#News_lamppost #Warhammer40k Новый понедельник - кампания Психического пробуждения без остановок несётся вниз по календарю. А значит не успели мы почитать интересных рассказов ко второй части - как тут же пошла серия рассказов причастных к 3-ей части - Кровь Баала. Но перед этим - всплыло базовое описание этой части кампании. После того как Тираниды были отброшены благодаря Цикатрикс Маледиктум (Великий разлом) у ордена Кровавых ангелов приятных забот не прибавилось. А именно - на фоне невероятного усиления псайкерских способностей для всех существ, то же самое коснулось и флота улья Тиранид, который не оставляет попыток уничтожения кровавых ангелов. Поэтому помимо решения внутренних проблем Темного Империума, вроде отсутствия света Астрономикона, или черных кораблей, сдерживавших увеличение числа псайкеров среди людей - Командер Данте, Габриэль Сет и Мефистон сами становятся символами сопротивления надвигающимся угрозам и точками объединения войск сохранивших боеспособность. Ну а вот теперь к рассказу - "Сильный и слабый" Вкратце - довольно хорошее произведение, повествует об буднях Имперской гвардии (Кафорианцев) в пост-Разломный период. Рассказ начинается с экшн сцены где отряд нашего героя зачищает некие заброшенные здания мануфакторума, где при странных обстоятельствах, неразберихи и темноте главный герой точным выстрелом в голову убивает скрывающегося псайкера генокрадов. После чего, уже в расположении взвода происходит сцена знакомства с товарищем комиссаром - который спрашивает у офицера, почему тот начал проводить зачистку сектора, хотя это не совсем тот приказ который ему дали - на что офицер ответил, что проводит зачистку для обеспечения безопасности войск, но вместе с тем делает неправильный ход - называет комиссара политической выскочкой, с которым он не намерен обсуждать приказы командования. После чего РЕЗКО получает болт-снаряд в голову - комиссарская так сказать классика. Этим же вечером, у костра отряда, который утром проводил зачистку, солдаты начали обсуждать текущую ситуацию - отключение связи и чем это может быть связанно. На что внезапный голос комиссара из тьмы вещает, что сержанту отряда не следует вести разговоров которые не приведут ни к чему хорошему и никак не помогут отряду в данный момент. И он подходит к главному герою с вопросов - что произошло при зачистке? Как он так умудрился эффективно убить противника? Главгерой оцепенел от вопроса (и от предыдущей казни) но тут его спасают сослуживцы и говорят, мол Удача Императора - этому парню постоянно очень везёт, видимо его сам император Хранит. Комиссар принимает их ответ, но предупреждает что будет следить за ним. После чего наш герой уходит проветриться от костра и блуждает между заброшенными зданиями, пока ВНЕЗАПНО у него не начинается бэд трип, что является плохим знаком и как далее становится понятно по тексту - он становится целью психического заклиания/атаки которое скручивает и рассекает все жилы тела, до тех пор пока он чуть не умирает и в итоге отключается. Очнулся он уже в расположении части, но его отряд всё ещё спит. Пытаясь понять, что происходит и что это вообще было он встает на ноги - но обнаруживает, что весь трип - это не сон так как на его теле появились многочисленные рассечения да и тело болит. Он отходит в сторону и тут снова звучит голос комиссара. Главгерой пытается прикинуться дурачком - но комиссар говорит важное - "Что неужели ты думаешь что ты первый такой, раз пытаешься скрыть очевидное?" После чего попытавшись напасть на комиссара, мозги солдата разлетелись шариками света от прилетевшего в гости снаряда в голову (на самом деле это неизвестно по тексту т.к. рука комиссара лежала на гарде его паверсворда, так что скорее он его зарубил) Оооочень длинный рассказ в серии (пожалуй самый длинный) и что примечательно - довольно интересный и атмосферный. На фоне предыдущего шлака, очень неожиданно. Текст местами сложный, но я его очень рекомендую. Гримдарк который иногда кажется что уже потерян. 9 Удач Императора из 10. https://www.warhammer-community.com/2019/11/25/psychic-awakening-the-weak-and-the-strong/ As the Psychic Awakening spreads across the galaxy, even loyal and devout servants of the Emperor are finding themselves gripped by powers both incredible and dangerous. Heed well the tale of Astra Militarum Sergeant Fenton, the price that must be paid for harnessing such abilities, however unwittingly… Fenton stacked up behind the lead members of his squad, the three of them pulling in tight to the bombed out administratum building. The Caphorian sergeant felt the adrenaline levels rising within him, his focus tightening as the tunnel vision started to kick in. For some, the rush of combat made them jumpy and on edge, but Fenton had always found that it gave him an incredible sense of clarity, as though battle brought him closer to the Emperor. Cinching his lasgun up into his shoulder, the sergeant adjusted his stance and tapped the back of the soldier in front of him. Within seconds the group were moving, rapidly stepping through the structure’s blown out doorway, their motions tight and synchronised with one another. As soon as the point trooper crossed the threshold she spun to one side, directing her attention to the hidden corner of the room. The soldier kept moving, clearing the way for the