Author's Note: More of Atlas in Husbandry AU. Thanks to Egrets and C-u-c-koo for letting me borrow their characters and helping me with writing this behemoth of a fic! This was so much fun to write! @c-u-c-koo-4-40k character: Siros. @egrets-not-regrets characters: Lati Emon, Korio Runa Vespertine & Ghilius
Trigger Warning: Intense violence, stalking, death, and psychological horror. Minor Character death.
Summary: In a fog-bound town, Atlas faces a ghostly predator who kills with surgical precision—not to terrorize, but to test, manipulate, and erase, leaving survival itself a question of purpose.
The other marine shook his head. “Passing through. Heard of trouble. I aim to help.”
Atlas studied him, evaluating—friend, foe, or opportunist? He would have to watch, but he could not afford to dismiss a potential ally—or a threat.
The storm howled as Atlas stood atop the pier, scanning Saltmarsh Haven. Every alleyway, every window, every whisper in the wind became a potential clue. Somewhere in the town, someone—something—was orchestrating chaos. The Chaos Firstborn remained hidden, but its presence was already leaving ripples: the stolen gene-seed, the precise attacks, the fear in the townsfolk.
Atlas clenched his fists. The storm was more than weather. It was a warning. And he would trace every shadow, interrogate every witness, and follow every footprint until the killer—whatever it truly was—was found.
The lighthouse stood apart from Saltmarsh Haven like a solitary sentinel—old stone, iron-braced, and scarred by centuries of wind and salt. Its light cut through the fog in long, steady sweeps, a pale blade against the storm-darkened sea.
Atlas ascended the narrow path leading to it, boots crunching against gravel slick with rain. The wind howled louder here, unbroken by buildings, carrying with it the smell of ozone and brine. He paused once, scanning the cliffs below. The waves were violent now, smashing against the rocks with enough force to pulverize bone.
Good terrain for concealment. Excellent terrain for killing. He reached the door and knocked once—firm, deliberate. There was a delay. Then the sound of locks sliding free.
The door opened to reveal a thin, sharp-eyed man wrapped in a heavy oilskin coat. His beard was streaked with gray, his face weathered to leather by decades of storms. One eye was clouded and pale; the other studied Atlas with practiced caution.
“You’re the marine,” the man said flatly. “The one asking questions.”
Atlas inclined his head. “I am.”
The lighthouse keeper exhaled slowly, as if confirming a fear he’d hoped was unfounded. “Name’s Edrin Hale. Come in before the wind steals the heat from your bones.”
Inside, the lighthouse was warm but sparse. Tools hung neatly along the walls. Charts and tide logs were stacked with obsessive care. The great lamp above hummed softly, its rotation steady, unwavering.
Atlas’s gaze moved over everything—nothing out of place, nothing wasted.
“You’ve seen something,” Atlas said.
Edrin snorted quietly. “That obvious?”
“You keep records,” Atlas replied. “And you hesitated before opening the door.”
The keeper poured two cups of something dark and bitter, though only drank from one. His hands trembled—not with age, Atlas noted, but with restrained tension.
“I’ve kept this light burning through storms that swallowed ships whole,” Edrin said. “Seen men drown. Seen worse dragged ashore. But what I saw two nights ago…” He shook his head. “That wasn’t the sea.”
Atlas waited.
“There was a shape,” Edrin continued. “Tall. Too tall. Moving along the rocks below the pier after midnight. It didn’t stumble. Didn’t rush. Walked like it knew exactly where to place its feet.”
Atlas’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Did it carry a light?”
“No.” Edrin swallowed. “Didn’t need one.”
The lighthouse beam passed across the window, briefly illuminating the keeper’s face in stark white. His expression hardened.
“And then,” he said quietly, “there was screaming. Cut short. Not like a man drowning—like something ending.”
Atlas’s internal chronometer ticked, aligning the testimony with the estimated time of death.
“Did you see its face?” Atlas asked.
Edrin shook his head immediately. “No. God preserve me, no. But I saw the armor.”
Atlas looked at him sharply.
“Not like yours,” Edrin clarified quickly. “Older. Bulkier. Wrong somehow. And it was… damaged. Scarred. Like it had lived in war and never left.”
Firstborn.
Atlas felt the weight of the word settle into his thoughts like a stone.
“And after?” Atlas prompted.
“There was another presence,” Edrin said slowly. “Later. Near dawn. There was Another. Faster. Careful. That one knelt by the body. Didn’t linger. Took something and left.”
Atlas’s fingers curled slightly.
Two actors.
“Why didn’t you report this?” Atlas asked.
Edrin laughed—a hollow, humorless sound. “And say what? That a giant in ancient armor stalks the shore and another comes to harvest the dead? They already think I’m half mad.”
Outside, thunder rolled over the sea, distant but growing.
Atlas moved to the window, looking down toward the pier. From this height, the lighthouse had a perfect view—an unbroken line of sight through fog and storm alike.
“The one who killed,” Atlas said carefully, “did they return?”
Edrin hesitated.
“Yes.”
Atlas turned.
“Last night,” Edrin continued. “Didn’t go near the body. Just stood at the end of the pier. Watching the water. Like it was… waiting.”
Waiting. Not hiding. Not fleeing. Waiting. Atlas felt a familiar, cold certainty settle into his chest. The killer was disciplined. Patient. Unafraid. The lighthouse beam swept again, illuminating the crashing waves below. For just a fraction of a second, Atlas thought he saw movement at the edge of the surf—something dark and massive slipping back into the fog.
When he looked again, there was nothing.
Edrin followed his gaze. “You saw it too, didn’t you?”
“I saw the possibility,” Atlas replied. “Of something.”
