Originating from a successor Chapter of the Iron Hands, the Sons of Medusa were known for their uncompromising toughness, ruthlessness, and an extreme, almost religious fascination with machinery and overwhelming firepower.
Their arrival signaled that the upper echelons of the Hive City had finally abandoned the illusion of "internal stability." The Imperium was now prepared to use the most brutal methods to burn away the xenos pustules festering in the Hive's rotten soil.
The landing site was a massive loading platform in Zone 5 that had been cleared with frantic urgency. Once cluttered with shipping containers and rusted machinery, it was now eerily vacant. Stark white industrial searchlights illuminated every inch of the deck, magnifying every stain and scratch on the cold steel floor.
Raynor, designated as an "Abnormal Creature Inspector" due to his recent outstanding performance, was granted the right to observe the arrival from the sidelines. He stood among dozens of tense Ministry of Justice officials, PDF officers, and low-ranking bureaucrats. They stood like an honor guard—or perhaps like cargo waiting for inspection.
There was no ceremony. No speeches.
When the low-frequency pulsation transitioned into a substantial, eardrum-pressing roar, a Thunderhawk gunship appeared. Painted in iron-gray with the sharp, angular lines of a forged boulder, it pierced the chemical smog and landed with heavy precision. The heat from the engine nozzles scorched the deck, creating distorted waves that baked the air dry.
The assault ramp swung open with a deafening metallic clang.
The first thing to emerge was not a figure, but an aura—a cold scent mixed with high-grade lubricating oil, coolant, purified ozone, and the sharp tang of metal. Then, ten towering figures marched out in a single, synchronized line.
The Sons of Medusa.
Their power armor was a uniform, striking emerald green. On their shoulder plates sat the pure white emblem of the Magra Clan—a lineage within the Iron Hands known for their obsessive pursuit of heavy weaponry and mastery over complex machinery.
Most striking were their helmets: bone-white, reflecting a cold, unforgiving glare under the searchlights. The lenses of their visors emitted a dim, baleful red glow, like the dying embers of a furnace.
Their steps were perfectly synchronized, heavy and precise. The deep hum of their armor's servo-motors maintained a haunting harmony. It didn't sound like ten soldiers walking; it sounded like a single, massive, sophisticated war machine shifting its gears.
Raynor and the other officials immediately performed the Aquila salute, showing their respect for the "Emperor's Angels." Raynor's gaze swept over the squad, analyzing their formation.
The leading Sergeant was more robust than the others, his status marked by the officer's insignia on his pauldrons and the glint of an Iron Halo at his back. A massive heavy bolter hung from his hip, balanced by a gleaming power axe on the other. He was the brain, the blade, and the final switch of destruction.
Following him were four battle-brothers armed with heavy bolters—the backbone of the squad's sustained firepower. The remaining five were the specialists: three carried massive fuel canisters for their fearsome flamethrowers, while two carried heavy multi-meltas that pulsed with dangerous energy.
This was a Magra Destruction Squad. They were not built for tactical flexibility; they were built for saturation—a philosophy of war that turned entire sectors into scorched earth.
But they were not alone.
A second, larger transport landed, disgorging a swarm of Servitors. These were human bodies subjected to cruel mechanical modification, leaving only basic biological functions. They moved stiffly but in perfect order, dragging heavy ammunition crates, fuel tanks, and mobile weapon mounts behind the Space Marines like unconscious supply tentacles.
The officials held their breath. Even the Governor's representative, usually a master of flattery, stood frozen. The Sergeant took a step forward, his iron boots striking the deck with a hollow echo. He ignored the representative entirely, his white helmet turning slightly as his red lenses scanned the group of bureaucrats.
The gaze was devoid of warmth. It was a purely instrumental scan.
"Data terminal interface."
The voice, amplified by the helmet's vox-grille, was flat and mechanical, stripped of all emotion. The representative scrambled to present a data-slate.
Raynor later learned the Sergeant's name was Cassius.
Cassius took the slate and plugged it directly into an interface on his gauntlet. His lenses flashed as he processed the information. After ten seconds, he handed the slate back.
"Every security incident. Every abnormal disappearance. Every energy anomaly. Five-year history," Cassius commanded. "Raw data. Within twenty-four hours."
His demands were brutal in their simplicity.
"Local armed forces: No escort required. To avoid accidental injury. To prevent information leaks."
It wasn't a request; it was a decree.
The Sons of Medusa's first purge began within hours of their arrival. Raynor, through his internal channels, managed to obtain a heavily edited battle report.
The target: an abandoned synthetic protein factory on the border of Zones 6 and 7. Intelligence indicated a medium-sized Tyranid hatchery had formed there, sheltering mutants and potentially purestrain Genestealers.
The report lacked any narrative of the struggle; it focused entirely on the results.
"Target area completely purified. Approximately 12,000 to 15,000 mutant organisms eliminated. All enemy units neutralized by heavy explosive or thermobaric fire. Vast majority of biological matter vaporized."
The reconnaissance noted significant structural changes to the factory. Entire sections of the steel flooring had been melted and solidified into glassy ripples. Load-bearing columns had been liquified by melta-fire. The air remained thick with the smell of ozone and vaporized metal.
At the center of the carnage, the Space Marines had left their mark: simplified runes of purification and mechanical blessing etched into the molten slag.
In the report's conclusion, the scribe used a term that would soon become common in District 7 to describe the path of the Space Marines:
'The Land of Steel Baptism.'