# wh40k humor



## khorneflake

bring funny short stories jokes posters anything


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## khorneflake

These are the Space Commandments. I found them while browsing the Web. I don't know who wrote them. But I'll gladly give credit where it's due. These are hysterical. And there's 628 of them

I recommend copying the text to a word document and saving it for yourself.

The Space Marine Commandments

1. Thou shalt not refer to the Adeptus Soritas as “Bolter Bitches,”
nor shalt thou go anywhere near our sisters during the time of the “Red Rage,” lest thou wishes to be the first human to enter orbit without the aid of a shuttle.
2. Orks are not “cute”.
3. Thou shalt not make jokes about the Imperial Guard’s weapons.
4. Thou shalt not replace the Librarian’s staff with a magic wand.
5. Thou shalt not tip the Terminators over during battle.
6. Thou shalt not do Spock impersonations around Eldar.
7. C-3P0 is not a Necron ambassador.
8. You shall not dare others to eat Squigs.
9. No, you cannot “take the Titan for a spin”.
10. Thou shalt not use thy Multi-Meltas to light campfires. (In a similar manner, thou shalt not use the Terminator Captain’s Chainfist to open tins of baked beans)
11. Thou shalt not bribe the Inquisitor to bring down Exterminatus on your ex-wife.
12. Thou shalt not refer to the Rhino transports as “pimp wagons,” nor shalt thou use the phrase, “If the Rhino be rockin’, don’t come a knockin’”.
13. The Chapter Master is not a “drag”.
14. Thou shall not use Power Swords to cut your food.
15. Thou shall not ask a Sister if you might “donate some of your own Gene-Seed”.
16. Thou shall not throw soap at Nurglings.
17. Thou shalt not put a “kick me” sign on the Golden Throne.
18. Thou shalt not refer to the Machine Spirit as “Cruise Control”.
19. Thou shalt not stick a “Honk if you think I’m sexy” sticker on the Sisters’ Rhino.
20. Thou shalt not honk if thy sees a sticker saying “Honk if you think I’m sexy” on a Sister’s Rhino.
21. Thou shalt not unplug the Golden Throne just “for laughs”.
22. Thou shalt not make the Emperor read your palms, or call upon him as “Miss Cleo”.
23. Virus bombs are not fun in a box.
24. Shooting one of your own men who looks at you funny does not count as an “enemy casualty”.
25. Thou shalt not clog the Lascannon tubes “just to see what happens”.
26. Thou shalt not spread cooking oil in front of a Dreadnought.
27. Thou shalt not attempt to shake the Chaplain’s hand whilst wearing a Power Fist.
28. Putting sand inside the Terminators’ Armour is not “funny”.
29. Thou shalt not refer to the Standard of Fortitude as a “walking stick”.
30. Thou shalt not refer to the Bolt Pistol as a novelty cigarette lighter.
31. The Earthshaker Cannon is not a “hat stand” nor is the Sentinel a “standard lamp”.
32. Thou shalt not use Land Raiders to “play chicken” with Imperial Guard Chimeras.
33. Thou shalt not put a “Purge me!” sign on the back of the Chaplain’s armour.
34. Thou shalt not compliment the Dark Eldar by calling them “kinky”.
35. Thou shalt not let an Ork be the designated driver.
36. Thou shalt not replace the holy unguents for the Machine Spirit with grain alcohol.
37. Thou shalt not invite a Banshee to Karaoke.
38. Thou shalt not replace the O2 units on the Commander’s Power Armour with laughing gas.
39. Thou shalt not train a Hormogaunt to be a watchdog.
40. Thou shalt not take “Old One Eye” out of context...”He’s in my Artificer Armour he..he..duh!”.
41. Thou shalt not call Dark Angels “hippie alter boys”.
42. Thou shalt not taunt an Eldar “gee didn’t these used to shoot further?”.
43. Thou shalt not refer to the Golden Throne as “the nicest commode in the galaxy”.
44. Thou shalt not attempt to offer a Carnifex a breath mint.
45. Thou shalt not throw a Warp Beast a dog biscuit.
46. Thou shalt not hope for mud wrestling during a Wych/Sisters battle.
47. Thou shalt not ask a Warlock what he wears under his robe.
48. Thou shalt not tease an Inquisitor with “look Sir-Heretics!”.
49. Thou shalt not play whack-a-mole with those little Jawa-wannabe Dark Angel thingies (tangent).
50.Thou shalt not wear oven mitts when issued a Plasma Gun.
51. Thou shalt not take the Rhino to procure monkish ale before filling out His Most Holy acquisitions forms.
52. Thou shalt not ask the Librarian if he has records concerning Uranus.
53. Thou shalt not refer to the flamer as a “novelty toaster”.
54. Thou shalt not ask the Apothecary to guess what you have eaten by looking at your tongue.
55. Thou shalt not remove the motors from a Terminators’ Armour during battle. 
56. Thou shalt not point and laugh saying “look, somebody missed the toilet” when battling Snotlings.
57. Thou shalt not break wind in the presence of the Emperor (unless properly addressed to do so).
58. Eldar helmets may not be use as hole-punches.
59. Thou shalt not refer to the daily rituals as “psychological warfare” nor shalt thou refer to the Index Astartes as “the book of grudges”.
60. Thou shalt not say, “will someone please tell the Emperor to crap or get off the Throne”.
61. Thou shalt not petition His Most Holy administration to make “Inquisition” an Olympic sport.
62. Thou shalt not instigate a “my Primarch could beat up your Primarch” debate.
63. Thou shalt not use heavy breathing and “I am your father” as a battle cry when wielding a Power Sword and entering an assault.
64. Thou shalt not affect a Transylvanian accent around the Blood Angels.
65. No hair pulling when enjoying brotherly contests with the Space Wolves.
66. Duct-taping a Flamer to your Boltgun does not count as a Combi-weapon, and painting it pretty won’t make it “Master Crafted”.
67. Thou shalt not punt Grots for pleasure.
68. Thou shalt not shout “Thongs for the Thong God!” in front of the Dark Eldar lest thou wish to learn the true meaning of pain.
69. Thou shalt not debate the protective merits of purple spandex with the Dark Eldar.
70. Thou shalt not write theatre criticism and charge His Most Holy treasury to mail it to the Harlequin.
71. Power armour never makes a Sister look fat.
72. Thou shalt not laugh maniacally when flaming the non-believers.
73. Thou shalt not use Thunder Hammers to play croquet.
74. Thou shalt not start rounds of “you might be a C’tan if” while imbibing strong monkish ale.
75. Though shalt not refer to thine brethren, whom the Emperor has dictated be armed with an incendiary weapon, as a “Flamer” constantly. 
For this has been proven to lower morale and cause strife within His Most Holy showering facilities.
76. Thou shalt not affect an Austrian accent around the Necrons.
77. Thou shalt not ask Rough Riders if you can pet their ponies.
78. Thou shalt not stray from the Adeptus Mechanicus’ directive towards ornamentation of Rhinos; specifically no aluminium sport rims, 
neon, extraneous exhaust pipes, or fuzzy dice.
79. Thou shall not attempt to challenge the Eldar to games of “Counter-strike”.
80. Thou shall not, in any way, shape, or form, take the Land Speeder joyriding.
81. Remember; shining Lasguns in the Guards’ eyes is WRONG.
82. Thou shall not pretend to have been possessed by a Daemon.
83. Thou shall not call the sacred Plasma gunners of the Imperial Guard ‘fizz busters’.
84. Yes, it will be noticed if you “borrow” the Chapter Master’s equipment.
85. Thou shall not use supported War Hounds to “play ball” with Imperial Guard Sentinels.
86. It is NOT cool to feed Snotlings copious amounts of narcotics!
87. It is not “funny” to dress up as a Bloodletter and jump out in front of the Chapter Master.
88. Replacing a Brother’s ammunition with blanks is not “funny”.
89. Wiffle bats are not approved hand weapons.
90. Playing naughty movies in your Power Armour’s Autosensors is not sanctioned by the Adeptus Astartes.
91. Thou shalt not teleport into the Sisters showering facilities.
92. Thou shalt not taunt our revered Dreadnought brethren by tapping on their window and saying “anyone in there?”.
93. Thou shalt not commandeer Drop Pods to go for pizza.
94. Thou shalt not refer to the Emperor’s Champion as “that brown-noser”.
95. Nuking from orbit is not doctrinally feasible for removal of annoying insects-unless they be Tyranids.
96. Thou shalt not tickle the Fallen to press for confession and redemption.
97. Thou shalt not follow a Librarian around thinking, “Can you hear me now”, repetitively in an attempt to drive him insane.
98. Thou shalt not refer to the Wulfen as “damn dirty apes”.
99. Thou shalt not use Whirlwinds to put on fireworks displays.
100. Thou shalt not ask the Dark Angels if they “can keep a secret”.
101. Thou shalt not do Scooby Doo impersonations when speaking to the Space Wolves.
102. Thou shalt not tell the Salamanders “sorry about the Multi-Melta thing”.
103. Thou shall not ask directions from the Wulfen.
104. Thou shall not ask Berserkers for an axe.
105. Thou shalt not do doughnuts in a Rhino, unless thou wishes to clean the passenger’s vomit from the floor, as doughnuts make passengers dizzy.
106. Thou shalt not write “Biggest Bitch on the Battlefield” on the side of thy Land Raider, even if it is true.
107. Thou shalt not take the Rhino out on Saturdays to “impress the girls”.
108. Tyranids are not cute.
109. Though shalt not use Lasguns as laser sights for thy Bolters.
110. Just because you’re fighting Necrons it doesn’t mean your standard equipment is a Skaven and a tin opener.
111. Thou shalt not throw snowballs at Salamander Space Marines whilst yelling, “THINK FAST!”.
112. Thou shalt not ask Ork prisoners “why the red ones go faster”.
113. Thou shalt not attempt to drown out Noise Marines with ye old rave music.
114. Never ask a Dreadnought “how old are you?”.
115. Thou shalt not use the Golden Throne as a microwave.
116. Thou shalt not wear a dress in the presence of the Dark Angels.
117. Thou shalt not wear fake fangs in the presence of the Space Wolves.
118. Thou shalt not ask a Space Wolf if he wants a biscuit.
119. Thou shalt not eat another Marine’s paste.
120. Thou shalt not trip a Dark Angel in front of an Interrogator-Chaplain.
121. Thou shalt not trip an Interrogator-Chaplain.
122. Thou shalt not fill Demolisher shells with lots of flowers.
123. Scouts are not “target practice”.
124. Thou shalt not replace the Chapter Master’s Power Sword with a plastic sword.
125. It is not funny to put an “Eat me” sign on the Librarian’s back prior to a Tyranid attack.
126. Thou shalt NOT refer to the Dreadnought as “Granddad”, nor shalt thou hang a, “I told you I was sick” sign from it.
127. Thou shalt not play “peek-a-boo” with the Machine Spirit.
128. Thou shalt not unscrew your Battle Brethren’s leg plates.
129. It is not funny to play ring toss with Orks tusks.
130. When faced by the Inquisition, don’t laugh.
131. Necrons are not cans.
132. Thou shalt not eat prunes before a battle.
133. Thou shalt not refer to the company Techmarine as “Scotty”.
134. Thou shalt not challenge the Terminator Company to a game of “Twister”.
135. Thou shalt not refer to Ripper Swarms as... “Cute”.
136. Thou shalt not refer to Catachan Jungle Fighters as “tree hugging hippies”.
137. Thou shalt not suggest the Eldar “live long and prosper”.
138. Thou shalt not tell a Space Wolf it smells as if something crawled up and died in their mouth.
139. Thou shalt not replace the Space Wolves store of Tuna with cans of Puppy Chow.
140. Thou shalt not use Imperial Guardsmen as sticks while playing fetch with a Hive Tyrant.
141. Thou shall not use Flame Falcons to toast thy marsh mellows.
142. Thou shall not ask an Inquisitor’s Psyber-Eagle “does Polly wanna cracker?”.
143. Thou shall not ask the Lametors “are ya feeling lucky punk, well are ya?”.
144. Dating the Veteran Sergeant is the exclusive privilege of the Heavy Weapon trooper.
145. Thou shalt not ask the Eldar females if they are interested in a hand-portable “Vibro Cannon”...
146. Thou shalt not strut around Imperial Guardsmen bragging about how “well-equipped” you are.
147. Thou shalt not ask the Thousand Sons if they are that slow on purpose.
148. Thou shalt not taunt the Imperial Guard with threats of utilizing a Lascannon upon their posteriors in an unnatural fashion.
149. Thou shalt NEVER, under any circumstances, interrupt a Navigator’s concentration during warp travel to ask him if you “are there yet”.
150. Thou shalt not challenge Karandras the Shadow hunter to an arm-wrestling match.
151. Thou shalt not refer to Eldar Swooping Hawk grenades as “bird droppings,” nor shalt thou taunt them by using a mortar to pet them with birdseed.
152. Thou shalt not use the Emperor’s Champion Iron Halo to play horseshoes in thy free time.
153. Thou shalt not use the Chapter Standard to dry thy undergarments upon.
154. Thou shalt NEVER take the Steve Irwin approach to Tyranids; if they do not respond to external stimuli, do not attempt to poke it with a stick.
155. Thou shalt not consider it “funny” to replace the smoke canisters in your Chapter’s Land Raider’s Smoke Launchers with narcotic substances.
156. He who takes advantage of the Emperor’s paralysis by painting his fingernails will be summarily executed.
157. Shoulder Pads are not to be removed for use as ice-cream scoops.
158. Thou shalt not replace our Honoured Brother Terminator Captain’s Storm Bolter with a Vulcan Mega Bolter, nor shalt thou feign surprise at his inability to lift it.
159. Thou shalt not distract our Librarian whilst he attempts to cast Smite; else thou shalt be forced to clean the inside of his helmet.
160. Thou shalt not replace a Thunderhawk’s firebase supplies with bouncy castles.
161. Thou shalt not burn our Captain’s robe on a cold night.
162. Thou shalt not replace the Apothecary’s Reductor with a syringe.
163. Undoing the straps between a Brother and his jump-pack is not funny.
164. Thou shalt not utilize the Techmarine’s Signum for engaging in long and sexy chitchat with Battle Sisters.
165. Thou shalt not replace the Grimoire of True Names with “Daemon Hunting for Dummies”.
166. Thou shalt not put thine Emperor gifted gene seed into the beverage of your fellow Battle Brothers.
167. Thou shalt not duct tape over the emergency venting on the most holy Plasma Pistol of the Chapter Master.
168. Thou shalt not make “Your Mum” jokes in the presence of the Adeptus Soritas.
169. Though shalt not unscrew the bolts on thine Brothers’ greaves in order to “pants” him.
170. Thou shalt not use thine holy Meltagun as an arc welder.
171. Thou shall not play pin the tail on the Dreadnought.
172. Thou shalt never say, “You can’t handle the Truth!” to a Dark Angel.
173. Thou shall not use bug spray on Tyranids (it won’t work only distracts).
174. Thou shall not name a Salamander Dreadnought “the Hulk”.
176. Never mix up Khorne marines with Blood Angels.
177. Do not play golf with Mortarion (he uses Nurglings to move the ball).
178. Never play American football with a Bloodthirster.
179. Thou shalt never throw a stick at Space Wolves and command them to fetch.
180. Thou shalt not challenge Guardsmen to arm wrestling whilst thou is wearing a Power Fist.
181. Thou shalt not rent advertising space on thin banners.
182. Thou shalt not hurt Cypher.
183. Thou shalt not question Commandment 182.
184. Thou shalt not be turned on by anything related to Slaanesh.
185. Thou shalt not refer to Daemonettes as “booby daemons”.
186. Thou shalt not glue thy Land Raider assault doors shut.
187. Thou shalt not mock exalted members of thy Chapter for “not having the enemy’s permission to fight”.
188. If thou is worth 300 points thou must kill 300 pts before being allowed to die.
189. Thou shalt use unleaded gas only for thy Land Raider.
190. Thou shalt not use Servo Skulls as baseballs.
191. Thou shalt not laugh at thy Brethren whom are from 1st or 2nd edition.
192. Thou shalt not compare Commissars to Nazis.
193. By order of the Inquisition: There is no such thing as the Inquisition, questioning this will have thou deemed heretic by the Inquisition.
194. Thou shalt not complain to thy Force Commanders in coming months when thou cannot attack the enemy immediately following exiting Rhinos.
195. If thou are members of the Black Templar then thou must not whine that the Emperor’s Champion has the your only Iron Halo.
196. Thou shalt not install hydraulics on thy Rhino.
197. Thou shall not question the decoration of the Chapter fortress: if skulls with wings are good enough for Him on Terra they are good enough for you.
198. Thou shall not strap lawn furniture to jump packs in an attempt to recreate 1st ed. Land Speeders.
199. Thou shall not complain about no longer having Jet Bikes.
200. Thou shall not confuse Guardsmen by shouting “OMG! Zerg Rush!”.
201. Thou shall not point out there is no 175 commandment.
202. Thou shall not give members of thy Biker squad Thunder Hammers and Grots so thy may play polo.
203. Thou shalt never use Lasguns as flashlights during a night fight.
204. Thou shalt not take the emperor’s teeth in vain.
205. Thou shalt not comment on the odd shape of the Inquisitor’s head.
206. Thou shalt not do “wheelies” or “donuts” on you bike.
207. Thou shalt not have a “kegger” on the eve of battle, thus making yourselves less effective in the morning.
208. Thou shalt not refer to the Almighty Emperor as “The Righteous Dead Dude”.
209. Thou shalt not check to see if your Bolt Pistol is loaded by looking down the barrel!
210. Thou shalt not go on panty raids into Sister Of Battle Monasteries.
211. Thou shalt not use thy scope for anything outside of battle. Anyone caught using them to spy out life mates shalt lose privileges.
212. Thou shalt not sell thy extra organs on the Black Market.
213. Though it is entertaining, thou shalt not wave a fly swatter near the Tyranid fleets.
214. Thou shalt not use thine Chainsword as a backscratcher.
215. Thou shalt not use thine Bolt Pistol as a q-tip.
216. Thou shalt not attempt to imitate heathen noise marines with “heavy metal” or “death metal” through thine com-speakers.
217. Although tempting, do not attempt to give a Tau a “high-five”.
218. Thou shalt not laugh at how small Imperial Guardsmen are.
219. Thou shalt not bend to the will of nerds playing war games, and act upon your own free will.
220. Thou shalt not transmit images of unclothed Sisters to the Astropaths.
221. Thou shalt not advertise on thine armour.
222. Thou shalt not wave fake skulls at the Berserkers.
223. Thou shalt not wave a red flag near a Chaos Dreadnought.
224. Thou shalt guard thy Bolter when camping with Imperial Guard.
225. Thou shalt not sniff Warp fumes.
226. Thou shalt not use bug bomb against the ‘Nids.
227. Thou shalt not play Internet games with Tzeentch.
228. Thou shalt not e-mail the Emperor.
229. Thou shalt not e-mail the Emperor spam.
230. Thou should beware of thy Lictor behind cardboard bushes.
231. Terminators and glue do not mix.
232. Thou shalt not spray paint thy armour to make it look cool.
234. Thou shalt not have water gun fights with Lasguns. (The guard needs them)
235. Thou shalt not juggle Power Weapons.
236. Thou shalt not hide video links in the Sisters of Battle’s Monastery.
237. Grenades are not water balloons.
238. Thou shalt not use insect repellent against Tyranids.
239. Thou shalt not use water guns against Necron.
240. Thou shalt not piss on the Iron Halo.
241. Daemons are not your friends.
242. Barney the Dinosaur is not your friend.
243. Barney is a heretic.
244. Barney merchandise are simply prohibited.
245. Barney is not a Tyranid.
246. Digimons are not in the 40K universe.
247. Digimons are not affiliated with the Necron.
248. Pokemons are not Digimons!
249. Pokemons are not fun to play with.
250. Thou shalt not steal candy from babies, Orks, Gretchins or Commissars.
251. Thou shalt not play “Truth or Dare” with Sisters.
252. Thou shalt not “Spin the Bottle” with Sisters.
253. Thou shalt not play “Hangman” with the Inquisitor or Berserker.
254. Thou shalt ignore strange voices in your head.
255. Thou shalt not put a cork in the Inquisitors pistol.
256. Thou shalt not hide the Land Raider in a lake.
257. The Land Raider is not a hotel room!
258. Spiking the beer is forbidden.
259. Shotguns are not practice guns.
260. Lasguns don’t make cool disco lights for your party.
261. Pixie wings are not jump packs.
262. Thou shalt not trade thine bike for a skateboard.
263. Thou shalt not ignore the Chaplain as he recites the tales of Spot the Dog.
264. Darth Vader isn’t the son of Abaddon.
265. Thou shalt not use the sentinel Powerlifter as a babe-magnet for the Sisters.
266. “It makes a funny noise” is not an excuse for punching Imperial Guardsmen.
267. “He started it” is not an excuse for punching Imperial Guardsmen.
268. Thou shalt not get a Sister intoxicated for thy own pleasures.
269. Thou shalt not sexually harass the Servitors even if they won’t notice.
270. Thou shalt not have an ice cream Superfantasical Day.
271. Thou’s name is not GiX.
272. Thou shalt not smoke, inhale or inject illegal pharmaceuticals into thy holy body even though your advanced physiological structure 
could probably withstand the effects.
273. Thou shalt not put “Ecstasy” in the punch when Battle Sisters arrive for a formal meeting with the Chapter’s Authorities.
274. Thou shalt not practise vampiric tendencies despite your urge to do so.
275. Thou shalt not howl when the Chapter Master bends over. (Full moon out tonight!)
276. You shalt not comment on being a better shot then the Inquisitor.
277. The Chaplain is not too preachy.
278. Gambling for Grots is not allowed.
279. Your sergeant is not a pugy bastard.
280. You shalt not smack the Sister’s butt and then wink at her.
281. The lab research Tyranids are not for emergency rations.
282. Thou shalt not use a Flamer to cook a whole cow and leave none for the others.
283. Thou shalt not set fly strips outside your tent in a Tyranid warzone.
284. Thou shalt not wear Lord Commander Dante’s Death Mask (or any Death Masks at all for that matter) on Halloween, 
any other masquerade parties or for fun when not in battle!
285. Thou shalt not try to see how much a Death Company Marine can take (physical or psychical)!
286. Thou shalt not put “tags” on the Holy Shrouds or Banners or write on it in anyway at all.
289. Rico’s Roughnecks are not real.
290. Thou shalt not over-charge thy bike!
291. Thou shalt not use the over-charged engines for “drag-racing”!
292. Thou shalt not have a Blood-party (as in tea-party) with Mephiston during battle!
293. Thou shalt not play “no blinking” with Mephiston!
294. Thou shalt not give Tycho an Ork for his Birthday (or any day at all for that matter, or speak him about Orks).
295. Thou shalt not release Moriar from his restrainment or tap in his vital liquids!
296. Thou shalt not ask the Sanguinary Priest for something to drink!
297. Thou shalt obey these 627 commandments! (Isn’t it hard counting when being a scout?)
298. Thou shalt not use thy Jump Packs to “fry your diner”!
299. Thou shalt not use thy Jump Packs to get “KFC” or “Macca’s”.
300. Thou shalt not kill each other because “thou are the real Sanguinius”.
301. Thou shalt not make wounds to resemble the wounds of thou mighty Primarch Sanguinous, the Chaplain paint these on your armour!
302. Thou shalt not “make bunny-ears” with thy fingers behind the Chaplain whilst he gives battle-orders.
302. Thou shalt not fake death in order to get blood from the Sanguinary Priests.
303. Thou shalt keep thou armour on, although thou might think thou are invincible, thou DO need thy armour!
304. Thou shalt not fall asleep whilst the Chaplain is in prayer.
305. Thou shalt not use thy weapons upon thyself, thou still can get hurt.
306. Thou shalt not jump out in front of the Rhino to get into the fight whilst still in motion...wait for orders to disembark!
307. Thou shalt look both ways before crossing the street.
308. Thou shalt not try to “steal” assaults away from Battle Brothers....they are allowed some fun too!
309. Thou shalt not make jokes about the Tyranids’ mighty One-Eyed monster. (arr pirate matey)
310. Thou shalt not mistake the Harlequin’s Kiss for some fruity clown prank.
311. Thou shalt not light cigarettes near the Hellhounds.
312. Genestealers ARE NOT trying to rob you of your denim trousers.
313. Thou shalt not chase thy Grot with a fork.
314. Thou shalt not call the firearms of the Imperial Guard “Sega Lock-Ons”.
315. Thou shalt not call the Adeptus Arbites “pigs” or “bacons”. 
316. Thou shalt not place buckets of water over the Inquisitors door.
317. Inquisitors are not “Nigel no friends”.
318. Thou shalt not use thy laser sight to blind Imperial Guard.
319. Thou shalt not remove the Imperial Guards power packs from their Lasguns while they are asleep.
320. Thou shalt not play “frisbee” with a Tau Shield Drone.
321. Remember a Primarch is for life not just for Christmas.
322. Thou shalt not eat toast in your power armour. (I’m not going to vacume the crumbs out of the toes again)
323. Thou shalt not put fridge magnets on thy power armour. (Even if you have been to Cornwall)
324. Thou shalt not tune into FM rock on your intercom.
325. Thou shalt not put bananas in the Commander’s Rhino’s exhaust pipes.
326. Thou shalt not hang “Pine Fresh” on Moriar. (Even if he is a bit ripe by now!)
327. Scented Pine Trees hanging off Rear Vision mirrors in favour of the Dice, is now prohibited.
328. Thou shalt not offer to clean the Sister’s armour whilst they change.
329. Thou shalt not use Power weapons or Chain-weapons to cut your food.
330. Thou shalt remove the batteries from weapons to put in your RC toys.
331. Thou shalt not swap the salt and pepper.
332. Thou shalt not play “I see, I see what you don’t see” over the intercom during battles!
333. Thou shalt not “go out to get cigarettes” during prayers!
334. Thou shalt not make remarks about the physical appearance of Sisters.
335. Thou shalt not swap your Battle Brothers gun with a water pistol.
336. Thou shalt not participate in any intoxication (i.e. alcohol) contests with Imperial Guards.
337. Thou shalt not ask a Sister if her armour is too small.
338. Thou shalt not ask a Sister about her age.
339. “No” means “No”.
340. Thou shalt not make cat-sounds when Sisters argue.
341. Thou shalt not refer to Sister Supreme as “Mistress”.
342. Thou shalt not refer to Ork Dreadnoughts as “garbage bins”.
343. Thou shalt not make funny noises during a speech/prayer.
342. Thou shalt not “play shooting range” with Gretchins.
343. Thou shalt not brag about how many you’ve killed with a Dark Eldar.
344. Thou shalt not write or “put tags” on vehicles or armour.
345. Thou shalt not use Servitors to catch your paper.
346. Thou shalt not yell “catfight!” when Sisters argue.
347. Thou shalt not press the buttons in a Demolisher tank.
348. Thou shalt not hum cartoon theme songs when around the Tau.
349. Thou shalt not refuse the Sisters your chocolate rations, especially during the time of their “Red rage”.
350. Thou shalt never refer to the size of a Sisters rear armour.
351. Thou shalt always offer to rub a Sisters feet after battle. I need not explain why.
352. Thou shalt always carry thine universal remote control when facing Necrons.
353. Thou shalt never offer to sell your soul to the Dark Eldar for beer money. Not even in jest.
354. Thou shalt never ask a Daemonette for some “handiwork”, else thou will have to join the Sisters.
355. Thou shalt not remind your commander how many times he has been slain by the badly coloured Tyranid.
356. Thou shalt leave the Plasma Gun well and truly alone.
357. Thou shalt not play Russian roulette with automatic weapons. It doesn’t work.
358. Thou shalt not shave the Space Wolves while they are asleep.
359. Thou shalt not load the dice.
360. Thou shalt not move that extra little inch in movement phase.
361. Thou shalt not fire thy Bolter at enemies you can’t really see except a leg sticking out of a building.
362. Thou shalt follow thy rulebook.
363. Thou shalt not make up rules.
364. Thou are not fearless... thou art fearless... argh anyone got a codex?
365. Thou shalt not laugh at the Cultist.
366. Thou shalt beware of bird poo when Greater Daemon of Tzeentch is around.
367. Thou shalt not use Penicillin tipped bolts in your Boltgun against Nurglings.
368. Thou shalt not waste thy 15 minutes free time trying to get laid.
369. Thou shalt beware of possessed 2 litre coke bottles.
370. Thou shalt not stare at feet during the battle march.
371. Thou shalt not aim at thy Commanders back.
372. Thou shalt watch thy foot steps.
373. Beware of the drunken Leman Russ.
374. Thou shalt not binge drinks with the Imperial Guard.
375. Thou shalt not challenge a Daemon Prince to a fist fight.
376. Thou art not unexpendable.
377. Thou shalt look before thou leap.
378. Thou shalt not bring your sack lunch to battle.
379. Thou shalt not use they Bike as a battering ram.
380. Thou shalt beware of potholes and speed bumps.
381. Lord Logan is not “Wolfie”.
382. Seraphims do not want to join the “Mile High Club”.
383. Spiky bits are not meant for hanging laundry on.
384. Ultramarine scout is not “little boy blue”.
385. Never refer to the Canoness as “big momma”.
386. Thou shalt not put “kick me” signs on thy Brothers backs.
387. Thou shalt not nail Nurglings to the back of the Rhino as fuzzy decorations.
388. Thou shalt not put itching powder in a Dreadnought.
389. Thou shalt not wink suggestively at Daemonettes.
390. Thou shalt not use can openers on Ork Dreadnoughts.
391. Thou shalt not replace the commissars’ comm-link with a Plasma Grenade for a laugh.
392. Thou shalt not refer to Armoured Vompanies as agoraphobes.
393. Thou shalt not ask Techmarines to put mag wheels on your Bike.
394. Thou shalt not use a looted Terrorfex for Halloween.
395. Thou shalt not sneak into the Rock while the Dark angels are asleep and discover that their secret is that all the high ranking Angels wear dresses. 
Er... oops...
396. Thou shalt not invite babes back to the Monastery.
397. Thou shalt not spike drinks with Sanguinius’ blood.
398. Thou shalt not step on Guardsmen and then say thou didn’t see them.
399. Thou shalt not refer to Paul Sawyer as “The Great Unclean One”.
400. Thou shalt not call a Dark Angel “Jessica Alba”.
401. Thou shalt not give a Sister breast implants.
402. Neither shalt thou ask wether those “guns” are real or not.
403. Thou shalt never say anything about the Squats.
404. Thou shalt not overheat a Plasma Gun for a college prank.
405. Thou shalt not give the Death Company caffeine.
406. Thou shalt not insult a Thousand Son about his penis.
407. Thou shalt not taunt a Space Wolf with a piece of steak.
408. Thou shalt not poop thy Power Armour.
409. Thou shalt not make mention of the irony that a Grot blaster is a Lasgun, only the Orks admit it is crappy.
410. Thou shalt not over clock thine Pentium and use it as a Plasma weapon.
411. Thou shalt not intentionally overheat a plasma weapon and give it to an IG.
412. Thou shalt not trip over Tau.
413. Thou shalt not attempt to steal a Tau’s weapon “to give to the poor Guardsmen”.
414. Thou shalt not moon the Tau in combat. They are good shots.
415. Thou shalt not invoke the wraith of conures. If you are foolish enough to do so, a conure the size of two to four titans 
shalt descend upon the table and inflict his wraith.
416. Thou shalt not attempt to borrow Tau Stealth Suits so that you might spy on the Sisters in their quarters.
417. Thou shalt not attempt to rebuild a Necron as a washing machine.
418. Thou shalt not laugh at the poorly painted armies.
419. Thou shalt not play “fetch” with a Kroot Hound using a Guardsman.
420. Thou shalt not go big game fishing for Manta Missile Destroyers.
421. Thou shalt not try to change the batteries on a Scarab.
422. Thou shalt not use the Blades of Reason to trim thy fingernails.
423. Thou shalt not feed the Warp Beasts.
424. Thou shalt not pet the Kroot Hounds.
425. Thou shalt not ask the Sisters whether it’s dyed or real.
426. Thou shalt not call Old One Eye “Surf and Turf”.
427. Thou shalt not moonlight as a security guard if thine armour is red.
428. Thou shalt not use the Hellhound to cook thy rations.
429. Thou shalt not use thy Power Armour comm.-link to prank call the Imperial Guard Storm Troopers.
430. Thou shalt not sneak up on thy Commanding Officer, and yell “BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD” in his ear.
431. Thy Bolter is not to be used to shoot cans off walls.
432. Thou shalt not steal the Land Speeder to “pick up Sisters”.
433. The Leman Russ is not a kettle. Do not attempt to use it to make tea or coffee.
434. Thou shalt not attempt to empty your waste-paper basket into an Ork Dreadnought.
435. Thou shalt not refer to the Rhino as a “Clown Car”, although thy might think it is.
436. When throwing thy holiest of His grenades always count to three, yes three, not one, for it is not the holiest of numbers, or two, 
for the holiness of two pales in comparison, but three, yes three, not one or two, unless thou shalt be proceeding to three.
437. Thou shalt not use blind grenades to sneak into the Sister’s encampment.
438. Thou shalt not mention the name “Buffy” when near the Blood Angels.
439. Thou shalt not use Necron Scarabs as “Boogie Boards”.
440. Thou shalt not call Harlequins “psychedelic” or “groovy”.
441. Thou shalt never show an army of Orks more than two Harlequins at once.
442. Thou shalt never laugh at the Laughing God.
443. Thou shalt never play “Hide and Seek” with Librarians or Inquisitors.
444. Thou shalt not play “tag” with Gaunts.
445. Thou shalt never tie thy Power Armour laces together.
446. Thou shalt never say “Resistance is futile” to the Adeptus Mechanicus.
447. Thou shalt never criticize the “paper boys” in the Adeptus Administratum.
448. Thou shalt not sell Chapter property on eBay.
449. Thou shalt not put a cork in thine Battle Brothers waste disposal outlet tube.
450. Thou shalt not “entertain” The Adeptus Sororitas in your billet.
451. Thou shalt not refer to Imperial Guardsmen as “Cannon fodder”.
452. The Imperial Guard Colonel did not visit a fancy-dress shop.
453. The Lasgun is not to be used to carve your name into the Land Raider’s/Predator’s/Rhino’s/Razorbacks/Leman Russ’s/Titan’s armour plating.
454. Thou shalt not lend Imperial Guardsmen your Power Armour or swap places for a day with Guardsmen.
455. Thou shalt not try to perform brain surgery whilst wearing Power Armour.
456. Thou shalt not assume that because you can take a Bolter hit in the head, the Guardsman over there can too.
457. Thou shalt not use Tau shoulder pads as padding in games of cricket.
458. Thou shalt not hide the keys to the Battle Barge.
459. Thou shalt not call Ork Dreadnoughts or Killer Kans “R2-D2’s big brother”.
460. Thou shalt not threaten thy enemy with a “Plasma enema” and thou shalt not carry out the act.
461. Thou shalt not flirt with the Banshee. They are the enemy.
462. Thou can not date a Dark Eldar Wych. They are the enemy too.
463. Thou shalt not steal the Battle Sisters makeup.
464. Thou shalt not try on the Battle Sisters armour to see if it compares to your own.
465. Thou shalt not make fun of Warp Spiders guns.
466. Thou shalt not take the Land Raider for a joy ride.
467. Thou shalt not perform dare devil stunts in the Rhino. Especially if thine Brethrens are in the back.
468. Thou shalt not hijack the Battle Sisters Immolator. Especially if there are any Battle Sisters still on board!
469. Thou shalt not add bits to thine armour to try to pass thine self off as a Battle Sister.
470. Thou shalt not try to dance with a Banshee on the field of battle.
471. Thou shalt not throw sticks for the Space Wolves.
472. Thou shalt not play “fetch” with the Space Wolf Commanders “pet” Fenrisian Wolves.
473. Thou shalt not keep a Tyranid as a pet.
474. Thou shalt not challenge a Carnifex to a game of “catch”.
475. Thou can not tie a Wraithlords laces together.
476. Thou shalt not call a Battle Sister “babe”.
477. Thou shalt not be envious of the IG unit who art friends to the Sister Famulous!
478. Thou shalt not steal the Tau Pulse Rifles, even if they are better than thy Bolters.
479. Thou shalt not ask the Battle Sister if they would like to slip into something more comfortable.
480. The Hellhound is not something you put on a leash and take for “walkies”.
481. Thou shalt not arm-wrestle with Tactical Dreadnoughts.
482. Thou shalt not watch whilst the Battle Sisters change out of their Power Armour.
483. Ork Warbosses are not toys, you can not try to pull their arms off and jump up and down on them.
484. Thou shalt not relieve thy self behind a tree during battle.
485. Thou shalt not go to thy great Emperor and make him “perform an illegal operation and be shut down”.
486. Thou shalt not wrestle the Battle Sisters and try to “pin them down”.
487. An Iron Halo is not a toy.
488. A tank is not a toy.
489. A Dreadnought is not a toy.
490. Thou shalt not jump on the back of a Dreadnought in battle and see how long you can stay on.
491. Thou shalt not play toy soldiers with the Guardsmen.
492. The Space Hulk is not a wrestler.
493. Spiky Bitz are not “cool”.
494. Khorne is a Chaos God not a food.
495. Thou shalt not use Power Claws as scissors.
496. Thou shalt not use Power Armour power points to plug in thy Gameboy.
497. Thou shalt not use Hellion skyboards to impress the Sisters.
498. Thou shalt not place a flashing light on top of the Rhino so that it is easier to find in the car park.
499. If showing a Tau how your Boltgun works thou shalt not give it to him the wrong way round.
500. A Necron is not a Meccano kit.
501. Thou shalt not tell the Inquisitor “say what you want about Chaos, but those Slaanesh can party!”.
502. Though shalt not blast “flight of the Valkeries” when buzzing enemies in your Land Speeder.
503. Thou shalt not trade His Most Delectable rations for gourmet Eldar tofu.
504. Thou shalt not offer backscratches when issued Lightning Claws.
505. Yes, it’s cheating to use Jump Packs during a basketball game.
506. No, you can’t pose for Playgirl’s “the men of the Adeptus Astartes”.
507. Enforcing discipline is not sending the Neophytes to procure strong monkish ale.
508. Don’t call the Adeptus Mechanicus about warranty information concerning your destroyed Land Raider.
509. Don’t shave a Bloodthirster in its sleep, it only makes them more angry when they wake up.
510. Do not deface His Most Blessed Battle Barges with the bumper sticker “We don’t Brake”.
511. Thou shalt not compare thy height with that of the Ratling Snipers.
512. Thou Shalt not go the Way of The Navy.
513. Thou Shalt Not Kick the Emperor if thy see the Kick me sign on Him.
514. Thou shall not try to prove your ‘1337’ skills on Necrons, in the Eldar Webway, or on the Martian central cogitator mainframe.
514. Thou shalt not throw a bone at a Bloodthirster or flesh hounds shouting fetch.
515. Thou shalt not ask the Salamanders for a light.
516. Thou shalt not get Blood Angles to go to anger management classes.
517. Thou shalt not challenge White Scars to a street race.
518. Thou shall not referee to Imperial Guard as gun fodder.
519. 20ft high electro-magnets should not be used around Necrons.
520. Thou shall not place the liber chaotica in your ex-wife’s possession.
521. Reid is completely useless against a Carnifex.
522. Salamanders do not need to go to “how to stop burning things” classes.
523. Thou shall not borrow the librarians psychic hood for the annual Guess Who Competition.
524. Thou shall not pour water on an Avatar.
525. Thou shalt not attach a “For Sale: Previously owned by one careful user” to the wreck of a destroyed Dreadnought.
526. Thou shalt not feed bio-carbonate soda to the Inquisitors Psyber-Eagle.
527. Thou shalt not use a Railgun as a see-saw.
528. Thou shalt not comment on Captain Tycho not having his “happy face” on.
529. Thou shalt not mention the phrase “bath time” in front of the space wolves.
530. Thou shalt never mention, under pain of death, the stunted race of humanoids that mysteriously disappeared from the universe for unexplained reasons.
531. Thou shalt not consider a detachment to Armageddon as a “Holiday”.
532. Thou shalt not refer to Tallarn as “the big beach”.
533. Thou shalt not tie an Inquisitors boot laces together and then run away giggling.
534. Thou shalt not utilise the highly sophisticated, advanced and expensive long range communications array to make prank phone calls to the 
local bar and ask for a “Mr I.P.”.
535. Thou shall not take the Emperor out walking.
536. Thou shall not attempt to be friends with Tyranids.
537. Thou shalt not “Borrow” the Land Raiders to race them then when they come back wrecked, blame it on chaos.
538. Thou shalt not write clean me on a Catachan Chimera.
539. Thou shalt not fry ants with the Meltagun.
540. Thou shalt not fill the back of the Missile Launcher with promethium to “see what happens”.
541. Thou shalt not paint “beware of dog” on the Wolf Lord’s armour.
542. Thou shalt not play pin the tail on the donkey with the Rough Rider’s horses.
543. Thou shalt not date Deamonettes or other followers of Slaanesh, no matter how tempting the concept may be.
544. Thou shall not blame the Chapel heating for falling asleep during prayer.
545. Thou shall not paint 2 blue stripes down the middle of a Rhino and call it a “Viper variant.
546. Tau are not “noobs”.
547. Thou shalt not refer to Assault Marines as “tooled up pretty boys”.
548. The Ultramarines do have a sense of humour.
549. Thou shall not use the Land Raider for off road races.
550. Thou shalt not give manicures to Lightning Claws.
551. Thou shalt not procure Noisemarine’s weapons for thine garage band.
552. Thou shalt not comment on the temperature around thine Salamanders Brethren.
552. Thou shalt be punished for speaking the blasphemous “argh matey” around thine Chapter Master with the bionic leg.
553. Thou shalt not offer to “pump you up” to Imperial Guardsmen.
554. Thou shalt decline all invitations to party with Slannesh.
555. Thou shalt not salvage Spore Mines for whoopee-cushions.
556. Thou shalt not drag race thine abdominous opponents for bragging rights.
557. Thou shalt not ask “Ever wonder if the machine god is a C’Tan?” or thine shalt be branded Heretic and purged.
558. “Pucker up homos!” is not an Adeptus Astartes approved battlecry.
559. Thou shalt not suggest a Banshee take voice lessons.
560. Thou shalt not attempt to procure “the good stuff” from thine Apothecary.
561. Thou shalt not suggest thine Chapter Master is “so old his farts bow dust”.
562. Thou shalt not resort to nipple crippling when losing a fight girded with a Power Fist.
563. An Honour badge was never granted for basket weaving or surfing, to suggest so in sacrilegious and thou shalt report to the Chaplain for suitable penance.
564. Thou shalt not replace thy Veteran Sergeants Bolt Pistol ammo for a flag with “bang upon it.
565. Thou shalt not use Power Swords for letter openers.
566. Thou shalt not challenge Eldar to a bike race.
567. Thou shalt not place thy holey banana into a Ravenwing Bike exhaust.
568. Thou shalt not use Tyranid rending claws as tooth picks.
569. Thou shalt not use thy Plasma Cannons power pack for Christmas lights.
570. Thou shalt not use Lightning Claws as back scratchers.
571. Thou shalt not use thy Techpriest tools to unblock thy holy toilet.
572. Thou shalt not use thy Emperors throne for personal use.
573. Thou shalt not use the Techmarine’s Servo Arm to serve drinks.
574. Thou shalt not replace the Chaplain’s Bike with a pedal-tricycle.
575. Thou shalt not replace the Chaplain’s Holy Relic with a cuddly toy.
576. Thou shalt not use Chain Fists to clip thy toenails.
577. The fact that Razorbacks have spiked rams at the front does not entitle you to use them as bumper cars.
578. Thou shalt not attempt to fill Smoke Launchers with Silly String.
579. Thou shalt not pester Dreadnoughts with “So what’s it like to die then?”.
580. Thou shalt not sing “Who let the dogs out” when visiting the Fang.
581. Thou shalt not offer the Emperor any kind of anti-wrinkle products.
582. Thou shalt not do loops while flying a Battle Barge.
583. No, a Jump Pack is NOT a hairdryer.
584. Thou shalt not refer to Magneus Calgar as “Papa Smurf”.
585. Thou shalt not call Blood Angels “pretty boys”.
586. Thou shalt not say “dead man walking” every time thou see a Dreadnought.
587. Kroot hounds DO NOT make good Company mascots.
588. Space Wolf bites are actually worse than their bark.
589. Thou shalt not use Rhino dozer blades to help build thy Brother in laws patio.
590. Remember Krootox are to be used as Christmas presents.
591. Thou shalt not make breathing noises and say “we meet at last Obi-Wan” when handling Power Weapons.
592. Remember a 2+ armour save does not make you a Primarch.
593. Thuo shalt not refer to Chaplain Lemartes as “ticker-tape man”.
594. Thou shalt not say to an Inquisitor “hey, i hear they’re bringing out the Malus Codicium in paperback”.
595. Thou shalt not whistle “close encounters of the 3rd kind” every time you see a Tau.
596. Thou shalt not send Legion of the Damned Brethren trick or treating.
597. Thou shalt not “drag” with the Chapters Thunderhawks.
598. Thou shalt not ask an Ork for some “’shrooms”.
599. When thou hast taken many casualties, thou shalt “flee” towards the guns of thy enemy hoping that their next volley may be more accurate.
600. Thou shalt not refer to the Grey Knights as “Catholic fundamentalists”.
601. Regardless of any laws regarding “Daemon season”, thou shalt not refer to the Grey Knights as “poachers”.
602. Thou shalt not make comparisons between Night Haunter and Batman.
603. Thou shalt not make jokes about the Inqui- Bolter fire.
604. Thou shall not refer to the Golden Throne as a royal flush nor refer to a royal flush in poker as the golden throne.
605. Thou shalt not have a thumb war while wearing a Power Fist.
606. Thou shalt not take dancing lessons from Slannesh.
607. Thou shalt not start a say that history is wrong and it was they Emperor who turned to Chaos.
608. Thou shalt not say thy Emperor is a false God in front of an Inquisitor.
609. Thou shalt not try to get thy Battle Sister drunk for a little fun.
610. Thou shalt not become drunk before a battle so thy accidentally shoots thy Brothers.
611. Thou shalt not call Interrogator-Chaplains “Cross dressers”.
612. Thou shalt not attempt to trip up a Titan.
613. Thou shalt not refer to the Deceiver as “Just a big gold court jester”.
614. Thou shalt not ask Tzeentch how to pull a rabbit out of a hat.
615. Thou shalt not tell a Brother Space Marines that they can only move six inches at a time.
616. Thou shalt not ask why Eldar Wave Serpents are just Falcons with an extra gun.
617. Thou shalt not confuse the Black Legion with the Black Templars.
618. Thou shalt not refer to Slannesh as “That freaky nymphomaniac guy”.
619. Thou shalt not slice three toes off each foot of the Tau and see how well they walk.
620. Thou shalt not underestimate the power of a Vibro Cannon, even if it is shoved up a Slannesh Daemon Prince where the sun don’t shine.
621. Thou shalt not refer to the Ravenwing as “Speed Freeks in Power Armour”.
622. Thou shalt not point and laugh at Dark Angels.
623. Thou shalt not cry “Toro!” while within earshot of a Blood Angel.
624. Thou shalt not throw sticks while in the company of Space Wolves.
625. Thou shalt not refer to the Ultramarines as “Ultrasmurfs”.
626. Thou shalt not keep pet Rippers.
627. Thou shalt not ever, ever repeat the “Black and white Space Marine on the black and white bike” joke, ever.
628. thou shalt not install a portable fridge into thy rhino to “cool down” plasma guns.