He turned back toward the door. “If you see anything else—anything at all—you will signal immediately. Even if you think it's madness.”
Edrin nodded grimly. “You’ll stop it?”
Atlas’s expression hardened into something immovable. “Yes.”
Or at the very least he will die trying to stop it if he cann’t actually stop the first born. Likely Chaos Marine from killing again. As he stepped back into the storm, the lighthouse light continued its endless vigil, cutting through fog and rain alike.
Somewhere beyond it, something ancient and wrathful moved through Saltmarsh Haven—unseen, unhurried, and utterly unconcerned with being discovered. The storm was no longer approaching. It had arrived.
The storm obeyed no master—but it listened.
Rain hammered against ceramite older than the town, older than the pier, older than the lighthouse that cut its pale wound through the fog.
fuck you i cant stand you i hope you know you can put a divider down between the paper as many times as you want but it only takes you forgetting once for my vision to become reality
i hope u can never fold any origami cranes ever again in ur life you fiend
Author's Note: Thanks to Egrets and C-u-c-koo for letting me borrow their characters and helping me with writing this behemoth of a fic! This was so much fun to write!
Author's note 3: @egrets-not-regrets characters: Lati Emon, Korio Runa Vespertine & Ghilius
Trigger Warning: Intense violence, stalking, death, and psychological horror. Minor Character death.
Summary: In a fog-bound town, Atlas faces a ghostly predator who kills with surgical precision—not to terrorize, but to test, manipulate, and erase, leaving survival itself a question of purpose.
The body was already cooling when the Harvester arrived.
That was acceptable.
Rain slicked the pier, carrying blood back into the sea in thin, diluted ribbons. The Harvester adjusted position by centimeters, boots placed where the tide would erase them fastest. Efficiency mattered. Always.
The corpse was Astartes. Primaris. Black Dragon. Confirmed.
The Harvester did not linger on the mutations. Bone-spurs, ridged structure beneath the skin—irrelevant. The Emperor’s design had never been uniform. Variance did not equate to corruption. The helm was shattered. That was inconvenient, but not prohibitive.
The Harvester knelt and activated auspex functions muted to their lowest output. The storm masked the faint hum. A practiced hand slid between armor plates at the base of the neck, finding the precise location by memory alone.
No hesitation.
The narthecium blade extended with a soft click. Cut. Spread. Extract. The gene-seed came free intact, slick with blood and preservative fluids. It was immediately sealed in a stasis vial, rune-lock engaging with a muted chime. Objective complete.
The Harvester paused—not from doubt, but calculation.
Ah…so that's how it was.
The wound patterns on the body were… deliberate. Too deliberate. This was not an accident, nor a wild assault. This had been a controlled kill. Close-quarters. Efficient. Familiar.
Not the Harvester’s work. He knows when he has to finish a kill. He remembers each one. Same with tending of the dead as he does. The Harvester is not upset by the mutations on this dead body. He’s seen other Marines with far worse mutations. Both in this Era of relative peace- and from whence he came.
Another Astartes had done this.
Older, perhaps. The damage suggested an understanding of ceramite stress points that predated the Primaris era.The Harvester did not approve of unknown variables. A glance inland revealed movement through fog—heavy. Purposeful. Armored.
A hunter. The Sea Hunter- one who’s range scatters across this coast. He licks his lips as he focuses on his task. Glancing around to make sure no one sees him. He will have to make sure that the Sea Hunter doesn’t catch him. Some of the Hunters ever so despised those they called Scavengers. But really- he’s in waste management. It would be such an intolerable shame to not at least harvest some of the organs. The most valuable at least.
The Harvester withdrew without urgency. Panic wasted time. The gene-seed was secured. That was what mattered. As the tide rose, the Harvester scattered sand over the incision point, disrupting casual visual inspection. Not enough to hide it from a trained eye—but enough to delay recognition.
Delay was valuable. Before leaving, the Harvester crushed the remaining vox bead fragments beneath one heel, grinding them further into useless debris. No need to leave communicative remnants behind.
The storm intensified.
Good.
The Harvester slipped into the narrow spaces between structures, armor muted, profile minimized. This town was not the objective. It was merely a waypoint. The gene-seed would be delivered. The hunter would follow the wrong trail.
And the one who had killed the Black Dragon— The Harvester filed that presence away. If necessary, it could be dealt with later. The storm finally broke in earnest by midmorning. He will make sure to update his notes on this newest kill. This is not the first time the Sea hunter has struck, Winter- at least is the preferred season for the Sea Hunter for lurking near this town.
He knows that the Sea Hunter will strike again. Never just one kill when more hapless fools wander this town blind to what lurks in the dark waters. He murmurs a soft oath- something unheard by anything but the waves as he touches the container that holds the gene-seed. Safe. He will keep this safe from corrosive, corruptive forces.
Rain fell in slanting sheets, driven hard off the sea, rattling against rooftops and turning Saltmarsh Haven’s narrow streets slick and reflective. Atlas stood beneath the overhang of a closed chandlery, helm clipped at his belt, watching the town endure the weather with the quiet stubbornness of those who had learned not to fight the sea—but to wait it out.
So he heads back to one of his old haunts. To one of the places where he keeps his grim prizes. The Harvester keeps the chamber colder than necessary.
The others - if there were others to complain about it would say so, instead all there is, is an empty silent hum. All save for the thrumming noise of electricity and the machines at work. Ceramite joints stiffen. Breath fogs. Flesh remembers it is still flesh. He does not correct them. Cold slows decay. Cold preserves. The gene-vault hums softly, a choir of containment fields and life-support reliquaries. Each cylinder is labeled in a script so precise it borders on obsessive. He checks them anyway. Once. Twice. A third time, fingers hovering just short of contact, as if touch alone might ruin what little remains unspoiled.
