The Fall of Aomori

[Heresy]

The Eagle undocked from Rochester. Making its way through the jumphole network leading to Honshu, it flew straight and true.

The pilot, Reaper Moros, with a fixed grin on his face. One of the most human faces amongst the Phantoms, handy if he was to blend in with the humans infesting spacestations across Sirius. His red eyes gave it away slightly though. Still, he could walk among the weak and useless, and wouldn't be given a second glance. A Junker back on Rochester made the mistake of picking a fight with him. Moros laughed uncontrollably.

Setting the autopilot trajectory to the coordinates of Aomori, he exitted the cockpit of his Eagle and entered the cargobay. His power armour, bestowed upon him when he joined the Phantom Empire, still shone perfectly in the dim lighting inside the cargobay. That would change. He could imagine the smears of blood on it. He could smell it. He could taste it.

Donning the suit of power armour, Moros checked that everything was working as it should. Of course it was, but in truth, he just wanted to imagine pulling someone apart with it. He started some tests, checking that everything worked. Slicing apart blocks of scrap metal in his hold, he closed his eyes, and imagined. Women and children, the helpless, writhing on the floor as their guts spewed from their abdomen, and their cries falling silent as he ripped their heads from their bodies.

This would be his first true territorial engagement, and the Reaper had no intention of disappointing. He was looking forward to the killing, the blood and the horror. He could only hope that there was some left for him when he got there...

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