----------



## Dirge Eterna

1. Bring a hand puppet. Question it constantly as to what is the best course of action. 
2. Bring a small model coffin with undertakers. Everytime a model dies, escort it off the battlefield and give it model funeral. Remember to hum the funeral theme tune. 
3. Bring a falsified rulebook ( hours of fun ). 
4. Shave your head. Paint your skin green. Wear a nose ring. Grunt a lot. 
5. Flip a coin at the start of the game. After observing the outcome, claim that you have won the game. Look upset if your opponent denies this. Sulk. 
6. Bring 20 printed pages of notes and intellectual-looking glasses. Refuse to let your opponent look at them. Refer to them throughout the game. Speak aloud as you read- "he's gone there, so contingency plan 8a means that I should..." 
7. Insist opponent rolls all your dice for you. Complain and insult your opponent if you get any bad rolls. 
8. Before the game, do a little dance and motion to the gods. Curse your opponent dramatically. 
9. Arrive before your opponent. Set up your army and then take the other side of the table. Act as if you are expecting to play with your opponent's army. 
10. Add a spring loading system to your cannon. Bring lots of ball bearings. 
11. Bring a plastic kid's sword and 'challenge' your opponent. If he refuses, claim you have won the game through his forfeit. 
12. Play dead if your general dies. 
13. Bring a Land-raider model from 40K. Leave it sitting conspicuously on your side of the table. Make cryptic references to the power of laser cannon in WHFB. 
14. Complain that you don't think you can trust your hero. 
15. Act as if you are a sports commentator. Commentate on the game. Incessantly. 
16. Ask politely if your opponent wouldn't kill your general. Explain that its his birthday. 
17. Bring a smoke machine. Insist on recreating the "fog of war". 
18. Sacrifice a goblin to Mork before the game. Saw off its head with a craft knife. 
19. Arrange models in a diorama in the middle of the battle. Take photos for a "battle report." 
20. Sharpen your goblins' spears before the game with a craft knife. Grin widely. 
21. Cackle diabolically. "The World is mine! Nothing can stop me now!" 
22. State before the game that you are playing for the title of the champion of the universe. 
23. Feel the personal loss of every soldier. "Alas, poor Yorrick, I knew him well." 
24. Lament the woes of war loudly. Faint when a model dies. 
25. Add sound FX. Kaboom! 
26. Ask if you can have TV rights to the game. 
27. Just to surprise your opponent, agree amicably with and compliment your opponent! 
28. Declare that you are opposed to the senseless destruction of our forests. Refuse to let him kill your treemen. Refuse to let him move through woods. 
29. Insist on a lunch break for your troops. Bring a model Mr. Whippy Van. 
30. Explain that you are a pacifist. Call off the game immediately. 
31. Order your miniatures in your best Sergeant-Major voice. "Quick march, on the double- hut!" 
32. Ask if your opponent is opposed to nuclear warfare. Carry a small spherical device. Give no other reasons. 
33. Wear a crown. Say that you are the "Lord of the Galaxy". Get a horde of admirers to cheer you on. 
34. Bring a stuffed, shaved poodle. Say it is your mascot. 
35. Grow a Hitler moustache and wear a swastika. 'Discipline' your troops if they fail to salute you. 
36. Cheer on your miniatures. 
37. Hide under the table at the start of the game. Make your opponent drag you out. Speak in a nervous whisper. Confide in him that you are scared of his troops. 
38. Leave a false army list lying around. Snatch it back angrily if your opponent starts to read it, but leave it visible. 
39. Pull out an ace surreptitiously ( but obviously ) from your sleeve during the magic phase. Look pleased. Try to play it. 
40. Keep a deck of Magic the Gathering cards handy. When you are told it is "the magic phase" bring out the cards and start to shuffle them. Ask if he wants to cut your deck. 
41. Speak in Skaven. Neek- Neek! 
42. Tell him you've brought weighted dice. Complain about the uselessness of modern technology when you start to roll ones. 
43. Bring a lamp. Rub it and make three wishes before the game. Look at your opponent accusingly if they don't immediately come true. Ask him if he's used it. 
44. Ask what year it is. Ask where you are. Ask what game you are going to play. If he says warhammer, bring out an antique mallet and hit him with it. Smile a corny grin. 
45. Make references to a spy/traitor in his army. 
46. Don't place your wizard on the board at the start of the game. At the end of your deployment, use a small explosive device to create a smoke screen and place down the wizard behind it while you yell, "poof!". When the smoke dissipates, say, "Tadaa!" 
47. Have a history written for every trooper. Start a family feud. 
48. Poor cheese sauce all over your opponent's army. Complain that it is cheesy. 
49. Come with an army painted completely flora purple. Wear dark glasses. 
50. Attempt to bribe your opponent's characters. Turn away quickly if your opponent looks at you questioningly. Deny everything. 