He tells himself this is duty. That is the lie he prefers.
One sample’s readout flickers—nothing serious, a momentary fluctuation in purity metrics. The system corrects itself before alarms can sound. Still, his hand tightens. For a heartbeat, the chamber is not a chamber but a room filled with screaming things that should have been sons. He closes his eyes. They had been wrong. He knows that now. The data had been elegant. Beautiful, even. A solution to an extinction spiral. Stronger stock. Faster recovery. The math had been impeccable.
It was the flesh that betrayed them.
He remembers shapes that could not stand upright. Bones folding inward. Voices that tried to form words and failed. He remembers a father—their father—standing silent as judgment was passed, blade already in hand because there was no other mercy left to give. Harvester does not remember the sound those creatures made when they died.
That is the worst part. He opens his eyes and forces his breathing steady. In. Out. Ritual matters. Control matters. If he allows the memory to complete itself, it will demand something of him he cannot give.
So instead, he works. He adjusts a seal by a fraction of a millimeter. Notes a microscopic impurity for later purging. Each act is deliberate, reverent. Preservation as prayer. Maintenance as penance. He tells himself that if this survives, then something was not wasted. That if he saves enough—enough gene-lines, enough uncorrupted legacy—then the ledger might one day balance.
A foolish thought. He knows that too.
There is a scar on his gauntlet, half-hidden beneath reworked plating. He drags his thumb across it without thinking. It was earned long before this war, long before allegiances fractured into something unrecognizable. Back when he still believed in plans that ended cleanly.
Back when he believed responsibility could be shared.
Now there is only custody.
He does not claim these gene-seeds as his own. That would be another lie. They belong to the dead, to the future, to anyone but him. He is merely the one who ensures they do not suffer the same fate as those screaming failures burned into the back of his skull.
Let them.
Harvester straightens, sealing the vault with a final gesture that borders on tenderness. The hum deepens, steady and sure. Life, suspended. Potential, unruined. He shakes his head. No- that no. Memories are such cruel things. He will need to take control of himself more firmly. He … shouldn’t allow himself to get triggered by such… paltry things. His hands open and close them. They do not shake. He won’t allow them to. There is work to be done. There are always more things to do.
For now.
As he turns away, a thought slips through the cracks he keeps so carefully sealed: If I had guarded them like this then, he would not have had to raise his blade. Harvester does not allow himself to finish the sentence. Some losses are not meant to be mourned. They are meant to be prevented—again and again and again—until the universe decides you have paid enough.
Author's Note: Thanks to Egrets and C-u-c-koo for letting me borrow their characters and helping me with writing this behemoth of a fic! This was so much fun to write!
Author's note 3: @egrets-not-regrets characters: Lati Emon, Korio Runa Vespertine & Ghilius
Trigger Warning: Intense violence, stalking, death, and psychological horror. Minor Character death.
Summary: In a fog-bound town, Atlas faces a ghostly predator who kills with surgical precision—not to terrorize, but to test, manipulate, and erase, leaving survival itself a question of purpose.
Atlas turns the sea float over in his hands again, the glass cool now but still holding the faint memory of heat, the memory of the forge’s roaring furnace. It feels alive in a way he’s not accustomed to—not the pulsing, violent life of the warp or the suffocating, oppressive pulse of a battlefield, but something quieter. Patient. Responsive. Fragile. Yet enduring.
He glances at Thressl, whose grin has softened into something more thoughtful than playful, and Kerubiel, whose watchful gaze has shifted from cautious to quietly approving.
“…It’s strange,” Atlas says, almost to himself. “How something so delicate… can last. Can endure. And yet,” he hesitates, tracing a finger along the smooth swirl of colors, “…it’s more alive than some of the things I’ve fought.”
Thressl steps closer, his hand hovering near Atlas’s shoulder but not touching. “It remembers, cousin. The way you handle it, the care you give it. It’s not just glass—it’s patience, restraint, and focus made manifest. War teaches us strength, yes—but this… this teaches something else.”
Kerubiel lets out a soft hum. “Control. Discipline. Balance. You’ve faced annihilation, Atlas. You’ve walked the edge of death and returned. And yet here you are, coaxing life into molten glass.”
Atlas’s lips twitch, an almost-smile tugging at the corner. “I never thought I’d say it… but this—this is harder than facing a squad of traitor marines sometimes.” He shakes his head faintly. “More precise. More… fragile.”
Thressl chuckles again, low and approving. “And that’s why it’s worth it. Every second of struggle, every careful breath—you see it, you hold it, you know it didn’t break. Same as us, Atlas. Same as us.”
Atlas studies the swirls of blue, silver, and gold in the glass, letting the colors shift with the light.
“…I will keep this,” he repeats, more quietly this time, almost reverently. “As a reminder… that even amidst fire and pressure, even when everything seems bent toward destruction… things can endure. Be shaped. Be… beautiful.”
Kerubiel finally steps closer, placing a gloved hand on Atlas’s shoulder with rare tenderness. He gently squeezes his brother-cousin’s shoulder. His eyes warm and almost soft as he looks Atlas over. Some of them take longer to settle into the mostly peaceful Ancient Terra.
“Then hold onto it. Remember that, even when the battlefield is hell, the fire is everywhere, and the warp screams. You can still shape something. You can still endure.”
Atlas nods slowly, clutching the float a little tighter. He glances at Thressl and Kerubiel, at the soft winter light spilling across the studio floor. “…I understand,” he murmurs. “…I think I understand, now.”
