38 Pre-Battle Preparations (III)

Cato Sicarius had once dreamed day and night of owning a suit of power armor. He had eventually received one—a Mk VII Aquila Pattern, exquisite, powerful, reliable, and utterly fulfilling every fantasy he had ever had about power armor.

When he put it on, he had even felt almost omnipotent.

Naturally, in the battles that followed, that fledgling pride had swiftly been shattered beyond repair. Power armor could indeed provide solid, powerful assistance in combat, but their enemies always found ways around its dependable protection—or simply destroyed it outright.

But Sicarius understood that this did not mean there was anything wrong with power armor itself. It was because their enemies were simply too powerful.

In a sense, it was a reflection of the Imperium and this dark galaxy: humanity could exhaust every possible means to step into the light, yet darkness always seemed to have the upper hand.

"Make a fist," a voice ordered from behind him.

Sicarius did as instructed, clenching both fists. The sensation fed back through his gauntlets was both familiar and strange—his neural responses were still as they had always been, swift and powerful.

And therein lay the problem. The response was too fast, so fast that he felt this suit of armor had possessed that desire even before he had clenched his fist. He wanted to make a fist, yet it had known so tens of millions of years ago.

It is urging me on. Sicarius thought in disbelief.

Somewhere in the darkness, he heard a faint voice. He could not make out what it was saying, but it made his skin crawl, and for a moment he stood frozen in place.

"Put on the helmet as well, Sicarius. Then... hm? What is it?"

"I—"

"Ah, you heard it, didn't you?"

Belisarius Cawl gave a