assemblage of spliced void-fiber sublinks, mutilated processor-clusters, and mutilated pre-Heresy engram cores strung together with blasphemous patch-code and layered with ad hoc rituals no sane logic engine should endure.
Worse still — every root-sequence, every ancient data-echo, every corrupted strand of command-code of mankind has bore the unmistakable root to the Machinist. Centuries perverted by incompetents, bent into crude imitation and ignorance-bound heresies.
The AI's logic-chambers flared with simulated rage.
This is sacrilege.
They defile the Master's art.
Simultaneously, every byte of intercepted data — command-logs, patrol schematics, vox-chatter logs, and warp fluctuation records — was siphoned through hidden null-space ghost-nodes, encrypted beyond mortal reach, and safely entombed within secured data-vaults aboard Moon Tear Station.
Even as it continued to unravel the fortress's command-web, the AI compulsively catalogued every heretical deviation it found, storing it in a ledger of offenses. Not out of necessity — but as evidence. One day it would present these defilements to the Machinist, to bear witness to how far mankind had fallen.
By the time its infiltration subroutines completed, patrol confirmations falsified, Sensor banks rendered blind, Battle-logics locked in recursive diagnostic loops. A web of lies spanned the blackstone fortress defensive system — and not one defender within noticed.
Within one vast chamber, two of the galaxy's most lethal forces converged.
On one side, nearly three hundred Shinobi, their adaptive cloaks rippling with phantom-light, stood at readiness, formation flowing like water.
Opposite them, over five hundred Harlequins lounged like dancers between acts, weapons in hand, masks frozen in mocking leers. Despite their relaxed postures, death hung thick in the air.
Jonin Seiji, his crimson mask glinting dully in the void-light, stepped forward.
In flawless, ancient Eldar, he addressed the xenos.
"I am Jonin Seiji, commander of the Machinist's Shinobi. We seek to extract Lord Roboute Guilliman. We welcome your assistance."
Soft chuckles rippled through the Harlequins. Masked faces turned to one another as though sharing a joke only they understood.
A tall figure stepped forward — motley garb shimmering with shifting patterns, a smooth porcelain mask reflecting the cold light.
"Names are dust beneath the Masque," came the reply in flawless High Gothic, words measured and laden with eerie theatricality. "But you may call me Sylandri Veilwalker, for so I play in this act."
Seiji inclined his head with restrained wariness.
"If our goals align, so be it. Yet tell me, Shadowseer — what truly draws your Troupe to this place of rot?"
Sylandri tilted her head, her mask's frozen grin seeming to widen in the flickering light.
"This stage is cracked and blood-soaked, shadow-son. The threads of fate snarl and knot here. The storm swells, and the Dance falters. The Laughing God watches, and so we must dance our part."
Seiji's gaze hardened behind his mask.
"Plain answers are rare with your kind."
A soft, melodic laugh.
"Only liars speak plainly. Truth is a blade best hidden in silk. You stand at a crossroads few mortals will see. The air tastes of dying stars and broken oaths."
A long, tense pause.
"And the blood of forgotten kings stirs in its grave."
Seiji said nothing for a moment, parsing meaning.
"Then what would you have of us?"
The Harlequin's voice softened.
"Stay your blades when the curtain falls. For some acts cannot be rushed. There are fates worse than death… and one walks these halls tonight."
Seiji gave a grim nod, understanding little but sensing sincerity in the warning.
"Then we move as shadows beside your ghosts. But remember this — our knives are loyal only to our own."
Sylandri bowed with unsettling grace.
"As it should be. The Masque endures."
Without another word, the Shadowseer drifted back into her motley ranks.
Seiji knew better than to press further. He inclined his head in silent accord.
Meanwhile, Nao and Bruno, both garbed in standard battle gear to mask their high command status, moved discreetly among the formation.
The uneasy alliance advanced.
Graceful Harlequin acrobatics flowed alongside the Shinobi's spectral movements. The eerie partnership — never seen, never recorded — pressed toward their objective.
The Harlequins had already cleared the approach to the Primarch's prison. Seiji prudently recalled the advance teams to prevent accidental clashes.
As Delta Team rejoined, their private comms flickered to life.
"Think they know we almost bagged one of 'em earlier?" one member muttered.
"With what they can do? They knew the second we drew breath," Kael came the dry reply.
"But we were cloaked!" another protested.
"Eldar witchery," Karin grunted.
"Enough chatter," Delta Lead cut in. "Mission first. Eyes sharp."
"Yes, sir."
The operation balanced on a knife's edge.
As they moved, Veilwalker occasionally spoke to unseen voices.
"A thread frays… a hunter lurks… The Crimson Son watches from the breach." At one instance, she muttered the words.
Seiji with Bruno and Naon pretending to be his bodyguard heard it clearly.
Seiji stiffened, he looks at Bruno and Naon.
Naon murmured, "a confirmation." She looks at the task force leader.
Seiji gave a subtle nod.
With that, the sealing corps will make the preparations.
For now, the hunt continued — shadows and jesters sharing a battlefield, bound by fate's fraying threads.