Thressl grins, clapping him lightly on the back. “Good. Then perhaps next time, cousin, you can teach someone else what you’ve learned here—without the bloodshed, mind you.”
Atlas snorts softly, letting himself relax just a fraction, the weight of both the glass and the lesson settling into him. “…Perhaps,” he says, voice low but certain. “…perhaps.”
And as he stands there, holding the sea float in the warm, salt-scented air of the coastal forge, Atlas allows himself to imagine that endurance, precision, and creation are not just acts of peace—they are, in their own way, acts of war against chaos. Against entropy. Against despair.
The glass glints in the pale winter sunlight, a small, defiant beacon of resilience in a life forged for battle. And for the first time in a long time, Atlas allows himself to feel… calm. Thressl and Kerubiel look at him before starting to pack up.
“I hope you have a fun vacation Atlas.” Kerubiel says. “Saltmarsh Haven is a lovely coastal town.”
“I hope I will as well.” Atlas says with a small smile. It was going to be nice staying at the beach in winter for a month. A whole month of relaxation… It was… it felt almost heretical. Almost… like he was wasting time. But the others had insisted he do this- as he’d been working nonstop as soon as he had gotten the all clear to work. And well- there are astartes in this quaint seaside town.
“Remember - call us when you want to update us on how you are doing and don’t try to sneakily do paperwork remotely!” Thressl says semi playfully.
“I won’t, I promise.” Atlas says with a laugh as he hugs Thressl and tugs Kerubiel in for a hug- which the other grumbles a little about but hugs him back just as tightly.
They head back to Gannet Point- and later back to stone flame base while he looks to the sea with a small smile on his face. The salty cold of the sea as he watches the waves feels so soothing. He decides to walk along the coast for a bit, he’s got lunch- reinforced sandwiches, a soda, and some of the sweet saltwater taffy to eat as he takes a break sitting at one of the lonely seeming empty dark brown wooden picnic tables as he eats the food. The bitter wind and waves ruffles his hair as he stares out to sea and eats. It’s so peaceful. Not quiet- not with the wind and the sea, but different sounding than what he’s used to. It’s nice.
He finishes up his lunch and as he stands up- his vox bead crackles in his ear. Surprised he taps it to listen to what is being said- surprised that someone is contacting him so quickly into his vacation. He frowns- the signal is fragmented and distorted- such things often happened on Ancient Terra as he fiddles with the signal as static spits and sputters and he fiddles with it more. The clouds are coming in darker and the wind’s colder.
Atlas finally manages to get something from the static. H-help… lost… then there is more hissing static and there is a thudding crunch that has him wincing- did the person on the other end accidentally drop their vox bead? He waits for the scuffle-scrape noise that it has been picked up and a sheepish verbal explanation. Instead all he gets is silence. Not even any static any more and something in his gut twists a little and his frown deepens.
He fiddles with his vox bead some more- as he tries to glean more information to vox call back the other person. Instead there is silence. Not even the hold noises or a ‘this is out of range’. Just dead silence. Whoever this was- who ever had sent it- from what little information he has to go on- and he is no techmarine… they were likely close. And perhaps they are in trouble.
Author's Note: More of Atlas in Husbandry AU. Thanks to Egrets and C-u-c-koo for letting me borrow their characters and helping me with writing this behemoth of a fic! This was so much fun to write! @c-u-c-koo-4-40k character: Siros. @egrets-not-regrets characters: Lati Emon, Korio Runa Vespertine & Ghilius
Trigger Warning: Intense violence, stalking, death, and psychological horror. Minor Character death.
Summary: In a fog-bound town, Atlas faces a ghostly predator who kills with surgical precision—not to terrorize, but to test, manipulate, and erase, leaving survival itself a question of purpose.
However or whoever it was that broke the armor- had done it deliberately. Had known the weak points of ceramite armor- and how to deliver the maximum amount of damage and pain within a very short amount of time.
Atlas’s enhanced hearing caught the faintest echoes; water dripping from the pier above, the distant slap of waves, a whisper of fog moving across the sand. He shakes his head and closes his eyes for a moment before he opens his eyes again and focuses on more of the details, the direction of the tide, the depth of the footprints, the uneven pressure marks left by the boots. Patterns start to form and flicker about in his head as he tries to figure out the picture this forms with the few pieces he has at hand.
None of the heraldry or markings of the Black Dragons had been removed or defaced. The bone-protrusions hadn't snapped off either. So- it was likely not a message from the killer to the chapter. Was this personal? Or was this an… opportunity attack. For what purpose? It was… efficient, deadly, and dare he think it- tactically done. There is more unease forming inside of him as he rises from the body as he looks around.
The fog seems to surround and blind him to his surroundings and he dislikes it greatly. Somewhere in Saltmarsh haven, a killer walked, and time was short. He would need to trace the signs, analyze every mark, and try to anticipate the next move. He needs to find a motive, he needs to find the killer, he needs to find the weapon used. Atlas stands up tall as his hands clenched into fists, he had been … almost looking forward to this vacation and now this had happened. He will find out who killed his fellow Primaris and stop the killer before they strike again.
Atlas needs to try and reach out to some of the others- warn them of what he’s found. See if he can try to find some of the other local astartes in the area and try to interrogate them to see if they are the potential killer or not. When he reaches out on the vox to call Thressl, or Kerubiel or one of the others. All he gets is static, and his primary heart drops to his stomach. Someone is interfering with the vox network. He grabs his astartes-phone and frowns as it says no signal.
How… suspicious. And how fortuitous for the killer that trying to contact others is suddenly more difficult than it should be. He will need to move quickly to get to the bottom of this. This seems rather troubling, he will need to find more information.