50 MORE Ways to Annoy Your Opponent 

1. Refer to your miniatures only by their first name. 
2. Refer to his miniatures only by their first name. 
3. Try to bribe his units over to your side. 
4. Three words: Pastel Color Scheme. 
5. Rent advertising space on your unit banners. 
6. Offer your opponent the chance to surrender before the battle starts. 
7. Dress in character. 
8. Perform a play by play commentary in a Howard Cossell voice. 
9. Speak only in third person. 
10. Use huge brass dice. Roll them dangerously close to your opponent's figures. 
11. Use only the little red dice from Warhammer Quest. 
12. Only roll one die at a time. 
13. Play Britney Spears. Insist that is it "battle music." Put it on repeat. 
14. Name all your characters after obscure Hungarian royalty. Become annoyed if your opponent fails to notice. 
15. Claim your army is comprised of all women. When pressed, explain they are all in disguise as to not get kicked out of the army. 
16. Place a hammer on the table before the battle starts. Explain it is there to insure loyalty. 
17. Quote Sun Tzu often, but only irrelevantly. 
18. Every time one of his miniatures has unrestricted LOS to a target, say 'check'. 
19. Suggest obviously suicidal tactics to your opponents. Explain that 'that's what Custer would do'. 
20. Perform a rousing speech to your troops before the battle. Pose like Mussolini at the end. 
21. Secretly replace your opponent's miniatures one at a time with miniatures from other games. 
22. Claim your miniatures are proxied for another regiment, though that has no bearing on game play whatsoever. 
23. Place all of your infantry on individual monster bases. 
24. Flock your bases with sand. Do not use glue. 
25. Take a halftime break to play with your Blood Bowl cheerleaders. 
26. In rules disputes, reference on Hoyle's book of games. 
27. Place NASCAR-like ads all over your vehicles. 
28. Demand to change table sides at the halfway mark. 
29. Use Play-doh miniatures. When one is killed, pound it into the table with your fist angrily. 
30. When your figure reaches the opponent's table side, demand it be kinged. 
31. Measure distances only with a yardstick. 
32. On a bad roll, swear a blue streak. Use only obscenities approved Judge Dredd. 
33. Sob uncontrollably while removing casualties. 
34. When you win, dump a tub of Gatorade on your commander. 
35. Include the word 'whoopass' on your army list as often as possible. 
36. Don't move your army. Don't fire. Flee when charged. 
37. Proxy a unit of O-scale cows for your commander's bodyguard. Don't forget to give them weapons. 
38. Converts all wheeled models into lowriders. Including cannons and chariots. 
39. Try to play multiple games at once like Gary Kasparov. 
40. Discuss tactics with your troops. Become argumentative. 
41. Four more words: Regis Philbin paint scheme. 
42. In a rules dispute, check 1st, 2nd and 3rd Edition 40k Rulebooks, "just to make sure the rules don't change in each book." 
43. Use a paintball gun to remove casualties. For both sides. 
44. Write army list in pig latin and binary. 
45. Fuzzy dice. 
46. Start each game with the national anthem. 
47. Have an inner monologue during the game. Digress frequently. 
48. During your opponent's turn, yodel. 
49. Each turn replace your commander with a new figure. 
50. After a good die roll, do a victory dance and spike the die. 
51. Write battle report during game. Take at least five minutes to write information between die rolls.

These are 51 ways to annoy your opponent

-Dirge


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## khorneflake

come on, guys, plz post anything!


----------



## Cato Sicarius

Look up the Black and White Space Marine joke on Google, it's far to long and annoying to post here.


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## Lord Sinkoran

lol these are hilarious :laugh:

fluffy dice gunna do this


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## jakkie

hey, i posted those first two sections first on another part of the forum . good to see theyr still in circultion.


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## khorneflake

http://http://forums.sciflicks.com/showthread.php?t=15723
lol, just thought id update a little bit plz post


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## Marneus Calgar

haha, these are pretty funny


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## khorneflake

the origonal emporer vs horus. :biggrin:


----------



## Casual_T

My Lord, I bring news."

*Typhus Marburg paused in his study of the situation map of the dreary little planet his forces were engaged in ravaging.*

"Yes?"

"Lord. Starships have appeared in the outer system and are on course for a landing. They have been identified as elements of the Flesh Tearers."

"Yeah? Tell them to sod off and find their own world. Tell 'em we got here first."

"Sire, you misunderstand. They are here to defend this world!"

"What! Why? It's a sorry state of affairs when the followers of Chaos start to defend the weakling Imperium from each other!"

"Um, Lord... the Flesh Tearers are a loyalist chapter."

"They are? With a name like that! Are you sure they're not one of ours?"

"Positive, My Lord."

"Have you been able to call for any assistance?"

"The Astropaths have contacted other forces nearby. Unfortunately this has also alerted other loyalist forces in the sector and they are also headed our way."

"Bugger. So who gets here first then?"

"The Alpha Legion, sire."

"It never rains, it only pours, hey?"

"Umm..."

"What!"

"The Alpha Legion is one of ours."

"It is?!"

"Yes."

"I'm confused. You're telling me that a mob called the 'Flesh Tearers' isn't one of ours but a mob called the - what was it again..."

"The Alpha Legion, sire."

"Right... a mob called the Alpha Legion is one of ours."

"That is correct, sire."

"So who else is showing up to this barney then?"

"The Blood Drinkers."

"One of ours?"

"One of theirs."

"OK."

"The Iron Warriors."

"One of theirs?"

"No. One of ours."

"Go figure."

"The Dark Angels."

"Now I've heard of them. Followers of Slaanesh aren't they?"

"No, I think you're thinking of The Fallen, sire. The Dark Angels are Loyalists too."

"Bugger. So who else then?"

"The Emperor's Children."

"Oh, that one's too easy. They're obviously loyalists with a name like that."

"Um, not exactly my Lord."

"Really?"

"Yes, Lord. They're one of ours too."

"This is silly. All the really evil sounding names are being used by weakling loyalists while it seems as though the forces of chaos have got the naff monikers. Are there any more of these I should know about?"

"A few, Lord."

"OK then, spell it out for me, starting with Loyalists that sound like traitors and then moving onto traitors that sound like Loyalists."

"I will attempt to do so, Lord. OK - the Loyalists that sound like traitors... the Marauders, Rampagers, Destroyers and Storm Lords (all White Scar second foundings in point of fact)."

"I like the sound of the Storm Lords. You sure they aren't one of ours?"

"Quite sure. Then there's the Blood Drinkers and the Flesh Tearers - both of which are Loyalist second founding of the Blood Angels."

"With names like that I'd always assumed they were more bone headed followers of the blood god."

"Not so far, My Lord. Then there's the Red Talons..."

"I thought they were renegade pirates."

"No Lord, that's the Red Corsairs."

"Oh. OK. Continue."

"The Brazen Claws are loyalists too."

"Good name for a Khornate force though isn't it?"

"Yes Lord. Then there's the Black Guard (not to be confused with the Black Legion which IS one of ours), the Revilers, and the Raptors."

"Hold on a minute! The Raptors? They're definitely ours. Hell we've got a small unit of them attached to our forces haven't we?"

"My Lord, those are the troops known as Raptors but there is also a loyalist legion with the same name."

"Must get a bit confusing for the loyalists then?"

"I imagine so, My Lord. There are also the Doom Eagles, the Silver Skulls, and the Iron Hands (not to be mistaken for the Iron Warriors, who are ours)."

"Bloody hell. Is that it?"

"There are also some lesser known chapters that also seem to cause occasional confusion."

"Such as..."

"The Doomfarers are one that our forces have occasionally encountered."

"Oh yeah. Those yoyos. So what about the Chaos forces that sound like loyalists then..."

"Well as mentioned earlier there are The Emperor's Children, The Iron Warriors, the Thousand Sons, the Lunar Wolves (who changed their name to the Sons of Horus and then to the Black Legion)..."

"Well at least they're easily IDed as one of ours now. The Black Legion eh? Now that's a proper name. Just positively oozes evil from every pore."

"Yes, Lord. To continue, there are also the Word Bearers, and the Alpha Legion."

"The Word Bearers? What kind of silly name is that for a Chaos Legion?"

"They used to be missionaries sire"

"We you'd think that once they switched to our side they'd change their name to something a little more in keeping with being evil mad men. I mean come on 'The Word Bearers'? It's a silly name."

"Yes my Lord"

"You know, I think the forces of Chaos should have proper Chaos names. There's no room for mistakes when you're called something like 'The World Eaters' or 'The Death Guard'..."

"Actually Lord, both those chapters had those names when they were loyalists."

"You're kidding."

"No, My Lord."

"Yeesh. I would have thought names like that would be a bit scary for the average imperial citizen. I mean "Yay we're being rescued by the World Eaters" just doesn't sound credible while "Aargh! Flee! It's the World Eaters" seems much more likely."

"Yes, My Lord. I believe the latter is more likely these days anyway."

"Makes no bloody sense at all."

"Yes, My Lord."

"Kill 'em all and let the Chaos Gods sort 'em out I say."

"Sounds like a completely reasonable approach to me, My Lord."


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## Lord Reevan

Best bet is to report it.... This was up before though....


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## Casual_T

I did not write that, props to whoever did but i felt it needed to be posted here.


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## jakkie

lolz vey funny!

how come the Ultrasmurfs wern't mentioned


----------



## vorbis

simple, they arnt cool FACT


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## NoiseMarine

vorbis said:


> simple, they arnt cool FACT


 yeh i must agree ultras should be put away for awhile...


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## Wraithian

jakkie said:


> lolz vey funny!
> 
> how come the Ultrasmurfs wern't mentioned


Well, the general tone of the post was loyalists that sound like traitors and traitors that sound like loyalists. When someone mentions Ultramarines I think of a 1950's comic book hero squad that fell on its face and went no where. In relating to 40K, there really isn't much room to question whether or not they sound like loyalists--they do, and they are--so no funnies can be made at their expense (okay, not in this particular instance, but in general, where does the abuse begin... :biggrin: ).


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## NoiseMarine

Wraithian said:


> Well, the general tone of the post was loyalists that sound like traitors and traitors that sound like loyalists. When someone mentions Ultramarines I think of a 1950's comic book hero squad that fell on its face and went no where. In relating to 40K, there really isn't much room to question whether or not they sound like loyalists--they do, and they are--so no funnies can be made at their expense (okay, not in this particular instance, but in general, where does the abuse begin... :biggrin: ).


:goodpost:
ultras seriously make me want to uke:


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## Dessel_Ordo

yea, someone needs to find some seriusly funny zingers for the ultrafags


----------



## Zorenthewise

Here's a fun one I found. An Inquisitor found a heretical school of rogue psykers on Terra itself!


Salutations Lord!

I am pleased to report that the heretical witch-coven, the blasphemous sect
known as "Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft" has been eliminated,
and every member of this vile cult has been cleansed with fire and sword. 
Accompanied by five squads of veteran Inquisitorial Stormtroopers, two
hundred local militia, a dozen arco-flagellants, two Penitent Engines, and
three squads drawn from the Order of the Holy Nimbus, we began our assault
upon the fortress of the enemy at dawn's first light. Although the castle
was hidden from normal sight by a myriad of hexes and foul enchantments,
these wards were easily bypassed thanks to the psyk-out strike launched by
the Persecution, and we were able to begin the assault.

We stormed the grounds, suffering only minor casualties from various
self-defense spell-traps that the enemy had placed within the grounds. These
traps were disposed of quickly by my cadre of sanctioned psykers, and we
able to press on. 

We were soon accosted by a heavily-haired mutant of exceptional height and
bulk (see pict attachments 00-03) upon approaching the castle's main
portcullis. He was accompanied by a variety of abominable creatures (pict
attachments 04-16), gruesome beasts which looked like twisted parodies of
ancient creatures of legend- such beasts included a disturbing horse/eagle
hybrid and assorted scorpion/crab-like creatures, each one the size of a
small land car, amongst others. The large mutant challenged us in an accent
I did not recognize, but no doubt it was speaking in some daemonic tongue. I
ordered the attack. The creatures of the mutant beast master took a heavy
toll on the local militia and my Stormtroopers, but our numbers and weaponry
were superior, and the Sisters of the Holy Nimbus swiftly brought down the
creatures with bolter, melta and flamer fire. The giant mutant beast master
possessed incredible strength and endurance, and managed to inflict
crippling damage on one of the Penitent Engines and kill and seriously wound
twenty-three militia, Sisters and Stormtroopers before it was brought down
by the holy rage of the arco-flagellants (three of which perished due to
lethal combat stimm overdose- in death, they have been granted His
Forgiveness).

We consolidated our position and set up a strong foothold whilst our
chirurgeons and Sisters Hospitaller provided healing for the wounded and
mercy for the dying. 

To the south, I glimpsed an oval structure that appeared to resemble a
standard Imperial amphitheatre or coliseum (pict attachments 17-20). Six
tall poles, topped with huge hoops, were situated on this "pitch", three at
each end. I theorized that the cult held some form of diabolical rituals or
ceremonies there, and that the hoops were utilized in these.
No sooner had our wounded been comforted and aided by our medical staff, the
witches of the Hogwarts School appeared. I was at first shocked at the
average age of our foe; the youngest seemed to be ten years of standard, the
oldest no more than seventeen. They were led by five older psykers (see
accompanying pict-files 21-25), and they outnumbered us nearly two to one.
At first, I foolishly thought that fighting children would be no challenge,
but I chastised myself, remembering that each of these younglings was an
illegal psyker, taught by their council of the older rogue psykers.
The eldest of the rogue psykers (pict 21), whom I presumed to be the leader,
stepped forward, and I saw the malevolence and hatred in his eyes that spoke
of a man driven insane by the daemonic power that he wielded. He personally
addressed me, giving his name as Albus Dumbledore, but I did not wish to
bandy words with a heretic and a witch, so before he could speak any further
and bewitch me, I disposed of him with my stake crossbow and gave the order
for my force to attack.

Pandemonium erupted immediately. The younger psykers were herded back into
the castle by two of the "teachers"; a wrinkled midget (pict/subject 24) and
a portly woman bedecked with scraps of local flora (pict/subject 25). The
older children retaliated, led by the other two psykers, a crone-faced woman
(pict/subject 22) and a cadaverous man with long black greasy hair
(pict/subject 23).

The psykers launched a variety of psychic attacks that killed and/or
otherwise incapacitated my warriors. I saw some terrible things. Two
Stormtroopers stumbled and fell to the ground, as if their limbs had ceased
to function. Sister-Palatine Lucresia was transmuted in a second from a
proud warrior of the Adepta Sororitas to a pewter goblet. Local militia
either burst into laughter so violent that their blood vessels burst, or
were inflated like carnival balloons. Arco-flagellants slipped and collapsed
as the ground beneath them was turned to ice. I remained unscathed, thanks
to the protection offered by my hexagrammic wards and my accompanying
sanctioned and penitent psykers.

I rallied my troops and pressed the attack. Many of the child psykers were
slain by the accurate firepower of my Stormtroopers and the Sisters, and
they fled in craven dissarray, only to be picked off at the leisure of my
warriors and I. Subject 23 was bisected by Sister Superior Paminda's
eviscerator, whilst Subject 22 met the Emperor's Judgment at the claws of
the Penitent Engine. 

We advanced into the castle, gunning down resistance where we found it.
Subjects 24 and 25 were killed as they defended the younger heretics, many
of who surrendered after the deaths of their "teachers". I tasked
Stormtrooper Lieutenant Virone with prisoner detail, and he and his squad
set about dealing with the captured children, taking them to the evac zone
and transferring them to the null-cells aboard the Persecution, where they
would await interrogation and execution. 

We finally came across the last point of resistance in the great hall of the
castle; a room so seeped in obscene witchery that I permitted only the
Sisters and my personal staff to accompany me inside- I could not risk the
corruption of the Stormtroopers.

At the end of the hall stood four figures (picts 26-29), all of them young
psykers. Three of the psykers were male, and one was female. They began a
last-ditch defense, but their efforts were in vain. The blonde,
arrogant-looking male (pict/subject 27) was reduced to ashes by my
gun-servitor's plasma cannon, and the freckled, red-haired male
(pict/subject 2 took a trio of bolter shots to the chest. The female, a
young girl with long, curly brown hair (pict/subject 26) surrendered to us,
and I immediately placed an inhibitor upon her (I have since transferred
Subject 26 to my own staff, where she now serves as a penitent psyker).
The final male, a boy with thick black hair, spectacles, and a curious scar
on his forehead (pict/subject 29) was monstrously powerful for one so young,
and claimed the lives of four Sisters, my two gun-servitors, and
Interrogator Delaun before he was stopped. As Interrogator Tesze held him in
the jaws of her mancatcher, I prepared my power stake for the killing
strike. Subject 29 looked at me frantically and cried out; "You idiot
muggle! If you kill me, Voldemort will return!"

I presumed that "muggle" was some sort of profane cult slang. I had no idea
who "Voldemort" was/is, but I assume that the witch's babble was a desperate
and useless plea to prevent me from dispensing justice. I paid his rambling
no heed, and impaled his heart with my sacred power stake.

Our mission a success, we ransacked the castle for any heretical items that
would need to be immediately destroyed to prevent them from corrupting the
servants of the Emperor any longer. We found all manner of wands,
ingredients, spell books and scrolls, and curious orb-shaped relics (picts
30-32; note the curious wings that adorn the tiny golden ball in pict 32).

All was put to the cleansing flame.

Upon our return to the Persecution, I gave the order for Captain Yevonce to
begin the orbital bombardment of the castle, completely obliterating the
vile structure. As we made warp transition to Bethor VIII, my staff and I
began the interrogation of the young witches. 

My apologies for the lack of transcripts at this current moment, but I
regret to announce that both my scribe-skull and auto-savant are both out of
ink and parchment, and Interrogator Tesze has been forced to transcribe the
interrogations from the various vox-thief recordings. The transcripts will
be with you shortly, my Lord.

The stain of the Hogwarts coven has been wiped from the Emperor's glorious
realm.

Your Servant,
Inquisitor Predujis Bigotin


----------



## khorneflake

guys, this made me cry laughing, keeepem coming:grin:


----------



## XV8crisis

1) thou shalt not make misdirected comments about a sister's armour
2) thou may not play rugby with thine holy titans
3) thou shall not mess thy power armour if in confrontation with tyranids
4) thou shalt not use power claws to pick thine teeth, nor shalt you use them as a back-scratcher
5) thou may not train an army of grots to "overrun the capitalist oppressors".


----------



## Chase The hero

100 things i would do i was a chaos warlord:

My Legions of Terror will have helmets with clear plexiglass visors, not face-concealing ones.

My ventilation ducts will be too small to crawl through.

My noble half-brother whose throne I usurped will be killed, not kept anonymously imprisoned in a forgotten cell of my dungeon.

Shooting is not too good for my enemies.

The artifact which is the source of my power will not be kept on the Mountain of Despair beyond the River of Fire guarded by the Dragons of Eternity. It will be in my safe-deposit box. The same applies to the object which is my one weakness.

I will not gloat over my enemies' predicament before killing them.

When I've captured my adversary and he says, "Look, before you kill me, will you at least tell me what this is all about?" I'll say, "No." and shoot him. No, on second thought I'll shoot him then say "No."

After I kidnap the beautiful princess, we will be married immediately in a quiet civil ceremony, not a lavish spectacle in three weeks' time during which the final phase of my plan will be carried out.

I will not include a self-destruct mechanism unless absolutely necessary. If it is necessary, it will not be a large red button labelled "Danger: Do Not Push". The big red button marked "Do Not Push" will instead trigger a spray of bullets on anyone stupid enough to disregard it. Similarly, the ON/OFF switch will not clearly be labelled as such.

I will not interrogate my enemies in the inner sanctum -- a small hotel well outside my borders will work just as well.

I will be secure in my superiority. Therefore, I will feel no need to prove it by leaving clues in the form of riddles or leaving my weaker enemies alive to show they pose no threat.

One of my advisors will be an average five-year-old child. Any flaws in my plan that he is able to spot will be corrected before implementation.

All slain enemies will be cremated, or at least have several rounds of ammunition emptied into them, not left for dead at the bottom of the cliff. The announcement of their deaths, as well as any accompanying celebration, will be deferred until after the aforementioned disposal.

The hero is not entitled to a last kiss, a last cigarette, or any other form of last request.

I will never employ any device with a digital countdown. If I find that such a device is absolutely unavoidable, I will set it to activate when the counter reaches 117 and the hero is just putting his plan into operation.

I will never utter the sentence "But before I kill you, there's just one thing I want to know."

When I employ people as advisors, I will occasionally listen to their advice.

I will not have a son. Although his laughably under-planned attempt to usurp power would easily fail, it would provide a fatal distraction at a crucial point in time.

I will not have a daughter. She would be as beautiful as she was evil, but one look at the hero's rugged countenance and she'd betray her own father.

Despite its proven stress-relieving effect, I will not indulge in maniacal laughter. When so occupied, it's too easy to miss unexpected developments that a more attentive individual could adjust to accordingly.

I will hire a talented fashion designer to create original uniforms for my Legions of Terror, as opposed to some cheap knock-offs that make them look like Nazi stormtroopers, Roman footsoldiers, or savage Mongol hordes. All were eventually defeated and I want my troops to have a more positive mind-set.

No matter how tempted I am with the prospect of unlimited power, I will not consume any energy field bigger than my head.

I will keep a special cache of low-tech weapons and train my troops in their use. That way -- even if the heroes manage to neutralize my power generator and/or render the standard-issue energy weapons useless -- my troops will not be overrun by a handful of savages armed with spears and rocks.

I will maintain a realistic assessment of my strengths and weaknesses. Even though this takes some of the fun out of the job, at least I will never utter the line "No, this cannot be! I AM INVINCIBLE!!!" (After that, death is usually instantaneous.)

No matter how well it would perform, I will never construct any sort of machinery which is completely indestructible except for one small and virtually inaccessible vulnerable spot.

No matter how attractive certain members of the rebellion are, there is probably someone just as attractive who is not desperate to kill me. Therefore, I will think twice before ordering a prisoner sent to my bedchamber.

I will never build only one of anything important. All important systems will have redundant control panels and power supplies. For the same reason I will always carry at least two fully loaded weapons at all times.

My pet monster will be kept in a secure cage from which it cannot escape and into which I could not accidentally stumble.

I will dress in bright and cheery colors, and so throw my enemies into confusion.

All bumbling conjurers, clumsy squires, no-talent bards, and cowardly thieves in the land will be preemptively put to death. My foes will surely give up and abandon their quest if they have no source of comic relief.

All naive, busty tavern wenches in my realm will be replaced with surly, world-weary waitresses who will provide no unexpected reinforcement and/or romantic subplot for the hero or his sidekick.

I will not fly into a rage and kill a messenger who brings me bad news just to illustrate how evil I really am. Good messengers are hard to come by.

I won't require high-ranking female members of my organization to wear a stainless-steel bustier. Morale is better with a more casual dress-code. Similarly, outfits made entirely from black leather will be reserved for formal occasions.

I will not turn into a snake. It never helps.

I will not grow a goatee. In the old days they made you look diabolic. Now they just make you look like a disaffected member of Generation X.

I will not imprison members of the same party in the same cell block, let alone the same cell. If they are important prisoners, I will keep the only key to the cell door on my person instead of handing out copies to every bottom-rung guard in the prison.