trooper behind her to enter. The second Caphorian did the same, breaking in the opposite direction and covering the other side of the room. “Fenton’s ears rang with the harsh clatter of autogun fire, the noise far too deafening in the close confines to gauge any sense of its location. Trusting his comrades to clear their sectors, the sergeant kept his focus on the view directly ahead of him and stepped forwards into the space. Keeping the sights of his weapon locked to his eye movements, he scanned the corridor that lead down towards the rest of the administratum quarters. Somewhere deep within his core, Fenton felt a curious force compelling him onwards into the darkened passageway, and he soon found himself slowly putting one foot in front of the other. One of the other soldiers from his squad joined him, pressing her body up against the other side of the corridor and matching her sergeant’s steady advance. In spite of his muffled hearing, the sergeant could just about make out the sound of thumping boots hitting the floorboards above him as the other squads stormed the upper levels. But he struggled to hear anything from the rooms leading off from the passageway before him. The air began to feel hot and stifling and he fidgeted nervously, adjusting his stance in an effort to settle back into his weapon’s gunsights. ‘Sarge…’ the trooper next to him started, a note of concern edging her voice. Suddenly the sharp, jarring sensation of being under threat came over Fenton, and he spun on his heels, bringing his lasgun around in the direction of his teammate. ‘Get down!’ As the other soldier threw herself to the deck, the sergeant opened up, lacing the wall behind her with las-fire and punching scorched holes in the flimsy material. Without forethought, Fenton was already moving, pushing up on the doorway that led into the adjacent room and stepping through without waiting for the other Imperial Guardsman to get into position. He came to a stop when he saw the crumpled body laid out upon the ground, but kept his weapon raised, searching for the slightest sign of movement. The sickly looking thing could pass for Human at a distance, but the ugly, ridged forehead and off-colour skin clearly marked it out as one of the xenos’ degenerate sycophants. His teammate came barrelling into the room. ‘What in Throne’s name was tha–’ she trailed off, slowly approaching the body to take a closer look at the prone form. ‘Sarge, you got it right in the head!’ The soldier looked back and forth between the damaged wall and Fenton with astonishment. ‘How on Terra did you even know that thing was here?’ Fenton, perturbed and equally bewildered, simply stared at the lifeless creature, before replying unconvincingly, ‘I heard a noise…’ As Fenton and his squad exited the cleared building, a commotion was brewing between their platoon commander and the new commissar that had been assigned to their division, a man by the name of Krenlan. The political officer was a broad-shouldered individual, a stout man who carried himself with an air of constant control that hinted at a suppressed brutality simmering beneath the surface. ‘Commander, you were expected to have made inroads into the manufactorum district days ago. Your orders are clear!’ The commissar was practically screaming in their commander’s face, causing the soldiers to share worried looks. ‘Yes, they are!’ The Imperial officer stood his ground before the verbal onslaught. ‘Our instructions are to secure this city, that means going from building to building and making damn sure we clear out every one of these scum.’ Krenlan bristled with barely suppressed fury. ‘You are not–’ ‘What I am not is taking orders from some jumped up politico,’ the platoon’s leader cut in. ‘Let me remind you, commissar, that you have no power to supersede my orders in this matter. I will not jeopardize the safety of my troopers by leaving enemy forces at our backs. Now get out of my way!’ Before the man had made it more than a few steps, the commissar turned on him, pulling out the squat bolt pistol that he kept chained to his body armour. The platoon commander barely even had time to react before the barrel was levelled in his direction and the weapon bucked violently as it discharged a round. Fenton watched in horror as he saw the body of his commanding officer hit the floor. Krenlan turned and addressed the soldiers that lined the street, a cold fire burning in his eyes. ‘Let me be clear, cowardice has but one reward in the Astra Militarum! Up to this point, you have been lax in the persecution of your duties, and the time for that has now passed. You will follow my orders, is that clear?’ Fenton caught Krenlan’s gaze as the man finished his speech. The madness he saw there chilled him to the bone. +++ That night, Fenton and his squad took refuge in the remains of a still largely intact manufactorum compound. A small fire burned in the middle of the assembled group, its cloying stink laying thick in their closed-in environs, yet everyone was grateful for the warmth it provided. The soldiers sat quietly, each lost in their own thoughts from the day. Eventually one of their number spoke. ‘You know, I hear they lost contact with a number of the orbitals out beyond the rim…’ The mood grew sombre. They all knew what that meant. ‘Could just be the rad flares again,’ another offered, although even she seemed to doubt the plausibility of her own words” The original speaker looked over. ‘You really think that’s true?’ The other soldier merely shrugged in response. A cold voice cut through the air from beyond the periphery of their small circle. ‘I would suggest, Sergeant, that you do not allow your charges to engage in such pointless and potentially subversive topics of conversation.’ Krenlan stepped into the gathering, the flickering light from the fire lending his already stark features an even crueller bent. ‘I hear you had a close call today, Fenton.’ That cold, calculating look was back in the commissar’s eyes. ‘Saved by some almost prescient reactions on your part, so I’m told.’ Fenton could feel the man’s clinical eyes appraising him, cutting into his core and weighing him up. In truth, the sergeant could not explain what had happened any more than anyone else. The sensations that had run through him in that moment were unlike anything that he had ever felt before. He also had a strong impression that, were he to disclose any details of what he had experienced, events might turn out rather poorly for him at the hands of their ruthless commissar. But Krenlan was still watching him, waiting expectantly for a reply, and Fenton could feel the heat rising up within him again, the room closing in around him as his brain started to buzz. He was beginning to feel himself losing control when one of his squad, sensing the trouble brewing, interjected. ‘It’s the luck of the Emperor, sir. Sarge has always had it.’ Others nodded in agreement, but the commissar’s gaze never strayed from Fenton’s. ‘Is that so?’ Krenlan turned to leave, but stopped briefly to cast one last look back in the sergeant’s direction. ‘I’ll be watching, sergeant. I am eager to see your performance on the battlefield, especially in light of recent events.’ And with those parting words, the commissar left. Fenton let out a long breath as he felt his body relax, suddenly exhausted beyond measure. ‘I’m going to turn in.’ He traipsed away from the group, a cold feeling of dread filling his gut as the sound of the soldiers’ quiet conversations faded into the distance. The sensation of falling was palpable. The pitch blackness of his surroundings yielded little clue as to where he was, but the hot, stinking air rushing past his face indicated the horrifying speed at which he was plunging downwards. Fenton’s initial response had been to panic, flailing futilely as he attempted to slow his descent. Amidst the terror-fuelled fog that clouded his mind, he had little opportunity to consider how he had come to be in this place. All he could think of was whether he would hit the bottom first, or whether it would be the collision with the side of whatever structure he had been thrown from that would end his harried existence. Slowly, the rational part of his brain started to reassert itself. Fenton’s body was still awash with a heady mix of fear and adrenaline-soaked confusion, but he began to notice more about his immediate environment. What he had initially taken to be buffeting currents of air whipping by seemed to have an ebb and flow to their passing, which made no sense if he was falling. If anything, he would have expected the ferocity of its passage to be steadily increasing as he continued to pick up speed, but the soldier had begun to notice a semblance of rhythm to the gusts that shook his body like a ragdoll. It almost felt like the foetid breaths of some vile corpse-scavenger, its giant, heaving breaths engulfing him in wave after wave of nausea. But that did not explain the weightlessness he felt, nor the fact that his clothes seemed to be motionless, in spite of the sense of movement. Nothing about this place made any sense. Suddenly, Fenton felt his arms and legs pulled violently outwards, the muscles in his limbs spasming in protest at the sudden and unexpected force being applied to them. He could feel the ligaments straining at the effort of keeping his body held together as his form was torqued and stretched, and he instinctively closed his eyes, in spite of the darkness, to let out a gut-wrenching scream of abject pain at the immense stresses being placed upon his frame. Seemingly in response, a plethora of lashing whips reached out from the inky blackness and wrapped their way around, first his torso, and then the rest of him. Sharp barbs and hooks lined the inner side of the vicious tendrils, digging their way through his clothes and biting deep into the tender flesh beneath. They enveloped his face and head, crushing the air from his lungs as they squeezed tighter and tighter, delving into the very core of him and leaving burning striations along every exposed muscle fibre. Fenton’s mind exploded with fiery pain. Somehow he was still conscious, but his entire being was filled with a wretched sense of dread that was almost worse than the smothering panic that had swallowed him moments before. He tried to lash out, to break free, but his limbs felt weak and ineffectual, their movements slow and uncoordinated. As he was certain he was about to succumb to the torments being inflicted upon him, Fenton felt a sudden rush of ai