Atlas stepped off the pier, boots crunching over wet boards, scanning Saltmarsh Haven as the first raindrops fell. The fog thickened, curling around streetlamps and wooden posts. He moved slowly, aware that every shadow could conceal a clue—or an ambush.
A fisherman huddled against the wind near the waterline, salt-stained coat pulled tight. Atlas approached.
“You seen anything… unusual?” he asked, voice steady but commanding.
The man flinched, wringing his hands. “Last night… lights off the harbor. Nets torn… boats gone missing. Some say… marines wander nearby… like ghosts.” He shivered and turned back to his task, hauling fish as if the conversation alone was dangerous.
Atlas nodded, filing the information away. There were no outright threats, but patterns emerged—the tension in the town, the unusual behavior, and now the whispers about feral marines.
Further up the street, the warm glow of the Saltmarsh Haven Inn spilled onto the wet cobblestones. Inside, a woman with sharp eyes and tightly tied hair watched him as he entered. He had been in and out of with Thressl and Kerubiel. It had seemed so much warmer and bright naught but a few scant hours before.
“I’m Atlas,” he said, glancing at her carefully. “I need information—anything you’ve seen, heard, or felt that seems… unusual.”
She hesitated, then spoke in low tones. “Storm coming, and with it… trouble. A few new faces in town, strangers with no real reason to be here. One man, stayed near the pier all night, just watching.” Her fingers tapped nervously on the counter. “I don’t know who he was, but… something isn’t right.”
Atlas’s thoughts raced. New faces. Unexplained activity. Combined with the theft of the gene-seed, this was more than a simple murder—it was part of a larger, deliberate pattern.
Outside, the storm was picking up. Rain lashed the narrow streets. From the corner of his eye, Atlas spotted movement. A second figure, a Primaris in green-and-brass armor he did not recognize, was slipping between alleys. Atlas’s hand brushed the hilt of his combat knife.
“Stop!” he called, but the figure vanished into the fog before a response could be made. He moves to run after them, but he pauses when he hears footsteps. He turned back to the townsfolk. A boy, no older than twelve, darted past, clutching a basket of fish.
Atlas’s voice cut through the wind. “Wait—what did you see last night?”
The boy froze, eyes wide. “I… I saw shadows on the pier… and someone carrying something shiny… a marine… they looked like they… hurt him…”
Atlas clenched his fists. Every detail—the shadows, the stolen gene-seed, the fleeting stranger—was a thread he needed to follow.
The innkeeper stepped closer. “Be careful,” she murmured. “Saltmarsh Haven isn’t… safe in winter. Not anymore.”
“For just Space marines or for common folk too?” Atlas asks them.
“Oh- so far no one like us has gone missing. Just you large folk.” The innkeeper says looking at Atlas before glancing down at her hands.
Atlas’s gaze swept the fog, the town, and the stormy sea. Somewhere in Saltmarsh Haven, danger walked. And the threads he had begun to trace would not unravel.
The storm had worsened. Sheets of rain whipped across Saltmarsh Haven, mingling with the brine of the sea, and Atlas moved carefully through the slick streets, boots striking puddles with muted splashes. The fog rolled off the cliffs and drifted through alleys, curling around lampposts like smoke from a long-dead fire. Each shadow seemed to shift as he passed.
Atlas’s enhanced senses picked out small, strange details: footprints that ended abruptly, as if the traveler had simply vanished; gloved hands on windowpanes watching from darkened rooms; and the occasional metallic scent in the air, faint but distinct over the storm. His instincts screamed—someone was here, moving through the town, watching, waiting.
That isn’t the only armor he’s seen around Saltmarsh Haven. He spots near the aquatic park a First born dark Kraken. He’ll approach the other to speak carefully- cautiously latter as he spots out of the corner of his eyes armor in midnight clad. He turns towards it and sees the one in Scout armor and another with the skull helmet of a Chaplain. He taps something on his armor and heads to the Chapel- and requests an appointment time to speak with the Night Lord Chaplain, as he’s not so rude as to barge in on someone who’s only a suspect at this time of a murder.
And as he knows - just because someone’s from one of the bloodier legions- doesn’t mean they are automatically the one who’s doing the crime. Anyone can kill. So- unless something changes drastically, he’ll wait to see what he can do and try to be patient.
Author's Note: More of Atlas in Husbandry Au! Thanks to Egrets and C-u-c-koo for letting me borrow their characters and helping me with writing this behemoth of a fic! This was so much fun to write!
Author's note 3: @egrets-not-regrets characters: Lati Emon, Korio Runa Vespertine & Ghilius
Trigger Warning: Intense violence, stalking, death, and psychological horror. Minor Character death.
Summary: In a fog-bound town, Atlas faces a ghostly predator who kills with surgical precision—not to terrorize, but to test, manipulate, and erase, leaving survival itself a question of purpose.
The Watcher stood at the edge of the surf, water breaking against armored greaves in violent bursts of white. The sea remembered him. It recoiled from the weight of his presence, waves breaking wide, as though unwilling to touch what walked among them. It amused him to think that- such things were foolish notions. After all the seas of Ancient Terra are not sentient. Despite certain sentimental notions from certain foolish souls.
He did not move.
His armor bore the marks of centuries—gouges filled with corrosion, scorched sigils half-scraped away, plates reforged and reforged again until their original lines were lost. It was armor that had survived not because it was maintained, but because it refused to die. The waves are soothing and irritating all at once as he watches patiently, carefully.
The Watcher tilted his helm slightly, listening.
The lighthouse beam swept over the pier. Hm… Just how much did that old baseline see? How much does the old man know? Or would it simply be a dead end. Time will tell with what happens as things unfold.