If my trusted lieutenant tells me my Legions of Terror are losing a battle, I will believe him. After all, he's my trusted lieutenant.

If an enemy I have just killed has a younger sibling or offspring anywhere, I will find them and have them killed immediately, instead of waiting for them to grow up harboring feelings of vengeance towards me in my old age.

If I absolutely must ride into battle, I will certainly not ride at the forefront of my Legions of Terror, nor will I seek out my opposite number among his army.

I will be neither chivalrous nor sporting. If I have an unstoppable superweapon, I will use it as early and as often as possible instead of keeping it in reserve.

Once my power is secure, I will destroy all those pesky time-travel devices.

When I capture the hero, I will make sure I also get his dog, monkey, ferret, or whatever sickeningly cute little animal capable of untying ropes and filching keys happens to follow him around.

I will maintain a healthy amount of skepticism when I capture the beautiful rebel and she claims she is attracted to my power and good looks and will gladly betray her companions if I just let her in on my plans.

I will only employ bounty hunters who work for money. Those who work for the pleasure of the hunt tend to do dumb things like even the odds to give the other guy a sporting chance.

I will make sure I have a clear understanding of who is responsible for what in my organization. For example, if my general screws up I will not draw my weapon, point it at him, say "And here is the price for failure," then suddenly turn and kill some random underling.

If an advisor says to me "My liege, he is but one man. What can one man possibly do?", I will reply "This." and kill the advisor.

If I learn that a callow youth has begun a quest to destroy me, I will slay him while he is still a callow youth instead of waiting for him to mature.

I will treat any beast which I control through magic or technology with respect and kindness. Thus if the control is ever broken, it will not immediately come after me for revenge.

If I learn the whereabouts of the one artifact which can destroy me, I will not send all my troops out to seize it. Instead I will send them out to seize something else and quietly put a Want-Ad in the local paper.

My main computers will have their own special operating system that will be completely incompatible with standard IBM and Macintosh powerbooks.

If one of my dungeon guards begins expressing concern over the conditions in the beautiful princess' cell, I will immediately transfer him to a less people-oriented position.

I will hire a team of board-certified architects and surveyors to examine my castle and inform me of any secret passages and abandoned tunnels that I might not know about.

If the beautiful princess that I capture says "I'll never marry you! Never, do you hear me, NEVER!!!", I will say "Oh well" and kill her.

I will not strike a bargain with a demonic being then attempt to double-cross it simply because I feel like being contrary.

The deformed mutants and odd-ball psychotics will have their place in my Legions of Terror. However before I send them out on important covert missions that require tact and subtlety, I will first see if there is anyone else equally qualified who would attract less attention.

My Legions of Terror will be trained in basic marksmanship. Any who cannot learn to hit a man-sized target at 10 meters will be used for target practice.

Before employing any captured artifacts or machinery, I will carefully read the owner's manual.

If it becomes necessary to escape, I will never stop to pose dramatically and toss off a one-liner.

I will never build a sentient computer smarter than I am.

My five-year-old child advisor will also be asked to decipher any code I am thinking of using. If he breaks the code in under 30 seconds, it will not be used. Note: this also applies to passwords.

If my advisors ask "Why are you risking everything on such a mad scheme?", I will not proceed until I have a response that satisfies them.

I will design fortress hallways with no alcoves or protruding structural supports which intruders could use for cover in a firefight.

Bulk trash will be disposed of in incinerators, not compactors. And they will be kept hot, with none of that nonsense about flames going through accessible tunnels at predictable intervals.

I will see a competent psychiatrist and get cured of all extremely unusual phobias and bizarre compulsive habits which could prove to be a disadvantage.

If I must have computer systems with publically available terminals, the maps they display of my complex will have a room clearly marked as the Main Control Room. That room will be the Execution Chamber. The actual main control room will be marked as Sewage Overflow Containment.

My security keypad will actually be a fingerprint scanner. Anyone who watches someone press a sequence of buttons or dusts the pad for fingerprints then subsequently tries to enter by repeating that sequence will trigger the alarm system.

No matter how many shorts we have in the system, my guards will be instructed to treat every surveillance camera malfunction as a full-scale emergency.

I will spare someone who saved my life sometime in the past. This is only reasonable as it encourages others to do so. However, the offer is good one time only. If they want me to spare them again, they'd better save my life again.

All midwives will be banned from the realm. All babies will be delivered at state-approved hospitals. Orphans will be placed in foster-homes, not abandoned in the woods to be raised by creatures of the wild.

When my guards split up to search for intruders, they will always travel in groups of at least two. They will be trained so that if one of them disappears mysteriously while on patrol, the other will immediately initiate an alert and call for backup, instead of quizzically peering around a corner.

If I decide to test a lieutenant's loyalty and see if he/she should be made a trusted lieutenant, I will have a crack squad of marksmen standing by in case the answer is no.

If all the heroes are standing together around a strange device and begin to taunt me, I will pull out a conventional weapon instead of using my unstoppable superweapon on them.

I will not agree to let the heroes go free if they win a rigged contest, even though my advisors assure me it is impossible for them to win.

When I create a multimedia presentation of my plan designed so that my five-year-old advisor can easily understand the details, I will not label the disk "Project Overlord" and leave it lying on top of my desk.

I will instruct my Legions of Terror to attack the hero en masse, instead of standing around waiting while members break off and attack one or two at a time.

If the hero runs up to my roof, I will not run up after him and struggle with him in an attempt to push him over the edge. I will also not engage him at the edge of a cliff. (In the middle of a rope-bridge over a river of molten lava is not even worth considering.)

If I have a fit of temporary insanity and decide to give the hero the chance to reject a job as my trusted lieutentant, I will retain enough sanity to wait until my current trusted lieutenant is out of earshot before making the offer.

I will not tell my Legions of Terror "And he must be taken alive!" The command will be "And try to take him alive if it is reasonably practical."

If my doomsday device happens to come with a reverse switch, as soon as it has been employed it will be melted down and made into limited-edition commemorative coins.

If my weakest troops fail to eliminate a hero, I will send out my best troops instead of wasting time with progressively stronger ones as he gets closer and closer to my fortress.

If I am fighting with the hero atop a moving platform, have disarmed him, and am about to finish him off and he glances behind me and drops flat, I too will drop flat instead of quizzically turning around to find out what he saw.

I will not shoot at any of my enemies if they are standing in front of the crucial support beam to a heavy, dangerous, unbalanced structure.

If I'm eating dinner with the hero, put poison in his goblet, then have to leave the table for any reason, I will order new drinks for both of us instead of trying to decide whether or not to switch with him.

I will not have captives of one sex guarded by members of the opposite sex.

I will not use any plan in which the final step is horribly complicated, e.g. "Align the 12 Stones of Power on the sacred altar then activate the medallion at the moment of total eclipse." Instead it will be more along the lines of "Push the button."

I will make sure that my doomsday device is up to code and properly grounded.

My vats of hazardous chemicals will be covered when not in use. Also, I will not construct walkways above them.

If a group of henchmen fail miserably at a task, I will not berate them for incompetence then send the same group out to try the task again.

After I captures the hero's superweapon, I will not immediately disband my legions and relax my guard because I believe whoever holds the weapon is unstoppable. After all, the hero held the weapon and I took it from him. 

I will not design my Main Control Room so that every workstation is facing away from the door.

I will not ignore the messenger that stumbles in exhausted and obviously agitated until my personal grooming or current entertainment is finished. It might actually be important.

If I ever talk to the hero on the phone, I will not taunt him. Instead I will say this his dogged perseverance has given me new insight on the futility of my evil ways and that if he leaves me alone for a few months of quiet contemplation I will likely return to the path of righteousness. (Heroes are incredibly gullible in this regard.)

If I decide to hold a double execution of the hero and an underling who failed or betrayed me, I will see to it that the hero is scheduled to go first.

When arresting prisoners, my guards will not allow them to stop and grab a useless trinket of purely sentimental value.

My dungeon will have its own qualified medical staff complete with bodyguards. That way if a prisoner becomes sick and his cellmate tells the guard it's an emergency, the guard will fetch a trauma team instead of opening up the cell for a look.

My door mechanisms will be designed so that blasting the control panel on the outside seals the door and blasting the control panel on the inside opens the door, not vice versa.

My dungeon cells will not be furnished with objects that contain reflective surfaces or anything that can be unravelled.

If an attractive young couple enters my realm, I will carefully monitor their activities. If I find they are happy and affectionate, I will ignore them. However if circumstance have forced them together against their will and they spend all their time bickering and criticizing each other except during the intermittent occasions when they are saving each others' lives at which point there are hints of sexual tension, I will immediately order their execution.

Any data file of crucial importance will be padded to 1.45Mb in size.

Finally, to keep my subjects permanently locked in a mindless trance, I will provide each of them with free unlimited Internet access.


----------



## Son of mortarion

awesome plan, the 'net should keep 'em busy for a while.


----------



## arturslv

How much Orks does it take to screw in a lightbulb? One, but lots and lots of lightbulbs.
How much Eldar does it take to screw in a lightbulb? Three. One, to stand guard, one to screw it in, and another one to make an epic poem about it.


----------



## Lopspoon

Despite this not really being on topic, did you know that Hugo Boss the designer designed the original SS uniforms for Hitler.


----------



## Lucio

arturslv said:


> How much Orks does it take to screw in a lightbulb? One, but lots and lots of lightbulbs.
> How much Eldar does it take to screw in a lightbulb? Three. One, to stand guard, one to screw it in, and another one to make an epic poem about it.


How many Slaaneshi cultists does it take to screw in a lightbulb? Two of course, but don't ask me how they got in there.


----------



## Dawnstar

Enjoy :biggrin:


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## Leirasapostle

If yall have never read a chaos marine's diary you should check it out.

http://www.librarium-online.com/forums/fiction-forum/3430-chaos-space-marine-s-diary.html


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## arturslv

Thou shall not use thy thunder hammer to get rid of cockroaches.


----------



## arturslv

How much High Lords Of Terra does it take to screw in a lightbulb? One, while the rest of Imperium revolves around him.


----------



## Lord Reevan

your momma's so fat in the darkness of the 41st millenium there is only her!!


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## arturslv

Here's mah daemon, please help him to take over the Imperium by leveling him up. The Guy - blaaaarhhg!!!
aaand here's the Jeanstealer(Genestealer), help her to steal all the denim pants in the Universe!!!


----------



## Indoctrinator

Here are some amusing posters I found just now on google.


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## arturslv

am really thankful to all who have done their part in helping mah adoptables take the Imperium over with sheer, unimaginable power and cuteness(dawwww) keep it on ppl


----------



## goldleader23

50 Ways to Annoy your Opponent

1. Bring a hand puppet. Question it constantly as to what is the best course of action.
2. Bring a small model coffin with undertakers. Everytime a model dies, escort it off the battlefield and give it model funeral. Remember to hum the funeral theme tune.
3. Bring a falsified rulebook ( hours of fun ).
4. Shave your head. Paint your skin green. Wear a nose ring. Grunt a lot.
5. Flip a coin at the start of the game. After observing the outcome, claim that you have won the game. Look upset if your opponent denies this. Sulk.
6. Bring 20 printed pages of notes and intellectual-looking glasses. Refuse to let your opponent look at them. Refer to them throughout the game. Speak aloud as you read- "he's gone there, so contingency plan 8a means that I should..."
7. Insist opponent rolls all your dice for you. Complain and insult your opponent if you get any bad rolls.
8. Before the game, do a little dance and motion to the gods. Curse your opponent dramatically.
9. Arrive before your opponent. Set up your army and then take the other side of the table. Act as if you are expecting to play with your opponent's army.
10. Add a spring loading system to your cannon. Bring lots of ball bearings.
11. Bring a plastic kid's sword and 'challenge' your opponent. If he refuses, claim you have won the game through his forfeit.
12. Play dead if your general dies.
13. Bring a Land-raider model from 40K. Leave it sitting conspicuously on your side of the table. Make cryptic references to the power of laser cannon in WHFB.
14. Complain that you don't think you can trust your hero.
15. Act as if you are a sports commentator. Commentate on the game. Incessantly.
16. Ask politely if your opponent wouldn't kill your general. Explain that its his birthday.
17. Bring a smoke machine. Insist on recreating the "fog of war".
18. Sacrifice a goblin to Mork before the game. Saw off its head with a craft knife.
19. Arrange models in a diorama in the middle of the battle. Take photos for a "battle report."
20. Sharpen your goblins' spears before the game with a craft knife. Grin widely.
21. Cackle diabolically. "The World is mine! Nothing can stop me now!"
22. State before the game that you are playing for the title of the champion of the universe.
23. Feel the personal loss of every soldier. "Alas, poor Yorrick, I knew him well."
24. Lament the woes of war loudly. Faint when a model dies.
25. Add sound FX. Kaboom!
26. Ask if you can have TV rights to the game.
27. Just to surprise your opponent, agree amicably with and compliment your opponent!
28. Declare that you are opposed to the senseless destruction of our forests. Refuse to let him kill your treemen. Refuse to let him move through woods.
29. Insist on a lunch break for your troops. Bring a model Mr. Whippy Van.
30. Explain that you are a pacifist. Call off the game immediately.
31. Order your miniatures in your best Sergeant-Major voice. "Quick march, on the double- hut!"
32. Ask if your opponent is opposed to nuclear warfare. Carry a small spherical device. Give no other reasons.
33. Wear a crown. Say that you are the "Lord of the Galaxy". Get a horde of admirers to cheer you on.
34. Bring a stuffed, shaved poodle. Say it is your mascot.
35. Grow a Hitler moustache and wear a swastika. 'Discipline' your troops if they fail to salute you.
36. Cheer on your miniatures.
37. Hide under the table at the start of the game. Make your opponent drag you out. Speak in a nervous whisper. Confide in him that you are scared of his troops.
38. Leave a false army list lying around. Snatch it back angrily if your opponent starts to read it, but leave it visible.
39. Pull out an ace surreptitiously ( but obviously ) from your sleeve during the magic phase. Look pleased. Try to play it.
40. Keep a deck of Magic the Gathering cards handy. When you are told it is "the magic phase" bring out the cards and start to shuffle them. Ask if he wants to cut your deck.
41. Speak in Skaven. Neek- Neek!
42. Tell him you've brought weighted dice. Complain about the uselessness of modern technology when you start to roll ones.
43. Bring a lamp. Rub it and make three wishes before the game. Look at your opponent accusingly if they don't immediately come true. Ask him if he's used it.
44. Ask what year it is. Ask where you are. Ask what game you are going to play. If he says warhammer, bring out an antique mallet and hit him with it. Smile a corny grin.
45. Make references to a spy/traitor in his army.
46. Don't place your wizard on the board at the start of the game. At the end of your deployment, use a small explosive device to create a smoke screen and place down the wizard behind it while you yell, "poof!". When the smoke dissipates, say, "Tadaa!"
47. Have a history written for every trooper. Start a family feud.
48. Poor cheese sauce all over your opponent's army. Complain that it is cheesy.
49. Come with an army painted completely flora purple. Wear dark glasses.
50. Attempt to bribe your opponent's characters. Turn away quickly if your opponent looks at you questioningly. Deny everything.


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## arturslv

guys, how can u insert pic u have on the computer?


----------



## Geist

Nice thread. How's this?


----------



## Helsreach

For everyone who's read Helsreach
"Exit holy Oberon now!"
"Ask yourself, how long was it since I last fired the nova cannon? 22 minutes or 23? Feeling lucky? Huh do ya, Princeps."


----------



## MadCowCrazy

Your momma has so many STDs not even Papa Nurgle would do her...


----------



## arturslv

The Emperor's list of Things to do after Resurrection

It is a known and heretical fact that the Emperor will one day be reborn as the "star child" in the event he should finally die, as foretold by Tzeentch. Since this is Chaotic knowledge, the Adeptus Custodes will have none of it. When will it happen you ask? Simple: When Games Workshop finally decides to think logically and advance their stagnant plotl*BLAM*.

This section has been improved by your local Commissar. +Amplus Palma Pro Terra!+

1. Get better power armor.
2. Wipe out the Imperium.
3. Rebuild the Imperium to it's former glory so it is not fucktarded like it is now.
4. Make peace with the Tau and trade technology with them then kill them afterwards for being weaboo Xenos.
5. Make peace with the Eldar and trade technology with them then wipe them out afterwards for being foul Xenos.
6. Pacifiy the Orks and keep them alive for gladiator sports or target practice for the Space Marines.
7. Put the Dark Eldar in Rehab. then eliminate them afterwards for being treacherous Xenos.
8. Wipe out the C'tan.
9. Wipe out the Necrons.
10. Purge Chaos from the universe and seal the Eye of Terror.
11. Tell the Sisters of Battle they can have sex with men and not to be paedophiles anymore. or be **** ******.
12. Teach the Commisars NOT to kill the Guardsmen they're leading! Commend the Commissars on a job well done.
13. Marry Macha and fuck the Eldar out of her! Then have 40,000 babies with her!!!!!!!!!! -Deemed as #1 Priority by Creed and the Blood Ravens (particularly by Gabriel Angelos and Indrick Boreale.)
(wait, how did this get in here? It must have taken some kind of a tactical geniu- CREEEEEEEEEED!)
14. NOM NOM the Tyranids without salsa!
15. Further expand the Warhammer 40K storyline without the interference of Games Workshop.
16. Destroy the enemies of the Imperium...WITH FIRE! Let the Galaxy burn if needed.
17. Teach the Imperial Guard generals some actual tactics other than sending thousands of Guardsmen to take a hill outpost.
18. Tell the Adeptus Mechanicus to stop keeping secrets.and threaten to exterminatus Mars if they don't.
19. Replace the Imperial Guardsmen Flashlights Lasguns with something that can actually do shit! Guardsmen with Pulse Rifles HELL YEA!!!!!
20. Gather every Guardsman, Astartes, Inquisition dudes, Sororitas, Commissars.. heck everyone in the Imperium of Man, give them weapons, have them surround the Eye of Terror and then let the Greatest of all Holy shitstorms ensue.
21. Personally execute Fulgrim, Pertutabo, Agaron and the rest of them traitor Primarchs.. after the Inquisition have given them a proper torturing.
22. Beat Khorne in an arm wrestling match, then rip his arm off and beat him to death with it!
23. Show Slaneesh my dick and watch as he kills himself because of envy!
24. Beat Nurgle in a farting contest. Then throw him in a car wash in a convertible with the top down!
25. Devise a scheme so elaborate and complex that I'll be the one to say "Just as planned" to Tzeench.
26. Outdick Eldrad. Then screw his daughter in front of him! Again!
27. Issue a order to the Inquisition and the Commissariat that Porn is not Heresy. However, fantasizing about porn is giving in to excess so it's still heresy; all porn is to be given to your local Commissar for review.
28. Go back in time and tell the dumb fuck at Games Workshop who fucked up the 5th Edition of Codex Astartes that "He's doing it wrong.", the dude to made the Imperial Guard better that "He's doing it right." then go to the guy who decided to give the Guard flashlights and take him to the Inquisition to be properly tortured.
29. Recognize /tg/ for it's awesomeness. then wipe it off the face of Holy Terra for spawning half of the heresies we know today.
30. Permit Space Marines and Sisters of Battle to date. to breed and create an incorruptible warrior race that will serve in his my name. Well, the Astartes are call themselves my Sons, and the Sororitas say they're my Daughters... maybe this plan is a wee bit awkward? But I want grandkids and the last time I was a dad, my son Horus went and ruined Christmas for everybody.
31. Rename the Sisters of Battle to "Step-Daughters of the Emperor" or adopted daughters or something. They technically are not related to me the way the Astartes Primarchs are, and I don't want my boys to be too squicked... unless they're into that kind of kinky!
32. Be a better father to the rest of my sons, as not to spark another shitstorm that will inevitably cripple me for another few millenia.
33. Go on a deer-hunting trip with some Vindicare and kill bag more kills than him using an Exitus Rifle.
34. Overshadow an Eversor Assassin during his dynamic entry.
35. Deceive a Callidus Assassin with disguises and trick her into having a romantic relationship with me.
36. Outbrood a Cullexus Assasin and still remain awesome.
37. Deceive the C'tan false God "The Deceiver" by tricking him into destroying the Necrons.
38. Find out what if anything is chasing the Tyranids and see if they're friendly. If not: Launch the prototype promethium planetary bombardment torpedo.
39. Smack that sorry excuse for a "Spess Mehreen" Indrick Boreale for giving me the blasphemous nickname of "Emprah." C'mon Indrick, you want people to call you "Drick" for short?
40. Once again outdick Eldrad in the game of his choice, forcing him to ragequit.
41. Make a better emergency life support system as a safeguard if things for some reason go south. By that I mean make some kinda Emperor Dreadnought or some shit like that so I can still do my job instead of all this being a decaying corpse on some tricked out toilet worshipped by the entire population... did I mention how much this sucks?
42. Outright skullfuck Slaneesh for making something so good be so wrong and heretical.
43. Eliminate masturbation across the Imperium and in its place have sanctioned sex workers as part of the socialized medical program because it is HERESY, and any fa/tg/uys caught doing it be sent to the Inquisitional training academy to be used as "test-subjects" for the Inquisitors in training, or sent of to Adeptus Mechanicus to be turned into servitors. so nobody will be stuck comforting themselves alone ever again.
44. Send search parties throughout the Empire to find that awesome excuse for a Space Viking, Leman Russ, and if he's found alive, hand his ass to him like I did before I got stuck on this throne.
45. Find the other 2 primarchs that I never did find before that shit went down with Horus, and check if they are tainted and I need to kill 'em. I hope not.
46. Revive Roboute Guilliman of the Ultramarines. I liked that guy. Who the hell wrote this HERESY on -MY- list?!
47. Expand the Imperium to a intergalactic empire. Tyrannids had to have come from SOMEwhere habitable.
48. Create a special rule just for myself so that instead of just one unit as a scout, I field an ENTIRE REGIMENT'S worth of troops as scouts. (thus people will stop using Creed's name and will start saying EMPERRRRROOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRR!!1!!!one!!!!)
49. Beat a Commissar at a Western-Style shootout. yee-haw!
50. Recognize the Legion of the Damned for their awesomeness and baddassery.
51. Apologize to Magnus for not listening to his warning.And afterwards,execute him for being a Traitor.
52. Find out who wrote the heresy on point 46 and have him killed.
53. Challenge Sly Marbo to a duel to decide who is the greatest being in the entire universe.


----------



## arturslv

Not mine, but to those who know the primarchs will laugh.


----------



## arturslv

In a meeting between the Blood Ravens' finest Librarians and pious Chaplains, Captain Indrick Boreale requested from them a speech that would inspire his troops to victory, seeing that his original one was insufficient. While the 2 parties did make a glorious speech, Captain Boreale's ad-libs, mispronunciations and improvises virtually gutted the speech made by them.


Tehre is noh time to beh lohst!


Battle Brothars!


Spehss mahreens, todeh the enemeh is at oua doar! We know oua duteh and we will do eet. We fight for our honor as Blod Rehvens,
as SPEHSS MAHREENS, and we fight in the nehme of the Empra!


And if we die this deh we die in gloareh, we die heroes' deffs, but we shall not die, no! It is the enemeh who will tehste deff
and defeat!


As you know! Moast of oua battle brothars are shtehtioned in SPEHSS, Pruhpeared to deep strike! Oua perimeter has been
pruhpeared in the even dat oua enehmies should be so bald and so foolish. We have plehced numerous beacons, allowing for
muhltiple, simuln-tehneous and devashtehting defensive deep strikes


The Codecks astartees nehmes this maneuvah Steel Rehn. We will descend upon the foe, we will ovawhelm them - we will leave none
alive! Meanwhile oua ground fawses will ensue the full defense of oua headkwaters


We are the spehss mahreens! WE ARE THE EMPRA'S FUREH!


----------



## arturslv

How Boreale lost his "voice"

Scene starts as Thule defeats Gorgutz in Dark Crusade. Gorgutz flees the Green Beach and is currently on his Ork ship. Indrick Borale is in his personal Thunderhawk with Techmarine brother Spasmius heading towards the Litany of Fury. Brother Spasmius had an unclear mind due to seeing a daemonette on imperial television, and hence drove Brother Captain Boreale into Gorgutz' ship, looking for Gabriel Angelos.

Nob: Isn't that 'umie un of 'ose wez got trash'd up by? Gorgutz: Nah, that 'umie looks dumb, and 'ez talks funny too. Must be un of 'ose Chaos Boyz we'z stomped on. Nob: What shall we do boss? Stomp on 'im? Gorgutz: Move aside ya git. 'ez mine.

Gorgutz smashes up Boreale, leaving him with no teeth and a even more damaged brain. Boreale stumbles back into his thunderhawk, Gorgutz gleefully picking up his teeth.

"Brother Spessmius...Where are weh?" 
Brother Captain Boreale's Bad Day
SPESSSSS

Boreale made doubly sure his armor was perfectly polished. He checked his sword scabbard and pistol holster. He fitted his Purity Seals on and ensured that his breastplate decorations were positioned correctly. He held his helmet under his arms. As he turned from his massive planning table, he checked his reflection in one of his other suits of Power Armour. Tall, large, inspiring. Perfectly presented, every inch an Imperial Space Marine.