Once.
Twice.
On the third pass, it brushed the edge of his pauldron. He hears a low deep noise. He tilts his head and looks. Just the sea, the wind, and the fog. Nothing more, nothing less. Ancient Terra has given him many blessings, and many a hunt.
He did not flinch.
He felt the presence inland then—the other one. The blue-armored hunter. Purposeful. Methodical. Loyal in the way only those who still believed in order could be. He tilts his head. That one is young. Scouts are often foolish. A Sargent- still brash, bold. Arrogant as those of the Blue and Gold so often are.
The Watcher’s lips curled beneath his helm.
Of course one like you would not be able to leave well enough alone.
He turned and began to walk, footsteps precise even as the storm erased them almost as soon as they formed. He did not hurry. There was no need. The hunt was already unfolding. He has killed Sons of Guilliman before. And he will kill them once more. An astartes bleeds red, like all humans do, after all.
The corpse lay where he had left it.
He stood over it now, rain washing the blood into the sand, tide pulling at ruined ceramite. The Watcher studied the damage—not with regret, not with triumph, but with assessment.
Efficient. Acceptable.
The Primaris had fought well. Stronger than the old breed. Faster. But strength meant nothing without understanding. The Watcher had broken him by exploiting expectation—by striking where doctrine assumed safety.
He crouched, one massive gauntlet resting against the wet boards of the pier. Fun- that had been an almost satisfying hunt. But there is more prey to find and catch and kill. It had been- this one is not the first Primaris he has killed. The First time- he’d been caught off guard- the second wind that had them nearly killing him from almost dying. He’d learned quickly to kill Primaris fast. Faster healers have something that reignites them if not doused. His first few kills of Primaris had been… inelegant. Learning how they tick- how to kill them quickly. Otherwise they might rise again to try and kill him for his hunting.
The gene-seed was gone.
That displeased him.
Not because he desired it—he did not—but because it meant interference. He scowls a little at that. Some scuttling carrion feeder. Someone who stole other’s valor. Tch. How annoying. This is not the first time the Scavenger has taken something from one of his kills. He growls a little.
Another player.
He inhaled slowly, filtering salt, blood, ozone, and something faintly unfamiliar. Not warp-tainted. Not loyal. Not his. A scavenger, then. Or a collector. If they are someone who interferes too much he will make sure to end them. Just as others who got too greedy after his kills have ended on his blade.
The Watcher rose.
The storm intensified, thunder cracking overhead. The sea surged harder, as if trying to erase the evidence of his work. He welcomed the noise. It masked the sounds. Hide a movement. Let fear ferment in the dark. In the distance, he heard voices—human. Whispering. Afraid.
Good.
Fear softened boundaries. Made people careless. And that fear feeds him. Such a delightful aroma.
He moved inland, shadow slipping between buildings too small to contain him, yet somehow failing to announce his passing. His bulk scraped nothing. Displaced nothing. Like a predator that understood the geometry of space.
A figure moved in a window.
The Watcher paused.
Listened.
No threat.
He continued on.
At the edge of town, where stone gave way to earth and twisted grass, he stopped again. He could feel it now—the pressure of a mind brushing the edges of the hunt. The blue-armored one was closer than before.
Persistent.
Amusing.
The Watcher turned his helm toward the sea once more.
“You’re late,” he rumbled, voice swallowed by thunder and wind.
No answer came. But something shifted in the storm—something that noticed the words. The Watcher flexed his gauntlets, feeling ancient servos respond with a low, satisfied growl.
Soon.
The town would crack. The ones seeking to hunt him would push too far. The scavenger would reveal itself. And when they did. He stepped forward, disappearing into the fog as though the storm itself had claimed him. Behind him, the waves erased the last sign he had ever been there.
This will be fun- the hunter and the prey. Who will win? Who will die? This is one of the games he enjoys the most. Young fools trying to stop him. End up dead. After all, he’s played this game on so many worlds. Ancient Terra provides opportunities and difficulties that other worlds before had not.
Author's Note: Thanks to Egrets and C-u-c-koo for letting me borrow their characters and helping me with writing this behemoth of a fic! This was so much fun to write!
Author's note 3: @egrets-not-regrets characters: Lati Emon, Korio Runa Vespertine & Ghilius
Trigger Warning: Intense violence, stalking, death, and psychological horror. Minor Character death.
Summary: In a fog-bound town, Atlas faces a ghostly predator who kills with surgical precision—not to terrorize, but to test, manipulate, and erase, leaving survival itself a question of purpose.
Atlas needs to try and reach out to some of the local astartes that are in the area. See if any of them are willing to help him. Or if they are going to hinder him. Or if - he’s lucky? Unlucky? If they are involved in the murder of the Black Dragon astarte. He had been pointed into the direction of the chapel and it was quiet in the way only coastal buildings ever were—never truly silent, always breathing with the sea.
Wind pressed against the old stone walls, rattling the narrow windows as rain slid down the glass in thin, uneven streams. The interior smelled faintly of salt, wax, and incense long since absorbed into the mortar. Candles burned low along the walls, their flames steady despite the storm.
Atlas heard that an Astartes had moved in recently with their family. Coming down from Steelix River to the coast. The reasons he’s heard about why were because they had family that were already settled here. Atlas knows more- Claude had spoken of a Chaplain Siros- of the Night Lords.
The instinctive unease coils in his gut - but perhaps he could get the older marine to help him with this? He had requested a meeting between them- not wanting to arrive abruptly and without an appointment time- he didn’t want to seem hostile. Time is of the essence to find the killer- killers? But haste makes waste.
Siros knelt alone before the altar.
Not in prayer.