His hair was still very short, but Boreale had begun to accept that. Even after two hundred years, his hair (or lack thereof) bothered him. But it wasn’t the worst thing. That would be his speech.

He had been fighting his speech for years. He was an inspirational speaker, able to turn his formidable speech-composition skills to demagoguery or fiery rhetoric. He always wrote and delivered his own speeches, and he strongly believed in the importance of words as an element of leadership. But he always struggled with the same thing:

Pronunciation. A more obdurate enemy than any he had ever faced.

He mouthed the words of his speech to himself, very softly, as he looked into his reflection on the chestplate of a Power Armour suit.

“Space Marines, today is the day…” the words came out very softly, but they were correct. Perhaps today WOULD be the day? Perhaps today he would get it right, and deliver the greatest speech of his entire illustrious career? He continued to practice: “today is the day we serve the…Empr-…Empera…Emperor. Tode-today…” He took a deep breath and started again:

“Today is the day we serve the Emperor by putting our lives, minds and souls in the line of duty in His name, and in service to the Imperium….”

He was doing well so far. Perhaps today would be the day indeed.

Confident with his initial success, Boreale straightened himself out to his full height of about nine feet. It had been only days since the attack on their Stronghold by the Sisters of Battle, where he had personally defeated Canoness Agna in single combat. The woman had charged in towards him, full of righteous fury, and screaming a challenge. Meeting her with his own blade and screaming his own battle cry (it unfortunately came out as FOR THE EMPRA, in the heat of battle), Boreale had overwhelmed her with superior speed and strength, and she had fallen on her sword rather than let him strike the killing blow.

Regrettable that it came to fighting the Empe...Emperor’s servants as such, but necessary. Necessary for the survival of the Imperium and mankind, necessary to please the Emperor and the Unknown Primarch. Necessary. No, essential!

Boreale gritted his jaw, and corrected his sword one last time. It was time.

He stepped out onto the podium where hundreds of Blood Ravens stood assembled silently and unmoving, waiting for his words. He felt confidence fill him the likes of which he had never felt. Today would indeed be the day.

Boreale drew a deep breath.

“BROTHERS!”

…

“TODEH WE SERVE THE EMPRA!”

Some things just never changed.


----------



## arturslv

Boreale in Therapy

"Space marines. Suh-Pay-Seh Ma-Reens. Space Marines," Brother Tullus nodded, "Now, you try."

"Sp-Sp-SPESS-"
"No, no, ACE. AAAACE."
"EHSSS"
"Ace."
"Ace."
"Good. Now say 'Spay."
"Spay."
"Now say both of them."
"Spay. Ace."
"And all together now."
"Sp-sp-spess."

Brother Tullus delicately plucked the spectacles from the bridge of his nose while the other massaged his much aching head, "No, no, Emperor damn it..."
"I have failed..."
"No, no, no Boreale you-" Tullus leaned back in the chair, as it cried out in protest, trying in vain to think of something-
"THE EMPRAH!"
He fell back out of his chair in surprise at the sudden exclamation.

Brother-Captain Indrick Boreale was but one of many held at the Mental Reclamation Convent of Saint Gimpus, and really, Tullus reflected as he righted his chair, one of the better behaved ones.

For instance, one cell over...

"METAL BOXES!" Came muffled through the wall, shaking the diplomas bespangling it.


----------



## arturslv




----------



## arturslv

Excerpt from the diaries of Lieutenant Pretentiousness, beautiful servant of the Emperor and amazingly good looking soldier

+++++
The beautiful sun rose high above the glorious desert planet and I looked in wonder at the beauty the Emperor had graced us with. I turned to Brother Starr, his microphone held high as he prepared to give a beautifully arousing speech to all the brothers gathered there. I turned quickly to brush a speck of dust off that had landed on my armor, and breathed a sigh of relief that no one had seen that. As Brother Starr gave his address I looked into the sky and beheld a yellow thunderhawk streaming toward the planet. It landed a few meters away kicking dust in all directions.

"Brothers, evasive action!" Each member of the chapter pulled out his industrial strength hair dryer, the flashes of purple lighting up the terrain below as the brothers tried in vain to keep the dust from dirtying their armor. It was of no avail, I heard wails of despair... there would be much washing tonight. I looked out over the landscape to see several yellow glints rushing toward the lines of our chapter. I looked closer and saw the figures of 5 yellow clad marines rushing toward us. 3 of them held what looked like glorified wrenches, and the fourth carried a horrible looking banner. The fifth marine was hidden behind a mass of cardboard he carried with him. I heard their scream as they drew closer, drowning out all other sound, a horribly insensitive scream that rose above all other noise. "SUCK ON THIS YOU PANSYFIED *******" The one carrying the cardboard dropped all of it and the five stood for a second.

"ALWAYS ANGRY!"

"ALL THE TIME!"

The five turned and ran back the way they had come, and as their ship lifted off I saw several middle fingers on the side of the ship, still wet with new paint. I turned away in disgust, gracefully raising my chin.

I stepped down toward the mass of cardboard, helping brothers remove dust from their hair on the way.

I approached the mass of cardboard that had marred our beautiful desert landscape. Lying next to it was a small piece of paper. I knelt down and gingerly picked up the paper and turned it over.

Printed on the paper was a receipt for 1001 pizzas with anchovies and pineapple. On the bottom one word was written in red ink, barely legible.

OWNED


----------



## arturslv

The following is an extract from Hidden Imperial Histories by Adept Voliusnius Brouyt

+++++
Of the many Space Marine Chapters that protect the good citizens of the Imperium none are as well respected, nor as admired the warriors of the Ultramarines. Such is the greatness of their deeds their stories are told on innumerable worlds, their reputation as the saviours of the Imperium of Man is both well deserved and proven, time and time again. Indeed such is their martial prowess that even other Astartes can only but compare themselves forlornly inferior to those that hold Guilliman's geneseed.

This however occasionally leads to friction amongst some of the more bellicose chapters of Astartes that still stubbornly refuse to yeild to the wisdom of the blessed Codex Astartes. Such antagonism is best summed up with an anecdote from when the Ultramarines encounter with an obscure and ill-recorded chapter whom records merely identify as the [Angry??] Marines.

This chapter had apparently chased a tyranid splinter fleet into Ultramarine space. Impressed by their sheer ferocity the blessed Calgar offered an invitation to their Chapter Master, a man known to history only as Kratos. However the invitation to meet their spiritual liege was responded to only with the head of hive tyrant on which was crudely scrawled an insulting cartoon of the Ultramarines 1st Company's defence of Macragge and images of male genitalia.

Infuriated by such a blatant and insulting Snub, Calgar personaly took it to on himself to demand an apology from the arrogant Kratos, travelling to the offender's battlebarge's throneroom in person. Unfortunately he little expected the animalistic rage that would greet his justified demand for obeisance from the vile lesser chapter's Master and the argument between the two soon came to blows.

Sadly the clash between the two occurred behind closed doors, with no clue exactly what words were exchanged. Yet when the doors opened again it was Calgar that was bloodied and bruised, with the sacred Gauntlets of Ultramar torn from his shoulders. Only the wise counsel of the Inquisition prevented him declaring immediate war against his unruly brethren, a war that would no doubt have cost the Imperium greatly before the Ultramarines inevitable victory. The story stands as a clear example of how refusal to follow the Codex only promotes discord and strife between erstwhile brothers.

As to what occurred in the Angry Marine chambers, few can know, the only clue perhaps the jeering cry raised by the Angry Marines whenever they meet Ultramarines during campaigns. A nonsensical mantra of "STOP HITTING YOURSELF STOP HITTING YOURSELF", repeated ad infinitum. What such an idiotic phrase could mean a scholar can only guess at, perhaps it is merely an indication of the less than exemplary mental nature of non-codex Astartes.

+++++


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## arturslv




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## arturslv




----------



## arturslv

All these posted things are not written or made by me, found 'em on the 'net


----------



## arturslv

Robert's Chess Game

Robert looked down at the chess board as he moved a knight forward, his pieces in position to move in for a secure win within five moves the next move. He could not help but smile, imagining the simple board playing out as a battlefield with his units supporting each other in unison, just as his father had envisioned. His smile faded somewhat as he remembered what his father had said about feeling too good about one’s victories, something hard to take too seriously considering his own bragging about his “perfect” record.

He looked up at his opponent, who answered him with a grin. His eyes followed his hand as it descended upon the board and picking up… wait, what did his Queen do there? How had it slipped past his defenses? He examined the board and saw how his death-trap had been outmaneuvered. The man put down his queen in a position that now shone in its obviousness. Check-mate. How could it have happened? It must have been some tactical ge…

As the man pulled out a large cigar and lit it, Robert fixed his glasses irritatedly. He cleared his throat.

“Creed.”


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## arturslv

Macha's first night with The Big E


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## arturslv

Tau are vicious melee fighters, no less able than Space Marines!


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## arturslv




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## arturslv




----------



## Davidicus 40k

Great WAR40k motivational posters.


----------



## bobss

Not all of the below are originally mine.


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## arturslv

i thought that sororitas were working with the pedobear, cuz they're like pedos themselves, not to mention that they are **** ****** as well. must be the pedobear's chaos side


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## arturslv

lolz "i'll show you hot."


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## High_Seraph

TAU MEELE, nuff said.


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## arturslv

it's funny cuz it's true


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## arturslv




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## arturslv

"My Lord, I bring news."

Typhus Marburg paused in his study of the situation map of the dreary little planet his forces were engaged in ravaging.

"Yes?"

"Lord. Starships have appeared in the outer system and are on course for a landing. They have been identified aselements of the Flesh Tearers."

"Yeah? Tell them to sod off and find their own world. Tell 'em we got here first."

"Sire, you misunderstand. They are here to defend this world!"

"What! Why? It's a sorry state of affairs when the followers of Chaos start to defend the weakling Imperium from each other!"

"Um, Lord... the Flesh Tearers are a loyalist chapter."

"They are? With a name like that! Are you sure they're not one of ours?"

"Positive, My Lord."

"Have you been able to call for any assistance?"

"The Astropaths have contacted other forces nearby. Unfortunately this has also alerted other loyalist forces in the sector and they are also headed our way."

"Bugger. So who gets here first then?"

"The Alpha Legion, sire."

"It never rains, it only pours, hey?"

"Umm..."

"What!"

"The Alpha Legion is one of ours."

"It is?!"

"Yes."

"I'm confused. You're telling me that a mob called the 'Flesh Tearers' isn't one of ours but a mob called the - what was it again..."

"The Alpha Legion, sire."

"Right... a mob called the Alpha Legion is one of ours."

"That is correct, sire."

"So who else is showing up to this barney then?"

"The Blood Drinkers."

"One of ours?"

"One of theirs."

"OK."

"The Iron Warriors."

"One of theirs?"

"No. One of ours."

"Go figure."

"The Dark Angels."

"Now I've heard of them. Followers of Slaanesh aren't they?"

"No, I think you're thinking of The Fallen, sire. The Dark Angels are Loyalists too."

"Bugger. So who else then?"

"The Emperor's Children."

"Oh, that one's too easy. They're obviously loyalists with a name like that."

"Um, not exactly my Lord."

"Really?"

"Yes, Lord. They're one of ours too."

"This is silly. All the really evil sounding names are being used by weakling loyalists while it seems as though the forces of chaos have got the naff monikers. Are there any more of these I should know about?"

"A few, Lord."

"OK then, spell it out for me, starting with Loyalists that sound like traitors and then moving onto traitors that sound like Loyalists."

"I will attempt to do so, Lord. OK - the Loyalists that sound like traitors... the Marauders, Rampagers, Destroyers and Storm Lords (all White Scar second foundings in point of fact)."

"I like the sound of the Storm Lords. You sure they aren't one of ours?"

"Quite sure. Then there's the Blood Drinkers and the Flesh Tearers - both of which are Loyalist second founding of the Blood Angels."

"With names like that I'd always assumed they were more bone headed followers of the blood god."

"Not so far, My Lord. Then there's the Red Talons..."

"I thought they were renegade pirates."

"No Lord, that's the Red Corsairs."

"Oh. OK. Continue."

"The Brazen Claws are loyalists too."

"Good name for a Khornate force though isn't it?"

"Yes Lord. Then there's the Black Guard (not to be confused with the Black Legion which IS one of ours), the Revilers, and the Raptors."

"Hold on a minute! The Raptors? They're definitely ours. Hell we've got a small unit of them attached to our forces haven't we?"

"My Lord, those are the troops known as Raptors but there is also a loyalist legion with the same name."

"Must get a bit confusing for the loyalists then?"

"I imagine so, My Lord. There are also the Doom Eagles, the Silver Skulls, and the Iron Hands (not to be mistaken for the Iron Warriors, who are ours)."

"Bloody hell. Is that it?"

"There are also some lesser known chapters that also seem to cause occasional confusion."

"Such as..."

"The Doomfarers are one that our forces have occasionally encountered."

"Oh yeah. Those yoyos. So what about the Chaos forces that sound like loyalists then..."

"Well as mentioned earlier there are The Emperor's Children, The Iron Warriors, the Thousand Sons, the Lunar Wolves (who changed their name to the Sons of Horus and then to the Black Legion)..."

"Well at least they're easily IDed as one of ours now. The Black Legion eh? Now that's a proper name. Just postively oozes evil from every pore."

"Yes, Lord. To continue, there are also the Word Bearers, and the Alpha Legion."

"The Word Bearers? What kind of silly name is that for a Chaos Legion?"

"They used to be missionarys sire"

"We you'd think that once they switched to our side they'd change their name to something a little more in keeping with being evil mad men. I mean come on 'The Word Bearers'? It's a silly name."

"Yes my Lord"

"You know, I think the forces of Chaos should have proper Chaos names. There's no room for mistakes when you're called something like 'The World Eaters' or 'The Death Guard'..."

"Actually Lord, both those chapters had those names when they were loyalists."

"You're kidding."

"No, My Lord."

"Yeesh. I would have thought names like that would be a bit scary for the average imperial citizen. I mean "Yay we're being rescued by the World Eaters" just doesn't sound credible while "Aargh! Flee! It's the World Eaters" seems much more likely."

"Yes, My Lord. I believe the latter is more likely these days anyway."

"Makes no bloody sense at all."

"Yes, My Lord."

"Kill 'em all and let the Chaos Gods sort 'em out I say."

"Sounds like a completely reasonable approach to me, My Lord."


----------



## arturslv

To; Lord-Inquisitor Von Grimm, Ordo Hereticus 
From; Inquisitor Bigotin, Ordo Hereticus 
Subject; Inquisitorial Purge BD-4992 "The Hogwarts Purge" 
Transmitted; Inquisitorial Fortress, Bethor VIII 
Transmitter; Astropath Ginla 
Receiver; Astropath Wulesh 

Salutations Lord! 
I am pleased to report that the heretical witch-coven, the sect known as "Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft" has been eliminated, and every member of this vile cult has been cleansed with fire and sword. 
Accompanied by five squads of veteran Inquisitorial Stormtroopers, two-hundred local militia, a dozen arco-flagellants, two Penitent Engines, and three squads drawn from the Order of the Holy Nimbus, we began our assault upon the fortress of the enemy at dawn's first light. Although the castle was hidden from normal sight by a myriad of hexes and foul enchantments, these wards were easily bypassed thanks to the psyk-out strike launched by the Persecution, and we were able to begin the assault. 
We stormed the grounds, suffering only minor casualties from various self-defence spell-traps that the enemy had placed within the grounds. These traps were disposed of quickly by my cadre of sanctioned psykers, and we able to press on. 
We were soon accosted by a heavily-haired mutant of exceptional height and bulk upon approaching the castle's main portcullis. He was accompanied by a variety of abominable creatures, gruesome beasts which looked like twisted parodies of ancient creatures of legend- such beasts included a disturbing horse/eagle hybrid and assorted scorpion/crab-like creatures, each one the size of a small landcar, amongst others. The large mutant challenged us in an accent I did not recognise, but no doubt it was speaking in some daemonic tongue. I ordered the attack. The creatures of the mutant beastmaster took a heavy toll on the local militia and my Stormtroopers, but our numbers and weaponry were superior, and the Sisters of the Holy Nimbus swiftly brought down the creatures with bolter, melta and flamer fire. The giant mutant beastmaster possessed incredible strength and endurance, and managed to inflict crippling damage on one of the Penitent Engines and kill and seriously wound twenty-three militia, Sisters and Stormtroopers before it was brought down by the holy rage of the arco-flagellants (three of which perished due to lethal combat stimm overdose- in death, they have been granted His Forgiveness). 
We consolidated our position and set up a strong foothold whilst our chirurgeons and Sisters Hospitaller provided healing for the wounded and mercy for the dying. 
To the south, I glimpsed an oval structure that appeared to resemble a standard Imperial amphitheatre or coliseum. Six tall poles, topped with huge hoops, were situated on this "pitch", three at each end. I theorised that the cult held some form of diabolical rituals or ceremonies there, and that the hoops were utilised in these. 
No sooner had our wounded been comforted and aided by our medical staff, the witches of the Hogwarts School appeared. I was at first shocked at the average age of our foe; the youngest seemed to be ten years of standard, the oldest no more than seventeen. They were led by five older psykers, and they outnumbered us nearly two to one. At first, I foolishly thought that fighting children would be no challenge, but I chastised myself, remembering that each of these younglings was an illegal psyker, taught by their council of the older rogue psykers. 
The eldest of the rogue psykers, whom I presumed to be the leader, stepped forward, and I saw the malevolence and hatred in his eyes that spoke of a man driven insane by the daemonic power which he wielded. He personally addressed me, giving his name as Albus Dumbledore, but I did not wish to bandy words with a heretic and a witch, so before he could speak any further and bewitch me, I disposed of him with my stake crossbow and gave the order for my force to attack. 
Pandemonium erupted immediately. The younger psykers were herded back into the castle by two of the "teachers"; a wrinkled midget and a portly woman bedecked with scraps of local flora. The older children retaliated, led by the other two psykers, a crone-faced woman and a cadaverous man with long black greasy hair. 
The psykers launched a variety of psychic attacks that killed and/or otherwise incapicitated my warriors. I saw some terrible things. Two Stormtroopers stumbled and fell to the ground, as if their limbs had ceased to function. Sister-Palatine Lucresia was transmuted in a second from a proud warrior of the Adepta Sororitas to a pewter goblet. Local militia either burst into laughter so violent that their blood vessels burst, or were inflated like carnival balloons. Arco-flagellants slipped and collapsed as the ground beneath them was turned to ice. I remained unscathed, thanks to the protection offered by my hexagrammic wards and my accompanying sanctioned and penitent psykers. 
I rallied my troops and pressed the attack. Many of the child psykers were slain by the accurate firepower of my Stormtroopers and the Sisters, and they fled in craven dissarray, only to be picked off at the leisure of my warriors and I. Subject 23 was bisected by Sister Superior Paminda's eviscerator, whilst Subject 22 met the Emperor's Judgement at the claws of the Penitent Engine. 
We advanced into the castle, gunning down resistance where we found it. Subjects 24 and 25 were killed as they defended the younger heretics, many of whom surrendered after the deaths of their "teachers". I tasked Stormtrooper Lieutenant Virone with prisoner detail, and he and his squad set about dealing with the captured children, taking them to the evac zone and transferring them to the null-cells aboard the Persecution, where they would await interrogation and execution. 
We finally came across the last point of resistance in the great hall of the castle, a room so seeped in obscene witchery that I permitted only the Sisters and my personal staff to accompany me inside- I could not risk the corruption of the Stormtroopers. 
At the end of the hall stood four figures, all of them young psykers. Three of the psykers were male, and one was female. They began a last-ditch defence, but their efforts were in vain. The blonde, arrogant-looking male was reduced to ashes by my gun-servitor's plasma cannon, and the freckled, red-haired male took a trio of bolter shots to the chest. The female, a young girl with long, curly brown hair surrendered to us, and I immediately placed an inhibitor upon her (I have since transferred Subject 26 to my own staff, where she now serves as a penitent psyker). 
The final male, a boy with thick black hair, spectacles, and a curious scar on his forehead was monstrously powerful for one so young, and claimed the lives of four Sisters, my two gun-servitors, and Interrogator Delaun before he was stopped. As Interrogator Tesze held him in the jaws of her mancatcher, I prepared my power stake for the killing strike. Subject 29 looked at me frantically and cried out; "You idiot muggle! If you kill me, Voldemort will return!" 
I presumed that "muggle" was some sort of profane cult slang. I had no idea who "Voldemort" was/is, but I assume that the witch's babble was a desperate and useless plea to prevent me from dispensing justice. I paid his rambling no heed, and impaled his heart with my sacred power stake. 
Our mission a success, we ransacked the castle for any heretical items that would need to be immediately destroyed to prevent them from corrupting the servants of the Emperor any longer. We found all manner of wands, ingredients, spellbooks and scrolls, and curious orb-shaped relics. All was put to the cleansing flame. 
Upon our return to the Persecution, I gave the order for Captain Yevonce to begin the orbital bombardment of the castle, completely obliterating the vile structure. As we made warp transition to Bethor VIII, I and my staff began the interrogation of the young witches. 
My apologies for the lack of transcripts at this current moment, but I regret to announce that both my scribe-skull and auto-savant are both out of ink and parchment, and Interrogator Tesze has been forced to transcribe the interrogations from the various vox-thief recordings. The transcripts will be with you shortly, my Lord. 
The stain of the Hogwarts coven has been wiped from the Emperor's glorious realm. 

Your Servant, 
Inquisitor Predujis Bigotin


----------



## Skartooth

Hahahahaha these are awesome :laugh:

But I've got one 

A Guardsman walks into a bar.... owtch..... :laugh:......okay..... not funny 

Skar


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## arturslv

hmm, i think i might search up some angry marine stories on google. they're like, really rude. lots of cursing, but funny. stay tuned!


----------



## DeathJester921

broke all of those 628 rules. Especially this one. 456. Thou shalt not assume that because you can take a Bolter hit in the head, the Guardsman over there can too.


----------



## Helsreach




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## Helsreach

The one above and the ones below were all made by me whatdya think?


----------



## Commissar Yarrick

The worlds biggest lame joke...

Why did the space marine run across the road?
There was a car coming... :shok:
:biggrin:


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## arturslv

here we see a Tau propaganda poster, which tries to sway you with horrible blue skin, nice sweet curves, perky brea... er, ah... heretical bodies...


----------



## arturslv

This is painfully accurate info on lasguns


----------



## Helsreach




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## arturslv

I read this a couple of years ago, and had the pleasure of finding it again.

For you Warhammer fans, you'll get right into it, and it's funny as hell.

For the rest of you, I'm betting it'll still make for some funny reading, though you may miss a thing or two.

Anyway, here it goes.


Chaos Space Marine’s Diary

The following text is made up of notes from the diary of a Chaos Space Marine in the Black Legion. 

Dreaded Diary,

Day 1, week 1
1 Arrived at new camp on planet Ythcolgar. 
2 Started to feel pain in left arm. No idea why.
3 Hung piece of paper on brother Ardius’ backpack reading “Purge me!” and had a good (and sinister) laugh with the rest of the lads.
4 Brother Behemon painted the coolest ever winged skull on his shoulderplate today, and was brutally butchered by the guv’ (Estragor, Exalted Champion of Chaos) for being a Night Lords sympathizer.

Day 2, week 1
4 Pain in arm growing. Went to Chaos sorcerer, who told me three words: “Extremis Unconfortablis Mutatis.” I’m visiting brother Arzhar tomorrow, to ask about mutation symptoms. (Arzhar has already got an ostrich-leg and a bat’s nose.)
5 The Guv’ didn’t like the “purge me” joke, and as punishment I spent three hours writing “You’re dead!” back to front on the front of my squad’s Rhino, in preparation for next week’s big cityfight.
6 Attended brother Behemon’s funeral today. The way sergeant Sargoth placed his blooded skull atop that burning mound of bones really stirred some emotions, but we all forgot our sadness and frustration by getting leglessly drunk on boozed-up blood afterwards. 

Day 3, week 1
7 Awoke with a terrible hangover from last night, and hung on my bed I found a picture of me making out with a daemonette. This, of course, led to quite a few “HOWs”, “WHYs” and “WHENs”
8 Arzhar (who by the way has been gifted an additional ostrich leg by his patron) told me to expect a hideous mutation of my left arm. Although I have yet to read about the pros and cons of mutation, I’m hoping for either a whip-like tentacle or a massive crab’s claw!
9 Found a scorched skull on the gound and hung it in my belt, but was then given a thorough lesson from sarge about martial honour, and how one shall only display battle-trophies that one-self has won. Frankly I couldn’t care less what he and the Blood God thinks.