His helm rested at his side, lightning-etched ceramite dulled and carefully maintained. He had been reviewing local logistics reports—ship movements, port authority notices, tidal charts more out of habit than necessity. Saltmarsh Haven was quiet. That had been the point.
He heard the door before it opened.
Heavy steps. Deliberate. Armored.
Siros rose smoothly and turned as Atlas entered, rain still clinging to the edges of his blue-and-gold ceramite, helm tucked beneath one arm. The Ultramarine paused just inside the threshold, eyes adjusting to the dim.
“Chaplain Siros,” Atlas said, voice controlled but tight. “Thank you for agreeing to meet.”
Siros studied him for a moment—posture, tension, the way his free hand hovered just a little too close to his belt.
“You wouldn’t have sought me out,” Siros said calmly, “if this were a social call.”
“No,” Atlas agreed. “I wouldn’t.”
That earned a faint, approving hum.
“Speak, then,” Siros said, gesturing toward a stone table near the altar. “Whatever weighs on you has already decided not to wait.”
Atlas stepped forward and activated his data-slate, projecting images into the low light.
A shattered helm.
Ceramite cracked like split bone.
Blood darkening wet sand.
Siros stilled.
Not visibly—but something behind his eyes sharpened.
“This was found two nights ago,” Atlas said. “On the pier. Primaris. Black Dragon.”
Siros leaned closer, eyes scanning the images in silence. He did not interrupt.
Atlas continued. “Cause of death was close-quarters trauma. Armor failure at stress points. Vox bead crushed. No witnesses. Storm covered most traces.”
“And you believe,” Siros said slowly, “this was not an accident.”
“No,” Atlas replied. “I believe it was a hunt.”
That did it.
Siros straightened and reached for the slate, swiping through the images himself now. He zoomed in on fracture lines, rotated angles, cross-referenced timestamps.
Several heartbeats passed.
“Where did you find the gene-seed?” Siros asked.
Atlas hesitated. “I didn’t.”
Siros looked up sharply.
“It was taken,” Atlas continued. “But not immediately. Hours later. Different method. Clean extraction.”
Siros’s jaw tightened—not in anger, but concentration.
“Two actors,” he murmured.
Atlas blinked. “You think so?”
“I’m certain,” Siros replied. He enlarged an image of the chest plate. “This damage was delivered with intent to disable first. The killer knew exactly how much force to apply and where. This—” he flicked to the extraction site “—was performed by someone who arrived after death. Different patience. Different priorities.”
He leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing.
“And importantly,” he added, “the extractor waited.”
Atlas felt something click into place. “If they were working together—”
“They wouldn’t have risked spoilage,” Siros finished. “Nor left the body unattended that long.”
Silence settled between them, heavier now.
“You said this happened on the pier,” Siros continued. “What was the tide doing?”
“Rising,” Atlas answered immediately.
Siros nodded once. “Of course it was.”
He pulled up a local tidal chart, overlaying it with the estimated time of death. His finger traced the curve thoughtfully.
“This killer understands the sea,” Siros said. “Not as terrain—as an ally. He moves when the water will erase his mistakes.”
Atlas studied the chart, then looked up. “You’ve seen this before.”
“I’ve hunted men like this before,” Siros corrected. “On worlds with jungles. Cities. Ash wastes. The environment changes. The predator does not.”
Thunder rolled outside, close enough to vibrate the stone beneath their boots.
“You live here,” Atlas said quietly.
“Yes.” Siros responds as he looks over the large Scout Sargent.
“With your family.” Atlas notes. Which is good- that means the First Born Astartes will be invested in stopping the killer- after all, just because the killer is going after Primaris Marines right now doesn’t mean that the killer won’t go after others if they have the chance.
Siros’s gaze flicked—just briefly—toward the chapel’s side door, toward the town beyond. “Yes.”
That was all the answer Atlas needed. There was a tension here- Atlas would need to pick his words with care. Even with the information Siros has given there is still more that he needs to discover- to uncover. Having another set of eyes- someone else with different knowledge and skill set would be invaluable.
“I came to you,” Atlas said, “because Claude has mentioned you before… He’s a good friend of mine.”
Siros regarded him for a long moment.
“I owe Clade a debt,” he said at last. “But that is not why I will help you.”
He deactivated the projection and secured his helm.
“There is a place beneath the cliffs,” Siros continued, already moving. “Sea caves. Old. Only accessible when the tide is high enough to hide entry and low enough to permit passage.”
Atlas fell into step beside him. “You think that’s where he retreats.”
“I think,” Siros said, voice dark and certain, “that predators return to places that forgive them.”
They stopped at the chapel door. Rain hammered the stone outside, the storm fully set in now.
Siros turned to face Atlas, eyes hard.
“You brought me death to my doorstep,” he said. “You were right to do so.”
His voice lowered.
“But understand this—if this thing threatens my family, I will not wait for proof. I will not wait for permission.”
Atlas met his gaze evenly. He’s not one to cower from doing hard things. Threats need to be assessed. And those that proved to be too dangerous- eliminated. And this hunter- whoever he is, whatever kind of Astartes he is. Has killed once. And that means he’s likely to kill again.
“Then we’re aligned,” he said.
Siros nodded once and pushed the door open. Outside, the tide continued to rise. And somewhere beneath the storm, something ancient adjusted its hunt—unaware that it was no longer alone.
Author's Note: More of Atlas in Husbandry Au. Thanks to Egrets and C-u-c-koo for letting me borrow their characters and helping me with writing this behemoth of a fic! This was so much fun to write! @c-u-c-koo-4-40k character: Siros. @egrets-not-regrets characters: Lati Emon, Korio Runa Vespertine & Ghilius
Trigger Warning: Intense violence, stalking, death, and psychological horror. Minor Character death.