Day 4, week 1
10 Today we sacked an undefended city on the planet Urnium. Found a convenience store selling cereal-boxes called “Corn-chaos.” (a fitting name, I might add). The guv, however, took the cereal’s title as an insult mocking his patron, Khorne, and burned the shop personally. Fortunately I managed to grab the latest issue of “Universe at War” before the magasine-rack was consumed by the flames.
11 Got into a fight with brother Octavius over which of the two destroyed legions landed on Istvaan V first. He claimed it was the (fragment missing), but surely it was the colossal landing crafts of the (fragment missing) legion which first touched the ground?
12 Played Death-poker with the lads before going to bed. The only casualty was brother Magnon, who bought it in the fourth round. Won myself a neat little master-crafted beauty of a bolt-pistol, and a bottle of some blue liquid. (Note: The bottle was labeled: “Do not add anything”)

Day 5, week 1
13 Today, the guv beheaded brother Raphaelus for having tattooed a certain rune on his forehead. But Raphaelus died with a smile on the face of his severed head, having had great fun tricking the entire company into believing that he had been given the Mark of Khorne. 
14 Pain in arm growing, the sorcerer told me to expect a mutation any day. I still find it hard to believe that I have particularly pleased one of the powers, except for perhaps amusing Slaanny by symbolically eating that Eldar’s waystone in a battle a few weeks ago. (That stone was hard as rock, by the way, and it really messed up my teeth. And I was hoping for fangs and all!
15 Attended “Pint-night” with the rest of the squad. In lack of boozed-up blood, drank the blue liquid I won at the poker-game. The liquid turned out stronger and fiercer than an irritated Bloodthirster, and sent me running to the latrine, screaming like a Horror. Before I reaching it, I had already vomited half my interiours all over the newly-polished Land Raider. (Note: Formed the vomit into looking like an evil face, and the tank commander was impressed when he saw it the next day.)

Day 6, week 1
16 Last night I had a long vision of Tzeentch, telling me how mad he was at me. I spent all night running from his minions in the psychic realm. How I earned the wrath of Tzeentchie-boy (that old trickster is beyond me.
17 Was told at the mess that the blue liquid I had drunk last night was infact an antidote to Nurgle’s Rot, and was lifted up by a group of Plague-marines and carried across the courtyard, being praised and honoured by the foul men. Never before have I drunk and thereby destroyed the nemesis of an entire squad of marines. (Note: My new nikcname is “Doom-drinker,” apparently.)

Day 7, week 1
18 Awoke with left arm fully mutated! A beautiful tentacle-thingy, slimy and gross. Had great fun coiling it around brother Xarnon’s throat and almost strangling him. Went to Arzhar’s tent with a bunch of posessees, and had a “Who’s got the most hideous body-part”-competition. (Brother Igmarius won, sporting a toe with a fly’s head and little legs of it’s own.)
19 Got tickets for tomorrow’s Emperor’s Children gig on the planet Harthras IV. (Note: Bus leaves at 4.00)
20 Went to Chaos sorcerer in hope of finding out which god has gifted me with the tentacle. After two hours of the sorceror looking at the arm and taking down notes, came the following answer: “It is probably either Khorne, Tzeentch, Nurgle or Slaanesh.” (No big suprises there)

Day 1, week 2
21 Went all day fooling around camp. For fun, pretended to be a nutter and was grouped with the posessed squad. Learned all there is to know about being possessed, and wrote down some of their most memorable lines: “The Emperor wins in the end”, “Does my host have bad breath?,” and “Man, the looks of this host are spoiling my chances of getting laid.”
22 In the evening, went to Emperor’s Children concert on Harthras IV. Went backstage and got Eidolon’s autograph, and got my picture taken next to him, holding a blastmaster. After the concert, almost my entire squad talked about joining the Slaaneshi cult. (Note: Group pressure is a bad thing)
23 Looking forward to tomorrow’s cityfight, spent the late hours painting terror-markings and contrasting colours on my armour, along with the lads. Only one of them had actually pledged his soul to Slaanny after the concert, and we helped him paint ridiculous colour-patterns and naughty artwork on his armour.

Day 2, week 2
24 Had a good old cityfight in Yarnus, the capitol of the planet Kravus. Tried out the bolt-pistol I had won at the poker-game, but killed no-one with it (except brother Elmius by accident. He was probably gonna die anyway, right?). Ended with the bolt-pistol blowing up in my hand and rendering me unable to use a weapon. (Ever tried holding a boltgun with a tentacle?) Despite pain and being “physically challenged” I managed to impress sarge by strangling two hapless citizens with my tentacle in less than 10 seconds. 
25 On the way back to base, I got friendly with Khorne-berzerker Arturion, and after he initially tried to chop my head off, we had an interesting coversation about social issues and skull-taking.

Day 3, week 2
26 Awoke finding Arturion licking the blood off my wounded hand (which I had forgotten to do something about). Went with Arturion to the tech-marine, who replaced my wounded hand with a robot-one. The sad thing is that if it had been treated right away, I would only have had to replace 96, 7 percent of my hand, and not the whole thing. Arturion put his name up in the list for some more psycho-surgery. I said I like natural rage better, but he wouldn’t listen, and kept claiming it would make give him better self-confidence and make him more attractive.
27 For an evening out, I went to the killing-grounds with the rest of my squad, to fight a pack of brutish beastmen. Did many things that Arturion had learnt me, but discovered that I still have to work on my “Double-Decap.” (Note: Must remember to send “I’m sorry”-letter to brother Lurg.)

Day 4, week 2
28 Was told that brother Lurg from my squad died last night from wounds sustained at the killing-grounds yesterday. Unfortuately no one noticed how he was wounded. Although Lurg probably did, it was hard for him to explain without his jaw. (Note: Must remember to burn the “I’m Sorry!”-letter)
29 Played Death-poker in the evening. Won nothing, and lost half my miniature-collection, including the special character “Rambo.” (We play with the miniatures in a game called “Warhammer 2k”) 

30 Day 5, week 2
31 Sarge found the “I’m Sorry”-letter before I had time to burn it. Suprisingly, he didn’t mind the fact that it was I the one who had inflicted the mortal wounds on Lurg (by accident, of course...) Instead, he said that Khorne apparently favours those who kill their friends and allies, and fetched Lurg’s severed jaw for me to wear as a trophy.
32 Was part of a group of marines ordered to test the new Dreadclaws. The pod I was in failed to work, and plumetted to the ground at lightning-speed. The pod crashed in a desert area of the planet, the impact killing everyone in the pod except me. Hours later I was found unconcious by the search-team, with a third-degree burn on my tentacle and without a lower jaw.

Day 6, week 2
1 Left the field-hospital/gene-mixing-lab early in the morning, with a bandaged tentacle and a fully functional jaw. Apparently, they hadn’t found my original one, so they took the one hanging on a chain around my neck and put that one on instead.
2 Went to Arzhar’s tent to ask how to treat injured mutated limbs. Arzhar, the poor *****, has by now been given a turtle’s shell and pig’s head (although he’s still got the bat’s nose), and was not in the mood to talk about mutations. Instead we discussed career-possibilities in the legion, and advaning to higher ranks. I’ve found out that possible career choices are: To join one of the cults, become a biker or havoc specialist, survive long enough to become a veteran, get possessed, almost die and become a Dreadnought, or become a driver. Tough choice, eh?
3 In the evening, I returned to the killing-grounds with my squad, this time pitched against a group of imperial captives. We barely made it out alive, although this time I managed to perfectly execute the Double-Decap.

Day 7, week 2
33 The talk with Arzhar yesterday really got me thinking. Walked around the camp, asking the different marines about what career THEY had chosen. So far, the cults seem unlikely (although the plague-marines will of course welcome “Doom Drinker” into their group anytime), and becoming possessed seems to leave few chances of advancing further in the ranks. Besides, having a face growing out of my chest and babbling philosofical nonsence all day isn’t my biggest ambition in life. 
34 Later, the camp was visited today by a small group of Word Bearers lead by a chaplain, coming to tell us all about why we should join their legion instead. Their endless preaching was cut short when the guv’ intervened, butchering them to a man. The survivor was held down and his armour was taken off. Then the guv’ tatooed the eye of Horus on his forehead, and “Black Legion rocks!" all over his chest. He was then carried into a space-ship, and finally jettisoned into space in a sarcophagus marked “To Lorgar!”

Day 1, week 3
35 Had nothing to do half the day, so went with brother Ixius to the paint-shed where we stylised our armour some more. Ixius painted a large I (for Ixius) on his chestplate, although I’m sure I’ve seen that particluar letter dislplayed in similar manners before...
36 Started preparing this week’s lighting-raid on an imperial hive-city called Necromunda. Apparently, the guv and all his officers and allies had been planning this raid for months, and have done all the nescessary calculations. With the forces we’re gonna use, the hive city will be reduced to a scorched wasteland littered with the dead in no time!
37 In the evening, the guv violently slaughtered one of his own marines. The reason was that the marine had been given a mutated head by his god. What had his head mutated into? Two eagle-heads...

Day 2, week 3
38 Got up early to play Blood-hockey with the lads, against a team composed of bloodthirsty beastmen and some imperial prisoners. With the game being my first one for ages, I only managed two kill-goals and one goal-kill. In the end, we won the game 18-3.
39 Later, my squad and I was ordered into the desert-region of the planet to crush a beastman rebellion against us. When arriving, we saw that without any material to build a proper base with, they had constructed a gigantic sandcastle in the middle of the sea of sand-dunes. I was the big hero of the campaign, firing the descisive (and only) shot which took down their stronghold, burying them underneath. Was rewarded a medallion by the guv, which was ripped from my armour again when the lads told him what kind of resistance we had met.

Day 3, week 3
1 Brother Taxius and brother Cormius came up with a great tactical idea today: Havoc bikers. Taxius and Cormius decided on sharing their stroke of strategic genius withe the guv himself, and went at once to his throne-room. Strangely enough, only one of them received a public execution for their stupidity (Cormius). Infact the guv assembled a unit of Havoc bikers, and made Taxius the unit sergeant. Apparently, the guv thought leading such a pointless unit on the battlefield would be prove to be punishment enough.
2 Around noon, brother Praetorax threw a spray of “Mr. Clean” into the plague-marines’ tent as a joke. Punishment was dished out by the guv, who ensured that Praetorax will have his hands busy for quite a while; Praetorax was ordered to polish the armour of all the company’s plague-marines, and only when every single piece of armour has passed the white-glove test, will he be allowed to stop. Not suprisingly, a dozen of our company’s marines joined the Nurgle-cult today, for obvious reasons.
3 Used most of the day packing my bags and preparing for the hive-city assault.

Day 4, week 3

(Nothing was written this day)

Day 5, week 3 
3 Mission to destroy hive-city Necromunda yesterday was cancelled, as our base fell under attack by a force of Iron Warriors before sunrise. Me and the rest of my squad were taken as captives by them, and we were taken deep into the warp aboard a small space hulk the Iron Warriors had mobilized. Their commanding warsmith said to us: “Half of your men escaped, half of your men were killed, and the last half were captured.” (So much for the Iron Warriors’ cold and efficient LOGIC) But he also told us how amazed he was by our defence skill, and that he was impressed by our tactical abilities. Apparently, the Havoc bikers had held back the Iron Warriors for several hours, allowing many marines to escape the doomed base. 
4 Today, we landed on a desert-planet (Tellarm or Tallern or something) for unknown reasons, and from my iron cage (which I was held in) I overheard two Iron Warriors playing in the sand:

“My sandcastle is bigger than yours!”
“No it isn’t!”
“Yes it is, and it has lascannons here and here, and these are missile lauchers!”
“Well mine’s got that aswell, and a moat full of skulls and barbed wire!”
“Your lascannons aren’t placed at the right spots! What if the enemy attacked here? Or here? Or put heavy fire on this wall? You’d have to concentrate the fire on that area over by the dead lizard, while your terminators got into position over by that pile of bones. And barbed wire placed over there isn’t gonna slow the enemy down! You’ve gotta put another turret on this spot here, next to the cactus, and have warriors standing ready over here in case of a breakthrough. And what if that scorpion over there assaulted this wall? I’d suggest a squad of...”

No doubt the Iron Warriors are tactical geniuses. I never learned what their business on the desert-planet was, and we left only hours later.

Day 6, week 3
5 Early in the morning, we were brutally dragged from our warm and comfy chains and shackles and pitched against a squad of Obliterators in a game of inter-planetary Blood-hockey. We were solemnly beaten 23-2, with two casualties, one IGB (In-Game-Betrayal), and four of our men are probably still drifting into space. 
6 Discovered on my way back to the cell that the guv is also aboard the hulk. Not a big suprise really, as it’s not like him to run away or die in the heat of battle. 
7 Played Death-poker with a makeshift deck of cards (don’t ask), and I stole the show, winning three pieces of dry bread and five glasses of stagnant water.

Day 7, week 3
8 Enjoyed a peaceful day in the cell. Nothing much happened, apart from brother Garvius being put in a straightjacket, brother Xathras climbing the walls, and the ever-complaining, ever-wining, ALWAYS annoying brother Urshar being knocked out, permanently. (NOT by me, I swear...) 
9 Later, a brilliantly co-operated jailbreak was carried out. Lead by the guv, all the Black Legion captives aboard the space hulk rampaged through the drifting metal-behemoth, killing everything we met, and probably everything we didn’t meet, considering we ended it all by blowing the hulk into at least two pieces. (Doesn’t have the same effect as “a million pieces,” does it?)

Day 1, week 4
1 Back on our good old planet! We all celebrated our happy return with a visit to the killing grounds. Even the guv joined in, and we all had a merry time killing each other, since there was no-one else to fight. The guv said afterwards that events like these are nescessary to determine who are worthy of serving him. Those who died were obviously not worthy. Later, we partied in the mess, the sorcerer conjuring drinks from the depths of the warp, and we all got totally hammered. (Note: It’s fun dancing with Horrors when you’re drunk)

Day 2, week 4
1 Received tragic news that brother Praetorax had comitted suicide with a bomb, finally having had enough of polishing plague-infested armour. There was a memorial service at noon, with the (very few) remains of Praetorax being ritually fed to a pack of wild mutant-geese. Everyone attended except the plague-marines, who had lost both their servant and their sergeant when the bomb went off. Ironically, the bomb-explosion had burnt every drop of slime off their armour...
2 Brother Arzhar, the Toy of the Gods (which he has been titled by his superior) has received yet another mutation. His latest hideous feature is a frog’s chin. And while we was captured aboard the space hulk, he had been gifted a fish-tail. Lay awake all night because of the noises coming from his tent. (Note: “Riddip” and “croak” are the two most annoying sounds in the galaxy.)

Day 3, week 4
3 Felt like doing nothing, so rented three videos with some of my squad-mates: “Edward Lightning-claws”, “Children of the Khorne”, and a documentary film starring among others the guv himself: “Pitch Black Crusade.”
4 After having watched films for hours and eventually getting fed up, we went to the mess. On the tent, there hung a large poster with a picture of his majesty Abaddon the Despoiler, pointing at us with his Talon of Horus, and the text read “Abaddon wants you!” Inspired by the movie we had just watched (and just for kicks, of course), my entire squad (including me) put their names up for the next Black Crusade. We decided that burning planets, killing imperials and enslaving billions looks great, and we made the guv really proud of us too.
5 Later, we found this really neat piece of armour in the junkyard, and brother Halus put it on at once. Of course, no-one told him that what he had just put on was a suit of armour from the Thousand Sons legion. And we quickly discovered that it was still occupied by it’s original wearer, when the armour ran off with Halus screaming to get out.

Day 4, week 4
6 Today, sarge told us that there were already thousands of regulars who had signed up for his majesty Abaddon’s next Black Crusade. In order to participate in the crusade, our squad had to choose a more specialized style of warfare, since there was still a shortage of specialist troops in the Black Crusade army. We had a poll, and it was soon decided that our path was to become bikers. Without further ado, we all started practising to become bikers, something that was quite hard considering we had not been issued any bikes yet. 
7 Saw the new poster at the mess, telling that there is a contest to see who can recruit the most marines into joining the Black Crusade. (First prize is an antique shoulderplate worn by the great commander Orghoth, that’s for recruiting 20 marines.) Went to Arzhar’s tent and tried persuading him into joining the crusade, and he finally agreed to, after I had outdone myself in making up lame reasons for him to join.

Day 5, week 4
8 Got up before sunrise and ran around camp recruiting marines to join the crusade. I realised that if I wake them from their sleep early in the morning, most of the marines will say (or agree to do) anything as long as you go away and let them sleep.
9 Went to the head-office and handed in the paper with all the signatures. It actually turned out that I didn’t win the recruitment-contest, as the Berzerker champion had walked around the camp last night and forced a heap of marines to join. If the choice is between going on a Black Crusade or getting you head cut off, what would you have chosen? Anyway, I won second prize, a really cool replica of Khârn the Betrayer’s helmet. After scaring a few of my squad-mates out of bed by wearing the helmet and shouting “Blood for the Blood God!”, I painted it black and adorned it with the Eye of Horus, the most infamous of all the Chaos symbols. (Plus it’s my favorite one.)
10 Went to Arzhar’s tent, and helped him paint the Eye on his turtle-shell. Actually, I didn’t, and wrote instead: “One-man zoo!” A mean thing to do? Hardly, since mutants always say they want to be treated like everone else.

Day 6, week 4
11 Today, some crucial messages were given to us by sarge. The Black Crusade is commencing in one week, but we won’t be joining it until the main fleet comes to our system, which should happen a few days later. Also, he told us that our squad had been accepted to become bikers, and that our bikes would be issued to us when we join the fleet. Finally, he told us that the guv has been accepted into Abaddon’s inner circle of lords for the crusade. Apparently, this is to be celebrated next week at the newly built pub/pleasure-house “Sex, drugs and worse!”, erected by the Slaaneshi cult.
12 Went around camp all day trying to get hold of some drinks for next week’s party. I came over several choices: the regular boozed-up blood, a bottle of “Brother Bravius’ Belly-burner,” and some green slime which sticked to the wall when I threw it. In the end, I went with the Belly-burner for variety, since the slime tasted bad, and I’m tired of boozed-up blood. (Besides, the last time I drunk it, I vomited up big lumps of coagulated blood the next day, which pleased only the berzerker who I allowed to have them.) 
13 Played Death-poker with the squad, and lost my fake Khorne-necklace (Oh no. I also lost a gold tooth that I never knew I had. Apparently, brother Rhengar, who won it, had been a friend of brother Lurg, the former owner of my jaw. 

Day 7, week 4
14 Walked around camp with brother Fermicus and sold off all the gear that we won’t be needing when we become bikers. Traded our beloved Heavy bolter for a skull-shaped helmet, an antique deck of cards and a small Chaos familiar that was found in the mess sink this morning. 
15 After a big, bloody fight that probably pleased Khorne, brother Halus got to keep the skull-helmet. Then we played a quick game of Death-poker with the new cards (without the full rules, since we wanted to be at full strength for the crusade), and since no-one wanted the familiar, I guess I’ stuck with it.
16 In the evening, sarge assembled us in the main tent where we were to discuss biker-tactics. After hours of debating, arguing, countless feet being stamped and fists being hammered onto the table in rage, we finally agreed on a strategy: the good old “Charge!!!”

Day 1, week 5
17 Had nothing to do, so I went with brother Furiax to the killing-grounds, to test our mettle against the good old beastman horde. Dispite our fearless fighting, me even managing a Double-Decap without trying to, we were outnumbered and quickly surrounded. But fortunately, some last-minute help in the form of the berzerker-squad arrived, and they quickly turned the place into a fountain of blood.
18 Used the rest of the afternoon trying to get all the beastman-blood off my armour. Later, I went to the mess to try out today’s special, “Rotting corpse.” (Plague marines had mess-duty today) It tasted kinda out of date.

Day 2, week 5
19 Borrowed the latest copy of “Universe at War” from brother Vulkus, and read interesting article on combat-bikes. Got some really cool ideas for my future “metal steed” (that’s what us pros call our bikes), and I’m definately gonna try out the flame-pattern.
20 Later today, the list of Crusade-squads was hung up. It turned out that two thirds of our company, including the guv himself, have enlisted into his majesty Abaddon’s crusade. Noted down names of all the squads joining: Squad Estragor (Raptors, lead by the guv himself), Squad Dharkos (Possessed), Squad Zerus (Havocs), Squad Sargoth (That’s us! Bikers, of course), Squad Traghius (Plague marines) and Squad Mhorkorus (Berzerkers). Also, we’re committing a Rhino APC and the Land Raider “Eternal Hatred” to serve in Abaddon’s forces.
21 Went to Arzhar’s tent in the evening. He’s not been put in any of the squads, it turned out, but is being taken along with some other (weirdo) marines to be used as auxilliaries. Had a long chat with him, mostly about violence and the meaning of death. Noticed before I left that it looks like a pair of rabbit-ears are appearing on his head.

Day 3, week 5
22 The day started with us talking about the World Eaters at the mess. When we came to the fact that they have no recorded home-world, brother Hades found a good reason why: “They ate it.” Stupidity-execution carried out by the guv, who hates stupid people (and doesn’t like bad jokes either.) Only minutes later, brother Unghor foolishly asked out loud: “If Slaanesh is the god of sex, why is it Tzeentch who’s got a thousand sons?” It resulted in the guv having killed two of his own men for being stupid before breakfast was over.
23 Checked the mail, and found a flyer with “Join the Blood-Drinkers Anonymous.” Found out it was some kind of Imperial junk-mail sent to the wrong adress.
24 In the evening, the (slightly delayed) party to celebrate our return was held. (We were captured aboard a space hulk, remember?) We all had a jolly good time, but soon a pack of daemons invited themselves to the party. Before night was over, a drunken Plaguebearer had vomited on Brother Fratius (killing him), a swarm of Nurglings got the Land Raider going and drove away with it, and three of our men were possessed by daemons. It all came to a finale when a enormous Great Unclean One materialized in the pub, squashing several marines and cultists to death upon it’s arrival. (Note: Nurgloid daemons are very annoying. Remeber NOT to get possessed by one!)

Day 4, week 5
25 Awoke face down in a puddle of slime behind the bar. Got up just in time to get out of the pub before it was demolished. Apparently, it was fully trashed inside, and so full of slime from the daemons that dropped in last night, that the guv found no reason to keep it standing. Instead, he is planning to erect a Chaos monolith in it’s place.
26 Our squad was called to search for the Land Raider which was hijacked by the Nurglings last night. We eventually found it half-buried by sand in the desert-region of the planet. It was littered with dead Nurglings, dryed up and shrivelled, who obviously couldn’t cope with the heat. Brother Furiax insisted riding back to base on top of the tank, but it almost cost him his life; When we returned his lungs were half-filled with sand, and he was twice as heavy to carry because of the amount of sand inside his armour. 
27 Used the rest of the afternoon sharing thoughts about war with the familiar.

Day 5, week 5

Day 6, week 5
28 Finally found my diary! Who on earth put it under my bed? Thanks to whoever it was, I didn’t get to write anything in it yesterday. 
29 Had a talk with Arzhar (who by the way has got a pair of rabbit-ears now, just as I predicted.) He says he’s going to be grouped with the possessed once we join the Black Crusade, even though there isn’t actually a daemon inside him (yet). Had a glass of vintage boozed-up blood (slightly coagulated, but that’s how it’s supposed to be, apparently) and talked about how the Crusade’s gonna be like. Promised we’d meet again before we leave.

Day 7, week 5
30 Spent the day making huge posters and banner reading: “Warmaster, command us!” and “Welcome, Your Highness!” They were all spread out on the camp-grounds facing upwards. Brother Grax dug a deep hole in the ground and covered it with a huge sheet, on which he had written “Land here!” It was just intended as a joke, of course. However, the guv quickly found out (the hard way), and Grax was shackled, gagged and blindfolded and thrown in the pit immeditaly. However, he was not buried alive. Instead, the guv simply covered the pit again with the same sheet. (Talk about digging your own grave...)
31 We all wrote our wills in the mess. Decided that if I die, sarge can keep all my stuff. (Note: Remeber to make sure brother Tryvus doesn’t survive the crusade, since he’s put me up for his antique pre-heresy bolter if he dies.)
32 Couldn’t sleep, lay awake thinking about the crusade. 

What will Abaddon be like? 
How long before I get my bike?
How many planets will we burn?
Will I be dead before we return?


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## arturslv

[No message]


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## arturslv

The Scholar Abbot in the Schola Progenium gave his fifth grade class an assignment: tell a story with a moral at the end of it. The next day the kids came back and one by one began to tell their stories.

Corvius said, "My father was a farmer on Acheron VII and we had a lot of egg-laying hens. One time we were taking our eggs to market in a basket on the front seat of the coach when we hit a bump in the road and the eggs went flying and broke and made a mess."

"And what's the moral of the story?" asked the Scholar Abbot.
"Don't put all your eggs in one basket!"

"Very good," said the teacher. "Now, Jorun. Tell us your story."

"MY family where farmers too. But we raised grox' for the meat market. We had a dozen grox.eggs one time, but when they hatched we only got ten live grox. And the moral to this story is, don't count your grox before they're hatched."

"That's a fine story Jorun," he continued. "Johnny, do you have a story to share?"

"Yes sir, my daddy told me this story about my Uncle, Veteran Sargent Bob. Uncle Bob was a Space Marine in the 3rd War for Armageddon and his Thunderhawk got hit. He had to crash land in hostile ork territory and all he had was a bottle of fenrisian ale, a bolter and a chainsword. He drank the fenrisian ale on the way down so it wouldn't break and then he landed right in the middle of 100 enemy troops. He killed seventy with the bolter until he ran out of bullets, then he killed twenty more with with the chainsword till the blade broke and then kill the last ten with his bare hands."

"Emperor's Throne," said the Scholar Abbot, "What kind of moral did your daddy tell you from that horrible story?"

"Don't piss off Uncle Bob when he's been drinking."


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## arturslv

Q: How many Inquisitors does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: None they are too busy punishing the last one for falling to Darkness.

Q: What's the difference between a Imperial Gaurdsman and a table?
A: A table can support a family.

Q: What did the Space Wolf get on his IQ test?
A: Drool and hair.

Q: How do you get a Scum away from your door?
A: Pay him for the pizza already.

Q: How many Space Marines does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: None, they are too busy avenging the last lightbulb.

Q: How many Lords of Terra does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: One to hold it while the rest of the Imperium revolves around him.

Q: What does an Adept and the colour grey have in common?
A: They are both really dull.

Q: How many Tech Priests does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: None, they just replace their eyes with implants with the Dark Vision trait.

Q: If a White Scar, Space Wolf, and Dark Angel Battle Barge get into a race from the same point and race towards the sun, who wins?
A: The Imperium.

An Imperial Guard walks into a bar after a long campaign and says loudly to another group of Imperial Guards at the bar "I've got some great Space Marine jokes for you."
A very large man rises from the back, and with anger oozing from him, he says "I should warn you I'm a Space Marine."
Not missing a beat the Imperial Guard says "Don't worry I'll tell them slowly for you."

Added to go with the above.
Q: What do you call an Imperial Guardsman that has said to many Spce Marine jokes around a Space Marine?
A: A Corpse

Q: What do you call a Imperial Guardsman telling SM jokes in a Blood Angel bar?
A: Happy Hour

Q What do you call a Imperial Guardsman telling SM jokes in a Space Wolf bar?
A: Bar Food


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## arturslv

Q: How many space marines does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: 100, one to screw it in and 99 to praise the Emperor. 

Q: How many Guardsmen does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: None, their lasguns work fine. 

Q: How many Wraithlords does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: Just one, if you use THREE, we will all claim it is cheesy. 

Q: How many inquisitors does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: Three. One to screw it in, one to outlaw light bulbs, and one to deny the existence of light bulbs. 

Q: How many Tau does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: They don't screw them in. Their helmets are equipped with infra-red, heat and motion scanners along with camera linked to their drones which means they have to do no work at all themselves.

Q: What do you call a lasguns with a laser sight?
A: Twin-Linked 

Q: How many Forgeworld light bulbs does it take to light a room?
A: Just one, but it is a deluxe halogen bulb at 250 watts and costs $87. 

Iron Warriors at the beach:
- My sandcastle is bigger than yours!
- No it isn't!
- Yes it is, and it has lascannons here and here, and these are missile launchers!
- Well mine's got that as well, and a moat full of skulls and barbed wire!
- Your lascannons aren't placed at the right spots! What if the enemy attacked here? Or here? Or put heavy fire on this wall? You'd have to concentrate the fire on that area over by the sea-shell , while your terminators got into position over by that piece of seaweed. And barbed wire placed over there isn’t gonna slow the enemy down! You’ve gotta put another turret on this spot here, next to the dead starfish, and have warriors standing ready over here in case of a breakthrough. And what if that crab over there assaulted this wall? I'd suggest a squad of... 

Three commanders are lined up and arguing who has the bravest troops in the hangar. A Blood Angel commander, a Imperial Guard Commander and a Sister of Battle Commander. The Sister of Battle orders one of her troops to jump out the air lock. She does it without hesitation. The Blood Angle Commander orders one of his troops to do the same. The Blood Angel roars and runs out the air lock screaming. The Imperial Guard Commander orders one of his own to do the same. The trooper replies, "SIR, NO SIR!" The Imperial Guard commander turns to the others and says, "Now THAT is courage!"


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## arturslv

Ambushed by the Necrons, our heroes Vulkan and Alpharius fight off the hellish undying warriors of the C'tan to get the Key of Glory to the Gates of Varl!

The Primarchs stand atop a mound of destroyed Necron warriors and Immortals, killing them faster than their bodies can phase out.

Vulkan: "Space Marines! Fight like the Emperor himself is watching! Because he probably is the nosey bastard ...Tau! Fight like the Greater Good depends on it!"

Various war cries emerge from the two sides, and the fighting intensifies ...

Alpharius: "Free cookies to the winning team!"

The fighting escalates to a level beyond mere words.

Alpharius: "WITH HOT COCO!!"

The fighting is now EPIC beyond comprehension. Dan Abnett has nothing against this. The fighting in this giant underground base now makes the greatest battles of the Horus Hereys seem like mere children poking each other in the playground. This is now AWESOME with extra toppings of WIN.

"What do you mean the xenos button is labelled 'Do Not Push'? That's obviously the lies of the xenos! Push the damn button! Push it I say!" - Last Orders of General Eisenhod

"Dark times lie ahead Harry ... Ahriman's your new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher!"

"What the hell? Where did my Basilisks go?!? Get Eldrad on the line; he'll know where to find this 'Thorpe' ..." - Perturabo, upon receiving a copy of the new Codex: Chaos Space Marines

"You see this? This is a Hugo-Jones-Pattern Vortex Grenade. This is a 'I Don't Care What Save Or Special Rule You Have, You're Dead'. This is a sure-fire way of getting rid of your ex-wife. This is a 100% efficient method of keeping the kids quiet. There is nothing my Vortex Grenade cannot do ... except maybe cool beer ..." - Random Guardsman

Lorgar: "I shall write a piece of literature so undeniably filled with such words of awesome that they will have no choice but to sing my praises and come crawling before me begging for my mercy! Which I won't give ... of course ..."

Vaul: "And so he sought high and low, across the editions for that topic with which to reclaim his past glory as a New York Times best-seller ... he travelled the length and breadth of the galaxy, from the Halo stars to the Squat Homeworlds, to the Eye of Terror to the Ultramar Cluster, and finally ... he arrived at the Craftworld of Biel-Tan ..."

Lorgar stands before the gates of Biel-Tan ... well I say 'gates' ... it's more 'large airlock' ...

Lorgar: "Erm ... is there a doorbell somewhere I could ring ... ?"

A voice calls down from the spires ...

Voice: "Bugger off! We don't welcome Chaos sympathisers here!"

Lorgar: "I'm not a bloody Chaos sympathiser!" Looks at the eight-pointed star plastered all over his armour. "Well ... OK I see your point. Look I'm a journalist ... I'm here for an interview with Eldrad Ulthran!"

Voice: "... that's Ulthwe you retard!"

Lorgar: "I'm looking to write a piece on the Fall of the Eldar and the Rise of Slaanesh-"

Every Eldar around winces in pain.

Lorgar: "Was it something I said?"

Eldrad: "Just the name of the Great Enemy ... nothing important ..."

Lorgar: "Oh ... sorry"

Eldrad: "It's fine ... I don't expect an uncouth individual such as yourself to understand ... well maybe if I say Lectitio Divinitatus!"

Lorgar winces.

Lorgar: "That religion is so badly done. The basic tenets lack proper passion and the prayers brutalise basic High Gothic grammar ..."

Eldrad: "Then you feel our pain ... Slaanesh-" He winces "-as an example of the Eldar state of mind is an embarrassment ... she spends all her time buying shoes and watching porn ... seriously ... what's that for an example of our species?"

Lorgar: "Highly embarrassing?"

Eldrad: "Indeed ...luckily we're working on a new deity ... Ynnead ... God of Sunday Afternoons ..."


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## arturslv

Two warp-fish swim in the vast oceans of the Empyrean.

Warp-Fish 1: "Hey Harry! How's it going?"

Warp-Fish 2: "Not bad Larry. How's the wife?"

Warp-Fish 1: "Spawning"

Warp-Fish 2: "Congratulations old chap! What's their names?"

Warp-Fish 1: "Mally wanted Kally, Sally, and Hally, but I put my foot down and said 'We're sticking with Khorne, Nurgle and Tzeentch!'"

Warp-Fish 2: "How'd she take that?"

Warp-Fish 1: "We're divorcing ..."

Eldrad: "And now my people are being portrayed as child molesters more interested in fighting amongst ourselves than the Great Enemy!"

Slaanesh: "You called?"

Eldrad: "I was talking about C.S. Goto"

Alpharious: "Can I kill him? Seriously ... will anyone actually miss him? Who the hell plays Ultramarines these days except Graham McNeil? Lets face it; they're boring, bland, and have possibly the second greatest assault on the eyes as a colour scheme in this hobby. No one plays Ultramarines"

Roboute: "Just like no one plays Alpha Legion?"

Alpharious: "Oh but they do ... we're just really good at disguising ourselves! Which leads us to ..."

Thought for the Day: There's a 99% chance that any army you're playing against is an Alpha Legion army in disguise. There's an equal chance that your army is one too.

A loud crash heralds parts of the wall collapsing to make way for a gargantuan Keeper of Secrets.

Keeper of Secrets: "MORTARION!! I SEE YOU NOW!!"

Mortarion: "Oh guys, this is Ha'lee. She's been tasked to follow me and beat me to death with the joys of late-1990s pop music"

Keeper of Secrets: "Prepare to suffer ... S CLUB JUNIORS!!"

Fulgrim: "Crap! Sanguinius!"

Sanguinius: "What? Why me?"

Fulgrim: "The Visions series had you pictured with a Keeper of Secret's head so you must have had more experience than me at this!"

Sanguinius: "That was a photo shoot! It was staged! Someone pushed the damn head into my hands and took my picture! What am I supposed to do?"

Fulgrim: "You took out Bloodthirsters in single combat! This can't be that hard!"

Sanguinius: "I took out a Bloodletter! Not my fault those bloody remembrancers can't remember anything properly!"

Mortarion: "Guys, stop arguing and kill it!"

Sanguinius: "Very well ... entering Battle Mode!"

Sanguinius -> Attack -> Keeper of Secrets
Sanguinius hits Keeper of Secrets for 9,999 damage!
Sanguinius's Awesome Holy Aura deals Keeper of Secrets an extra 9,999 damage!
Sanguinius's Lightning Assault Attack deals Keeper of Secrets an extra 9,999 damage!
Sanguinius's Sheer Badassery deals Keeper of Secrets an extra 9,999 damage!

Fulgrim: "She's still alive?!? Right, my turn!"

Fulgrim -> Attack -> Keeper of Secrets
Fulgrim hits Keeper of Secrets for 9,999 damage!
Fulgrim hits Keeper of Secrets for 9,999 damage!
Fulgrim hits Keeper of Secrets for 9,999 damage!
Fulgrim hits Keeper of Secrets for 9,999 damage!
Fulgrim uses I Hit With All My Hands to deal an extra 9,999 damage to Keeper of Secrets!
Fulgrim pokes Keeper of Secrets in the face with his tail and deals an extra 9,999 damage and inflicts Poison!

Mortarion: "She's still standing!!"

Sanguinius: "Go for it Mort!"

Mortarion -> Attack -> Keeper of Secrets
Mortarion hits Keeper of Secrets for 9,999 damage!

Fulgrim: "... that it?"

Mortarion: "Wait for it ..."

Keeper of Secrets suffers Plague from Mortarion's wound!
Keeper of Secrets suffers 99,999 damage!
Keeper of Secrets suffers Immobilised!
Keeper of Secrets suffers Silence!
Keeper of Secrets suffers Blind!
Keeper of Secrets suffers Confused!
Keeper of Secrets suffers GW Price Increased!
Keeper of Secrets suffers Bad Plastic Makeover!
Keeper of Secrets suffers Salt Rubed Into Wound!
Keeper of Secrets suffers Kicking When Down!

Fulgrim: "Holy shi- remind me not to piss Mortarion off again ..."

Mortarion: "What? It's still alive?!?! What do we have to do to kill this thing?"

Keeper of Secrets casts Broken Square-Enix Ability!
Keeper of Secrets heals all damage and negative status effects!

Sanguinius: "Oh ... well ... feth that ... RUN!!"


----------



## arturslv

Ferrus: “And people insist I'm tasteless ...”

Lorgar: “You are tasteless. You're the only sentient being in known existence to have been permanently banned from /b/ for offending the residents”

Dorn: “Dare I ask what the hell did you post?!?”

Ferrus: Looking as innocent as possibl. “Well it was only a small <deleted by the Warseer Inquisition> with <again, deleted by the Warseer Inquisition> and <more deletions> with <deleting, deleting ...> up her <hi, this is the Warseer Inquisition. Take a wild stab in the dark at what we've done here ...> in <now that's wrong> and <oh dear Gods ...> in <my mind!!!> and <is that actually physically possible?!?> coated in <oh that's just taking the piss ...> with <when does this end?!?> and <oh Gods it just goes on and on ...> and some Marmite ... and a dog ...”

Silence doesn't begin to describe the following scene. Even reality is stunned; atoms themselves stop emitting energy and stare at Ferrus in shock.

Ferrus: “What?!?”

Dorn: “I'm sorry I asked ... I really am ... I think I need to make another successor chapter just to prove how sorry I am ...”


----------



## goldsmartie

Briliant, turly briliant. :laugh:


----------



## arturslv

doin' my best to make this grimdark universe less grim and dark, just doin' my best


----------



## Colonel Wolf

I have a small MP3 player with built-in speaker {$15}. I painted it in camo and leave it on the table edge. When my vendetta comes on it plays "Ride of the Valkyries"... The guys love it. {I love the smell of promethium in the morning....}


----------



## arturslv

"Lo, in the histories of the many Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes, every Primarch listed that has ever come across my sage and learned eye has found root and home upon a planet, which hath shaped and set in stone the character of that warrior of the Emperor that he would become. 

Therefore, one must give pause to the Primarch of our brothers, the Angry Marines, that great warrior of rage for he hath never fell upon a planet. Nay! But he was borne upon the ethers and drifts of space, alone in his capsule save for a discarded copy of Battletoads III that the Emperor had thrown out, a legendary artifact that had fueled research into vast weapons of war that it might be unmade and erased from history. 

When the capsule had finally been rammed into a drifting hulk of an old Imperial battleship, it is said that the Primarch was so enraged and frustrated with the vile game that he headbutted out the Adam's apple of the first survivor that he encountered, and thereafter killed every inhabitant with the remnants of the dying initial combatant." 

-Historian Nwabudike
Histories of the Ill-favored Chapters


----------



## arturslv

From the historical records of Inquisitor Jangel, non-aligned investigator of Adeptus Astartes "Incidents".
Section #511: The "Friendly" Fire Incident of Klaxus XII
+++++


The records of this dire moment in Imperial history were (until I came upon them) known only to the two Space Marine Chapters that took part in the skirmish. However, only by putting the two records together is the truth found. 

The Pretty Marines tell of a conflict fraught with glory against the odds, and of dire betrayal: "Before the sortie against our enemy our glorious Chapter Master graced us with a speech, before the resplendent lines of Brother-Marines sparking under the twin suns he told of beautiful victory, of the fates of our enemies. As one we cheered, then awaited his inevitable dance number. From the skies fell a drop pod, smashing into our forward lines and engulfing the area with thick dust. It took us only a moment to clear the air with our blow-dryers, but it was a moment too late as we saw the Chapter Master fallen..." 

The Angry Marines tell the other side of the story, though in far less words due to a lacking in vocabulary beyond many four letter cusses. Hastily inserted into the annals of their Chapter, glory is simply a picture with the words "OWNED" across it, and the image of the Pretty Marines' Chapter Master unconscious on the ground, a crude mustache drawn on his face with paint, and what appears to be a set of testicles on his forehead. 

So began the greatest feud in Imperial history. 

+++++
Thought for the Day: Ruthlessness is the kindness of the wise.

+++++
From the personal diaries of Brother R.C. Mongler, 4th Chanian Combat Group.
+++++
My Chapter had landed on a barren little ball of rock called Vesuvius. The Inquisition had ordered us to the planet on suspicion of Chaos corruption. Surely enough, we ran into a group of Chaos Marines within a day of landing. The fools, turning their backs on the God-Emperor for whatever sick rewards they received from the deceiving Warp fiends. The battle started the second morning. Their attack was especially fierce, and my brothers and I had great trouble keeping them at bay. It seemed that for every one of them we killed, three more showed up. Our own losses were of no small concern. In a rare moment of calm, Brother Captain Morgan confided in me that if we were not killed by these berserkers, we would almost certainly be killed by the Inquisition for failure. As our numbers dwindled, I grew concerned: surely we would all be killed, and the Emperor's work would not be carried out. We prepared for a final assault, one which had been coming for near a week of the most intense fighting I had ever seen. We surrounded a small hill, atop which stood our last Dreadnought, Brother Klarr. We saw their force coming from below. We knew this was our end. But suddenly, a shadow passed over us. Some great demon come to finish us off? No. It was a drop pod. Out of it stepped a small company of our brethren. They wore bright yellow armor, a bizarre crest upon their shoulders, unlike any Chapter I had yet heard of. A circle, with two lines crossing it and two dots in the middle - almost as if to suggest an angry face. They formed a line between us and the now charging Chaos Marines. 

The Chaos Marines' bright red armor shone in the late afternoon sun, the spikes upon their shoulders menacing. The new arrivals stood fast. As the distance between the two forces began to close, there arose from these yellow warriors the loudest scream I had ever heard. It shook the ground. Even through my helmet, it made my ears ring and my skull ache. And it simply kept getting louder as their Captain's fist slowly rose into the air. As it rose to a nearly supersonic volume, I finally made out the words contained in the scream: 

"ALWAYS ANGRY!!!" 

In a chorus louder even than the Captain's scream, the soldiers returned: 

"ALL THE TIME!!!" 

Then it began. 

... 

Without a word, these Space Marines returned to their drop pod and were soon whisked away from the battlefield. There had been no more than a dozen of them, not a single word exchanged between our two Chapters. To this day, I have never seen any Marines fight with such rage and hatred. The mass of enemy berserkers was reduced to mere chunks, legs, arms, heads, and craters full of blood. Bits of red armor lay strew about the field. We had not even had the chance to advance by the time the screaming - both theirs and the enemy's - was through. I turned to my Captain and asked, "Who were they?" 

"I had thought it was rumor, but no. Emperor bless us all, those were the Angry Marines." 

+++++
Thought for the Day: The Emperor protects.


----------



## arturslv

From the records of Governor Tamel of Pathos Secundus.
File #34476A: Captain Asshole
++++
A boy was born in the year 895.M38, on Pathos Secundus. Little is recorded of his parentage. His father was a Guardsman, known only to be missing and presumed dead. His mother died in childbirth. The pregnancy had no complications, and so an autopsy was conducted. Wounds throughout the mother's uterus and all along the birth canal indicated extreme trauma. Video of the birth confirmed the medical examiner's suspicions: he had come out cuntpunching.

The child spent his youth in and out of various orphanages and foster homes. Several of his caretakers attempted to name him, but whenever anyone asked him his name, he responded only by punching them in the throat. He was regarded as mad and dangerous at the very least; many believed he harbored some mutation or the mark of Chaos. At the age of ten, however, he finally found a home. An Angry Marine Quartermaster had made planetfall to procure supplies, and the young boy happened to be in the area. The Marine shouted to him, "HEY, ASSHOLE, BRING ME THAT FUCKING HANDTRUCK IN THE CORNER."

When the youth approached the hardened battle-brother and kicked him squarely in the groinplate, breaking two of his toes without making a sound or shedding a tear, the Angry Marines had found a new recruit.

At the time Asshole was inducted, the Chapter Master of the Angry Marines had decreed that new recruits should become standard Codex scouts. The issue was put to a vote, and the chapter at large declared this decision to be "COMPLETELY FUCKING FAGGOTROCIOUS," however the decree stood for a time on the basis that the Chapter Master did it "JUST TO PISS YOU OFF, YOU WORTHLESS *******."

This did not prove advantageous to young Asshole. The one thing they could never teach him to do was aim, and he spent far longer than normal languishing in the 10th Company. Finally, in 176.M39, during the Scouring of Erhlinger Prime, he proved himself. After emptying an entire magazine into an Ork horde with no effect, Asshole abandoned his cover, howled madly into the sky, and broke his sniper rifle neatly in half across his knee. He charged the band, tearing limbs from any greenskin that stood in his way, until he was standing face-to-face with the Boss Mek. Asshole took the two halves of his ruined rifle and spitted the Ork from both ends of his digestive track, right through his flash kustom 'ardpantz. The rest of the mob turned tail and ran. For his heroism, Asshole was immediately inducted to the 5th Company and promoted to the rank of Sergeant. Shortly afterward, the Chapter Master judged that the newbies were pissed off enough, and reinstated the Angry Gangs.

Asshole rose quickly through the ranks, finally becoming Brother-Captain of the Battle Barge Killfuck Soulshitter in 722.M39. During his career, he developed a special hatred of Eldar, and would often be heard to claim that "THEY MAY AS WELL BE GODDAMN PRETTY MARINES FOR ALL THEIR FAIRYASSED PANTSHITTERY." In 756.M39, the Killfuck Soulshitter was called to push back an incursion on the Coluphid Sector by Eldar. The campaign was a terrifying success, and in its last moments, Captain Asshole confronted the Farseer Turiel and her daughter Sorith, one of the Seer Council, personally. Breaking Sorith and casting her blithely aside in one swift blow, the Captain approached the Farseer, shaking with rage. Before she could react, he slammed her to the ground, removed his groinplate, and raped her brutally. As he finished, he rose, readjusted his armor, and looked Sorith in the eyes, saying "I FUCKED YOUR MOM." He turned and left as the two witches stole into the Webway. A Marine in Asshole's retinue, puzzled, asked "WHY THE FUCK DID YOU LET THOSE ***** GET AWAY, YOU STUPID CUNT?" In an astonishing display of restraint, Asshole said simply "THOSE SPACE QUEERS AREN'T THE ONLY ONES WHO CAN PLAN AHEAD, YOU DICKSUCK."

In 989.M39, Captain Asshole received a pizza with mushrooms instead of pineapple, and suffered an aneurysm while killing those responsible. He was entombed in one of the Chapter's Belligerent Engines. Thirty years later, the Chapter met the same Eldar again on the field of battle. The carnage played out much the same as before, leaving only Captain Asshole, Farseer Turiel, and Sorith. Once again Sorith was cast aside. Once again, Turiel was restrained. A terrible din was heard, and after some time, it could be seen that Captain Asshole's turgid member had punched right through the armor plating of the Dreadnought, and lodged itself just between the buttocks of the Farseer. He turned to Sorith and spoke his last words to her before slaughtering them both.

"EVEN IN DEATH, I STILL FUCK YOUR MOM."
++++
Thought for the Day: Hatred is the purest expression of love for the Emperor.
++++


----------



## arturslv

I also found Home Improvement, with Marneus Calgar 
WARNING: LENGTHY 

Kudos to Erenthal of 40kOnline. 

+++CONNECTING+++ 
+++LOADING "HOME IMPROVEMENT"+++ 

The intro for HIWMC plays. Marneus is seen sawing, hammering in nails, and hugging small children. 

The camera makes a swooping move, ending in a garden, outside what appears to be a Eldar house. Marneus Calgar and four other Marines are standing outside the door. They are not wearing any helmets, instead they are wearing yellow hard-hats. 

Marneus: Hi everybody, and welcome the my new show, "Home Improvement" with me, Marneus Calgar. To kick of our very first episode, we have a very special guest, whose house is going to get a make over! It´s none other that farseer extrordinare, and all round alien scum, Eldrad Ulthran! 

Marneus knocks rather hard on the door. Afte a good while, Eldrad opens it. He´s wearing his night-clothes, covered in litte pictures of Khaine. He gets a look of extreme suspicion in his eyes when he sees Calgar. 

Eldrad: Yeees? 

Marneus: Congratulations Eldrad! You have been selected to get a free house makeover, on galaxywide T.V! 

Eldrad: I didn´t sign up for this. 

Marneus: Nobody does. 

Two of the Marines manhandle Eldrad out of the house and he disspears from view. Marneus enters the house. 

Marneus: Let´s see. We will as always start with the hallway. 

The camera makes a sweep over the hallway. It´s white, and there´s a small sofa and a table with a lamp.. 

Marneus: As we all know, a mans home is his fortress. Now, what would happen if a slvering Carnifex broke into Eldrads hallway? What would he do? Beat him of with a lamp? 

Marneus makes a imitation of Eldrad trying to fend of a carnifex with a lamp. The marines roll on the floor with laughter. 

Marneus: But fear not! We will help Eldrad! Get to work my brothers! 

The Marines beging erecting steel bulkheads along the walls. In the centre, they mount a huge multimelta on a tripod. 

Marneus: There, much better. Now on to the living room. 

They enter Eldrads living room. It´s a spacious room, filled with exquisite whraithbone ornaments, and spiritstones decorating the walls. Marneus frowns. 

Marneus: While Eldrads room might be chique in certain circles, it´s so M.35:ish.... We can do better than that. First though, we have to clear the room. 

The marines begin to rip apart the room with the aid of chainswords and powerfists. You can almost hear the faint screams of the eldar spirits when Marneus powerfists smash into the wraithbone covered wall. After a good 30 minutes of wanton destruction, the room is barren. Marneus wipes the sweat from his brow. 

Marneus: There, now we can begin decorating. While my brothers are doing that, we can look at the garden. 

The camera once again shows Eldrads beautiful garden. 

Marneus: Nice, but not wartorn enough for my taste. Brother Altus? 

Brother Altus hops on a Marine-bike and begins revving around the garden, leaving deep deep trackmarsk everywhere. Marnues nods, satisfied. 

Marneus: Now, for the most important room in the house. The bedroom! 