Summary: In a fog-bound town, Atlas faces a ghostly predator who kills with surgical precision—not to terrorize, but to test, manipulate, and erase, leaving survival itself a question of purpose.
He stopped at the end of a narrow street, the waves crashing against the pier in the distance. Voices rose, low and wary, from the fishermen who had taken refuge under awnings. One muttered, “It’s them again… the ones who don’t belong here.”
Atlas crouched, catching the words as clearly as if they had been spoken into his ear. “Who doesn’t belong?” he asked, stepping closer.
The man hesitated, then shook his head. “Can’t rightly say. They come with the tide. Shadows in the night. Boats gone missing… nets torn. Some say they move like the wind, too fast to follow.”
Atlas’s jaw tightened. Shadows moving with the tide. Strange, violent precision. It matched the signs on the pier—the broken helmet, the deep-cut ceramite fractures, the subtle abrasions suggesting grappling. Whoever had done this, he realized, was not ordinary. Not even a human criminal.
He turned toward the sound of splintering wood. The fog obscured a figure crossing the pier, quick and deliberate. Atlas called out, but the figure vanished into the mist before he could get a look. The shape, the posture, the way it moved—there was something inhuman about it, something that sent a chill deeper than the winter wind.
In the market, an innkeeper murmured to a customer, loud enough for Atlas to catch. “I saw a man on the docks last night, tall… eyes like fire, but under his hood. He didn’t speak, didn’t move like a man… like he knew every step before it happened.”
Atlas’s mind raced. Tall, calculated, inhuman. Every mark on the Black Dragon’s armor, every trace left in the sand, suggested a predator trained not for chaos of war but for measured, deliberate kills. The killer moved through the environment like a hunter through prey.
He caught sight of another clue—a long scratch in the wood of the pier, too clean to be natural wear, like a clawed or armored hand dragged across it. A glimmer of something dark and reflective, caught in a puddle, suggested a symbol or sigil—but the storm blurred it before he could get a clear look.
Atlas’s thoughts flickered back to the gene-seed theft. Someone had returned to the body, but that act was separate. The killer hadn’t taken it. Someone else had—an opportunist, or perhaps a secondary player. This meant the Black Dragon’s death had more layers than one would assume.
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head against the wind. Somewhere in the fog, in the waves, and in the storm, the killer moved unseen. Close enough to strike again, clever enough to evade notice. And the town, seemingly quiet and simple, held whispers that could guide him—or mislead him entirely.
Atlas tightened the straps on his armor and scanned the horizon. Every shadow, every movement, every whispered rumor had a story—but only some were true. And one of them was deadly.
He would have to see through the lies, through the whispers, through the fog. The killer was here, somewhere, and Atlas would not be caught unawares.
The storm had grown harsher by midday. Rain pelted the cobblestones of Saltmarsh Haven, the wind tugging at Atlas’s ceramite, cold and relentless. The fog still lingered in low banks along the docks, curling around pylons and rope coils. He adjusted his helmet and strode forward, eyes scanning for movement, sounds, anything unusual.
Atlas’s first stop was the fisherman’s wharf, where a small group of men huddled beneath tarps, casting wary glances toward the pier.
“You again,” one muttered, recognition flickering in his eyes. “You’re the… the marine who found him.”
Atlas inclined his head. “I need to know what you saw last night. Anything—anything unusual.”
The men exchanged nervous looks. One, a weathered man named Cormac, spoke. “Lights. Strange… figures on the water. They didn’t sound right—like they didn’t belong. And… someone pulled a boat under. Didn’t see their faces.” He shuddered. “Like shadows moving.”
Atlas noted the fear in their posture, the hesitation in their words. Not all clues were physical. Some were in the way people reacted, the tension in their voices.
He moved deeper into the town. At the market square, he found Raine, a wiry dockhand, arguing with a merchant over stolen supplies. Atlas observed silently. Raine’s hands were calloused, his coat soaked through, but there was an edge to his movements—nervous, calculating.
“Did you see anything last night?” Atlas asked calmly, his tone leaving no room for evasion.
Raine blinked rapidly, hesitation giving way to defiance. “I… I might have seen someone sneaking around the pier. I didn't think much of it. Could’ve been a drunk… or a fisherman—some nights are quiet, you know?”
Atlas filed the statement away. It was vague, but it confirmed movement near the pier during the night—a pattern.
The storm was reaching its peak as Atlas approached the Saltmarsh Haven Inn. From the doorway, a woman stepped out—Elyra, the innkeeper he had met before. Her sharp eyes caught his, and she gestured him inside, voice low.
“You’re looking too hard, marine,” she warned. “People notice things… and some things are better left unseen. But… you’re not wrong. There’s been a stranger wandering about. Tall, quiet… dangerous.”
Atlas’s gaze narrowed. “Stranger? How long?”
“A few days. Comes with the tide. Leaves with it. Don’t know who he is, and no one dares approach. Something about him… it doesn’t feel right.”
Outside, the storm made the world a blur of gray, waves thrashing against the pier. Atlas’s mind raced. Every witness, every suspicious movement, every fleeting shadow was a potential lead—or a trap.
He returned to the pier, crouching beside the wet sand. The footprints had shifted with the rising tide, but enough remained for Atlas to analyze. Deep impressions suggested someone heavy, precise in movement, and careful not to leave more than necessary. He frowned.
Then a flash of movement caught his eye—a Primaris marine in dark green armor, a pattern he did not recognize. Atlas approached cautiously, hand on the hilt of his combat knife. The marine froze, eyes meeting him.