Eldrads bedroom is a sombre place, with a simple cot to sleep on. The room is however dominated by a big mural on one wall, depicting the Eldar gods in one of their wars. It´s magnificent. 

Marneus: Today, is the annual of the day when the Emperor defeated the traitor warlord Horus! And what better way to celebrate it, than with a HUGE wallpainting depicting this glorious victory?! 

With those words, he begins to paint over the mural. A while later the Marines gather in the livingroom, wich is now dominated by a huge gold Imperial Eagle hanging from the ceiling. Small statues of the Emperor has also been placed everywhere. 

Marneus: Now, for the final touches! An new entrance into the kitchen into the living room... 

He smashes through the wall with his powerfist. A crude doorway into the kitchen is formed. 

Marneus: Some new literature for Eldrad to read, including a SIGNED copy of my new biography, "Marneus, the man behind the armour"! 

One of the marines takes up a flamer and roasts Eldrads old books, lying in a pile on the floor. Another marine erects a crude bookshelf and fills it with Empire-approved books. 

Marneus: Now, it´s time for Eldrad to see what we have accomplished. I´m sure he´ll be overjoyed! 

Eldrad steps in. The camera is so close to Eldrad that you can actually see the vein in his forehead burst. 

Eldrad: What in the name of Khaine´s seven body orifices have you done to my house!?!? 

Marneus (looking truly hurt): You don´t like it? 

The singing spear targeted at his heart is answer enough. As the camera slowly fades out, we see Eldrad and Marneus wrestling on the floor, shouting curses at each other. 

FINI. 

__________________________________________________ 

+++CONNECTING+++ 
+++LOADING "HOME IMPROVEMENT"+++ 

The intro for HIWMC plays. Marneus is seen sawing, hammering in nails, and hugging small children. 

As the camera fades in, we see Marneus and a squad of Marines standing in what appears to be an assault boat. 

Marneus: Welcome everybody, to "Home Improvment", with me, Marneus Calgar! For todays show, we´ve got something really special. That´s right, we´re going to redecorate a Hive Ship! If we Ultramarines have learned anything about the Tyranids, it is that they have really bad taste in furniture... 

The ship rocks as they make contact with the bio-ships surface. The ramp lowers. 

Marneus (holding his nose): My god, what IS that stench? 

One of the Marines points to a large orifice in a wall. 

Marine: Sir, the stench seems to come from that, umm, hole... 

Marneus: Well, do something about it then! 

The Marines lobs several Krakgrenades down the hole. 

Marneus (surveying the room): Now then, on to decorating. As we can clearly see, the Nids are going for the "veiny and pulsating" style, that was so popular a few years ago. However, nowadays this is hopelessly out of style. But do not worry, we will help them! 

The marines, now armed with paintbrushes and paintbuckets begins to apply a thick coat of blue paint to the living walls. 

Marneus: As you all can see, the Ultramarine blue matches the gory red of the ceiling fantasticly. Another tip is to mix in a bit of Rhino-fuel in the paint to make it stick to living matter. All these tips and many more can be found in my new book, "Painting made easy, Calgar-style". A number will be displayed right after the show, for ease of ordering. 

From the adjacent tunnel, chittering can be heard. It grows and grows in intensity. 

Marneus: Oh, I almost forgot to mention. Not all creatures in the galaxy has the same fashion sense as I. Amongst those are genestealers, who reside in large numbers on Hive-ships such as these. They can be quite the annoyance when you work. So, just for this occasion, we have a special guest star! Please welcome Chaplain Xavier, from the immensly popular *grumble grumble* show, Cooking with Chaplain Xavier! 

Marneus reaches out and drags Xavier on screen. Xavier waves into the camera. 

Xavier: Hi. Umm, Marneus, you said there would be cooking. I don´t see any cooking though... 

Marneus (pointing to the chittering tunnel): In there, they are all waiting for you. 

Marneus shows Xavier, who is hefting a flamer, into the tunnel. 

Xavier (in the distance): Hey, there isn´t anyone here. Hold on, who goes there? Holy cupcakes of the Emperor, Stealers! Ouch, stop that, those claws are sharp! Hey, i said stop it! Allright, thats it. I´ts coooooooking time! 

Flaming, alien screams, the sound of claws cutting into ceramite, the sound of alien skulls crushing and the distinct whooping and cheering of Xavier are all heard from the tunnel. 

Marneus: Now, let´s get back to decorating. Don´t worry folks, Xavier is doing just fine. 

The marines are finished painting and are now hanging up tapestries and small chandeliers. Marneus himself is carving out a statue of the Emperor from the wall with his powerfist. Surprisingly, it actually looks like the Emperor. 

Marneus: Well, thats all we have for you today. The producer just informed me that we have run out of time. But don´t worry, we´ll be back next week, with more Home Improvement. 

Xavier walks in, dragging a huge pice of roasted meat. He is completly unscathed. 

Xavier: Let´s eat! 

They all hunker down on the floor. Soon singin erupts. They are roughly interupted by a Carnifex, storming into the chamber and trampling two of the Marines. The Fex then snaps Marneus statue in half. 

Marneus: No! You b*stard, I worked hard on that! 

As the camera slowly fades out, Marneus and the Fex are wrestling on the floor, Marneus spouting obscenities and the Fex roaring wildly. 

END. 

______________________________________________ 

The madness continues... 

+++CONNECTING+++ 
+++LOADING "HOME IMPROVEMENT"+++ 

The intro for HIWMC plays. Marneus is seen sawing, hammering in nails, and hugging small children. 

The opening shot is of Marneus standing on the HIWMC stage. He waves to the camera. 

Marneus: Well, you all know who I am, and what I do, so lets get down to bussiness, mkay? Today we have a very special episode. We are going to let a team from our brother chapter the Space Wolfes, redecorate the Fortress monastery of the Dark Angels chapter, also known as The Rock! And ofcourse, next week the Angels are going to return the favour. Paint will be spilled, walls will be smashed down and hilarity will ensue. Let´s get on with it! 

Five Space Marines walks on stage, their markings clearly identifying them as Space Wolfes. They are all wearing the same yellow hard hats as Marneus and his brother Marines were wearing in the first episode. The hard hats look ridicoulusly small on the giant Marines. 

Marneus: Well boys, are you excited? 

Space Wolf 1: Sure are Calg. We´re really looking forward to this. Me and Ragnar here will do the painting, Anwulf will do all the light fixtures, Erik will work the floors. And finally Bob here (He indicates the fifth marine, who is grinning wildly and hefting a power sledge) will organize all the wanton destruction. 

Marneus: Sounds marvelous. Well, in the name of the Emperor, of you go! 

The Wolfs rush of stage into a waiting Thunderhawk. 

Marneus: Now while they are working, we have 2 hours to spare. So without further ado, please welcome the galaxy-famous dance troupe "Spandex for Khaine"! They´ve come here all the way from the webway, and are going to perform "The fall of the Eldar race". 

The camera pivots to reveal a poorly constructed scene, complete with tacky curtains and all. A dozen Harlequins, dressed in marvelous clothes are brutally shoved on stage by Ultramarine stage hands. The Harlequins look rather unhappy, but begin to dance nonetheless. After 1 hour and 59 minutes they are done, and they all collapse on stage from exhaustion. Marneus applauds curtly, then gives a nod to somebody offstage. On cue, 3 Marines with chainswords revving gets on the stage and walks firmly towards the collapsed Eldar. Thankfully the camera turns away at the last moment. The viewers are left only with the horrible sounds erupting from the stage. 

Marneus: Now wasn´t that great? Anyhow, time to check up on our friends at the Rock! 

[/i]The camera cuts, and then returns. We see Marneus standing in what appears to be the interior of the Rock. Four of the Space Wolfs are there with him.[/i] 

Marneus: Where´s Bob? 

Space Wolf 1: He got so carried away with the task of creating new and exciting doorways that he punched a hole through a wall. 

Space Wolf 2: An exterior wall. 

Marneus: Oh. Well, tell me what you have done. 

They walk through the deserted hallways of the Rock. 

Space Wolf 1: We noticed there was a considerable lack of imagery depicting our beloved father Leman Russ. 

Space Wolf 2: We fixed that. Didn´t we Erik? 

Space Wolf 3: Sure did. Boy will our fellow Marines be surprised when they enter their dining hall and find a 400 feet tall painting of Russ strangling Lion El´Jonson. I consider that painting a personal masterpiece. It´s extremely detailed, down to the 10 feet bulging eyes of Jonson. 

Marneus: I´m sure it is. Now what about the basement? That´s often the most overlooked part of a house. By the way, you can read about that in my new book, "Fire Down Below, Cellars Explained by Calgar." 

Space Wolf 3: Sheesh, let me tell you, the Angels have no taste in cellars... not a roaring fireplace or hunk of raw meat in sight. 

They wander down into the cellars. 

Space Wolf 2: Awful I tell you. Instead, there were these small wretched creatures scuttling about. Watchers in the Dark I think he called them. 

Marneus: Who called them that? 

Space Wolf 2: That chap. He even taught us how to make excellent roast out of them. 

He jabs a finger down a corridor. In the bright light of a portable grilling device sits an eerily familiar person, dressed in green power armour. He has several Watchers in the Dark impaled on a stick, slowly roasting. 

Space Wolf 3: But that´s not all of it. Everywhere there were these jail cells, and there were Marines locked up! I think the sign said "Dungeon of the Fallen". Anyways, we let them out. Rude devils didn´t even thank us, just ran their way. 

Marneus: I love what you´ve done to the lighting down here. 

Space Wolf 3: Thanks. 

They move on, finally stopping outside a ornate door.The sign says "Private! Do not enter!" 

Marneus: And this is? 

Space Wolf 1: The private chambers of Azrael. 

Marneus: Oh, can i see what... (Bends down to open the door, but is stopped by Space Wolf 1.) 

Space Wolf 1: Wouldn´t open that if i were you. We left a small present for Azrael. A token of friendship if you like. 

Marneus: Present? Like a Master crafted weapon? A ancient copy of Codex Astartes? Flowers? 

Space Wolf 2: Nope. 74 Fenrisian wolfs. 

Marneus: Emperors underwear! How on Terra did you manage to get seventyfour 400 pound wolfs into a space, how big? 

Space Wolf 3: 3 by 5 meters. 

Marneus: 15 square meters. 

Space Wolf 2: We don´t really know, but its a wonder the doors holding... 

The door creaks considerably, and faint animal moans are heard from inside. 

Marneus: It looks like you boys did a fine job! But unfortunately that´s all we have time for today. Tune in the next week for the follow up. Now let´s get out of here before Azrael returns. I don+t want to end up in another wrestling match. My arms still a bit sore since that Fex lats time. 

END. 

___________________________________________ 

The madness continues... 

+++CONNECTING+++ 
+++LOADING "HOME IMPROVEMENT"+++ 

The intro for HIWMC plays. Marneus is seen sawing, hammering in nails, and hugging small children. 

The opening shot is of Marneus standing on the HIWMC stage. He waves to the camera. 

Marneus: Hello again faithful viewers! As you all know, last time we let a team of Space Wolfs redecorate the Dark Angles fortress. The results were simply astounding. When Azrael saw what they had accomplished, he suffered FOUR simultaneus heart attacks! Boy was he glad he had that secondary heart... Anyways, on to todays show! Please welcome the Dark Angels! 

Applause from the audience as five Dark Angel space marines enter the stage from a side door. They are brandishing meltaguns, chainswords and big nasty-looking melta charges. Uncertainly they wave at the audience. 

Marneus: Welcome to the show. You guys excited? 

Dark Angel 1 (grimly): Yep. We have a score to settle. Our esteemed brothers, the Space Wolfs, did such a "wonderful" job last time on the show. We simply must return the "favour"... 

Marneus: Sounds great! You have a special plan of action? 

Dark Angel 2: Smash and tear... 

Dark Angel 1 (Shushin at Dark Angel 2): Umm, the usual. Carpets, some nice lighting and murals. 

Dark Angel 3: But you said that we would smahs and burn and loot and... 

Dark Angel 3 is silenced by Dark Angel 1´s fist. 

Dark Angel 1: Carpets. 

Marneus: Oh-kay. We´ll off you go! 

The Dark Angels march off to a waiting Thunderhawk. 

Marneus: Now as usual while we wait, we have some high class entertainment for you! Not like that two bit hack *Ahem*Xavier*Ahem*. I proudly present to you, THE FIRST COMPANY TAP-DANCERS! 

The camera pans to reveal a shoddy scene constructed in the shuttlebay of Marneus battle-barge. The curtains open. The Ultramarines first company is standing on the stage, dressed in Tactical Dreadnought armour. 

Marneus: Take it away boys! 

The Terminators start tapping away. Their heavy ceramite boots are making deep marks in the floor, and the sound is deafening. Marneus is clapping his hands in rythm and smiling. 

Marneus (Shouting to make himself heard): And now brother Tiberius solo! 

The venerable librarian taps away frenetically. His tapping further and further away from the center of the stage. As the Terminators clap their powerfists in an ever increasing rythm Tiberius is working himself into a frenzy. Too late he sees the "Emergency hatch opening" button on the wall. His ceramite shoulder pad slams into the button. 

Tiberius: Cr*p. 

A horrible sucking noise is heard as the 10 meter high shutters open into the cold vacuum of space. Terminators are sucked screaming into space, Tiberius is cursing wildy as he looses his grip and dissapears. Marneus is clinging onto a railing, holding on for his life. Finally the shutters auto close. 

Marneus: Ummm. That was certainly unexpected. 

He goes to a window. 

Marneus: Don´t worry folks, they are A-okay! I think... 

Outside marines are bobbing in space, flailing desperatly with their arms and legs. Suddenly a huge asteroid passes by the battle barge, sweeping everything with it. Then a big hand is placed over the camera lens, moving it away. Then we see Marneus face close up. He is smiling a big nervous smile. 

Marneus: Let´s see how our Dark Angles are doing! 

The camera cuts. When we join Marneus again, he´s standing outside the Fang. Faint smoke is seen rising from it. As he enters the main hall he is joined by the Dark Angels. 

Marneus: Well, I´m simply dying to hear what you have done with this place. 

Dark Angel 1: Well Marneus, as you can see we have been hard at work. We´ll start right here. As you might remember, the Wolfs made a roof painting in our dining hall commemorating a moment in Imperial history. We decided that such kindness should not go unanswerd. (He points to the roof) This is a less known moment in our glorious history, but important none the less. 

Marneus (Gazing up at the roof): It´s Leman Russ getting raped by a Bloodthirster... 

Dark Angel 1: Yes. Beautiful, isn´t it? Notice the detail, down to the expression of horror on Russ´s face. 

Marneus: Riiight. Moving on. 

They wander down the gigantic corridors, occasionly passing by a kicked in door or melta-blasted wall. They enter a cavern, filled with small fenced in areas. 

Dark Angel 2: This is were they keep those big wolfs of theirs. 

Marneus: Speaking of, were are they? 

Dark Angel 3: Oh, some dude in green Power armour came by and took them all. He muttered something about cooking. 

Marneus: I won´t press the issue. 

They reach an ancient room, filled with generators and various technical artifacts. A large podium is at the end of the room. 

Dark Angel 1: This is the room were we found that big hunk-o-junk. I think the sign said "Bjorn" something. 

Marneus: Bjorn the Fellhanded, ancient dreadnought hero, champion of Leman Russ and defender of the Fang? 

Dark Angel 1: That´s the chap. Quite ferocious actually. We threw him on the wastedump out back. 

Marneus: He didn´t resist? 

Dark Angel 2 (patting his meltagun): He was quite cooperative after a few blasts of this baby... 

Marneus: I´m sorry, but this is all we have time for today. Tune in next week, when we´ll visit Kharn the Berzerker in his Palace of Flesh. I sense some serious redecorating coming up... 

A roar is heard, and suddenly a dreadnought burst in through the wall. It´s Bjorn and he´s a bit upset by the looks if it. Deep melta scars decorate his armour. 

Dark Angel 2: Back i say! Back! 

He fires at Bjorn, who only gets madder. He throws his multi tonnes body at Marneus. As the camera fades out, we see Bjorn holding Marneus by the crotch with his gigantic powerfist. Marneus is screaming obscenites and is trying to rip Bjorns arm off. 

END. 

_______________________________________________ 

One more, for the good old days... 

+++BEGIN TRANSMISSION+++ 

The intro plays. Several scenes flash by, Marneus hammering in nails, Marneus painting walls, Marneus running in terror from a mob of angry homeowners... The text "Home Improvement with Marneus Calgar" appears, the the camera cuts to the man in blue himself. 

Marneus is standing outside a reddish building, his helmet removed and wearing his distinctive yellow hardhat, complete with bloodspatters... 

Marneus: Hello, and welcome to a new episode of HIWMC! It´s been a while since the last episode, but we have been hard at work, solving an unfortunate legal dispute with the the Space Wolfes and the Dark Angels... Thanks to the b*stards in the head office and their love for that hack Xavier, we are now operating on half the regular budget. That means no pause entertainment, no audience and no Tau-sandwiches! D*MN YOU ALL! 

He takes a moment to calm himself down. 

Marneus: Well, today we are standing here on a unknown deamonworld, outside a house that is owned by none other than the ferocious Kharn the Betrayer! 

He knocks on the door. The door is obviously made of flesh, with big veins running down the lenght of it. On a wooden beam placed in eye level is written "K.T. Betrayer". A small welcome-mat decorated with sunflowers is in front of the door. Nobody answers. 

Marneus: OPEN UP YOU BIG BAG OF EMPEROR-FORGOTTEN SCUM! 

Footsteps are heard from inside, and the door opens. Kharn the Betrayer, World-eater and traitor of men stands in the opening. He´s wearing red bloodstained power armour and a horned helmet. He is also wearing an apron, decorated with small stylized bloodthirsters, dancing happily with each other. 

Kharn: Are you selling something? 

Marneus: No, we´re.... 

Kharn: I don´t buy stuff from door-salesmen. 

Marneus sniffs in the air. 

Marneus: No, we are from Imperial Television and we are recording... Is that cookies i smell?! 

Kharn (Looking rather ashamed): Yes, I was just baking some chocolate chip ones. Wait... are we on television right now? 

Marneus: Yes. 

Kharn rips of the apron, pounds his chest and begins to roar. 

Kharn: BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! SKULLS FOR THE... 

He is cut short by Marneus rather large powerfist. Kharn drops like a bag of potatoes. 

Marneus: Stuff him in the Rhino, and get him out of here. We´ve got some redecorating to do! 

Marneus and his crew all go inside. They enter the hallway, and proceed into the living room. 

Marneus:As we can see, Kharn has some... questionable taste in furnishing. But, oh my! Look at that chair! 

He indicates a large recliner in the corner, made in black leather with real wood furnishing. He aproaches it and strokes the surface. 

Marneus: And look, it´s even got built-in massage! Ahem, I mean, how heretical! Brother Bob, please take this instrument of heresy to my personal Thunderhawk, and have it delivered to quarters on Ultramar. I must personally oversee the... umm... destruction of such an heretical artifact. 

Brother Bob hefts the recliner in his arms and exits. Marneus is giddy with joy. 

Marneus: Bob! Be sure to take that heretical T.V table too... It would be perfect for my living room. Umm, i mean, we must burn and cleanse it! 

Crewmember (offscreen): Hey Marneus, i spotted a blashpemous gold-plated bath-tub in here! Is it okay if I "liberate" it? 

Marneus: Of course my brother! We must save Kharn from these foul objects. But enough with the looting, i mean soul-saving, for now! Let´s look at the kitchen. 

Marneus enters the kitchen. It´s small and cosy, with a ancient oven in the corner. On top of it sits a tray of freshly baked cookies. Marneus helps himself to a dozen or so. 

Marneus: Mmmgluff, I do this for mankind! Gluffgluffmmmmghlfff. Delicious! Now then, lets see what we have here. Clearly, Kharn is opting for a rustic, somewhat rural style of decorating in here. The flesh-walls are complemented nicely by the wood furnishings and woven rugs. However, today we are going for a more Hip-urban style... 

He begins to tear out all the wood furnishings, replacing them with steel-slabs and cog-wheels. He nails a notice board to the wall above the table. 

Marneus: A top-tip is to use one of these boards for your memory needs. On this board, Kharn can keep track of all his activities and ritual sacrifices. I use 12" steel nails as you can see. Using nails is a art not easily mastered. Fortunately i explain it all in my new book: "Shaft of steel, nailing made easy by M. Calgar." It´s available in all well-stocked book-stores. Do not however confuse it with the similarily named "Shaft of steel, pleasing the ladies, by C. Yarrick." That dirty man does not deserve your money! 

In the background, the still hot oven has made Kharns curtains catch flame. The fire quickly leaps to the newly nailed up notice board and the roof. Marneus hard hat catches on fire. Screaming like a girl, he runs out of the house, wich is quickly turned into a fiery inferno. Marneus and the crew can do nothing but watch. 

Crewmember: Boss, Kharn is beginning to wake up. What should we do? 

Marneus: Umm, dump him on the street. (To the viewers) And that´s about all the time we had today! Hope you enjoyed it as much as usual! See you next time! 

Marneus blasts off in his Thunderhawk, leaving the slowly recovering Kharn alone. As he opens his eyes and looks at the inferno consuming his home, tears fall on his heretical cheeks for the first time in many thousand years... 

Kharn: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!


----------



## arturslv

+++Connecting to Imper-Net Entertainment Centre...+++
+++Routing to Ultramar Broadcasting Frequencies...+++
+++Installing Viruses onto your terminal...+++
+++Downloading data...+++
+++Transmission begins...+++

"Chaplain Xavier is so much more than a lousy Imper-net entertainment show: It's a really, really lousy Imper-net entertainment show!

Along with air-time, there are books, vox-pict recordings, live displays (outlawed by almost everyone for being more violent than a World Eaters invasion) and there's a movie due any year now.

So, after much talking, shouting, begging, pleading, and finally a night of savage, blood-soaked horror, Chaplain Xavier has returned, and we at the Ultramar News Network wish him well, and pray he never shares out studio..."
-Captain Apollo, UNN.



Episode I
Program starts, showing a dark world. Music begins, choiral and increasing in drama as the dawn breaks, and the words "Cooking with Chaplain Xavier" emerge.

Music suddenly changes to fast-paced metal, showing a bike roaring across open fields, running down fleeing xenos. Xavier is waving a Thunder Hammer, grinning like a madman high on happy-pills.

Music stops, and show cuts to a kitchen.
"Hello friends! Welcome to another series of Cooking with Chaplain Xavier!"
Xavier continues, after the screaming has stopped.
"Well, today we'll be dealing with one of my favourite forms of xenos scu- I mean alien; the Kroot!"
"Now it has long been known that Kroot can eat anything, but today we'll prove that the opposite is also true! Let's go fetch a Kroot..."
Scene cuts to a grassy savanah. Xavier and several Marines are sat with bird whistles.
"Now, we just need to be patient..."
They sit there for several minutes, making calls, and generally getting board.
"Ah frag this... Charge!"
The crew leap onto several nearby bikes, and race towards the Kroot. Xavier boots one to the floor, and drags a large oven into shot.
"Now, first we need to prepare our Kroot by stuffing it... now kids, this part has an 18 rating... so make sure you're parents don't know you're watching!"
The Kroot screams endlessly as large handfulls of basil-flavoured stuffing is violently inserted.
"Next, we gently cook..."
Kroot vanishes under the roaring blast of a Meltagun.
"...and shove it in the oven for several hours... fortunately, here's one we prepared earlier!"
Xavier removes a pre-cooked slab of Kroot steak, and places it on a plate.
"At a few potatoes, some carrots, and a splash of gravy... there! Instant Kroot delights! Be sure to tune in tomorrow, where we'll show a few more examples of the variety of Kroot-based meals you can make..."


+++End Transmission+++


----------



## arturslv

+++ACCESSING IMPER-NET ENTERTAINMENT CENTRE+++
+++DOWNLOADING TO TEMPORARY BUFFER+++
+++PLAYING VID-FILE+++
+++THOUGHT FOR THE EPISODE: The classic load-screen is always the best...+++

Xavieris busy pounding a Kroot Hound into the floor when the camera focuses on him.
"Hello, and welcome to Cooking with Chaplain Xavier! Today, we'll be proving that the big, ugly, shambling Knarloc does indeed have a place in the Imperium; at the bottom of the food chain!"
"To assist us, I've called in a special guest..."
There are brief sounds of struggling, swearing, and then pleading, as Abaddon and Kharn the Betrayer are dragged into shot.
"How did we get on this show!?"
Kharn hangs his head, "Too busy killing Lucius to run."
"Well then," Xavier's grin makes even Kharn feel uncomfortable, "let's get started! First, we need to kill the Knarloc's bodyguards, then cap-"
"Gorechild will drink blood!"
Kharn leaps. There is a long period of screaming.
"Yes... well... thankyou, Kharn, but I wasn't actually asking you to kill Abaddon... still, no harm done eh?"
"No harm!? What about me!?" Abaddon cries, covered in hundreds of bloody wounds.
"What about you?"

Eventually, Kharn is pointed in the correct direction, and the Knarloc is captured. Xavier draws his trademark hammer.
"And now... to tenderise!"
After much smashing, the Knarloc is flattened into a bloody pulp. He places some of the meat on a BBQ.
"Now many will know that much of the Knarloc is shoddy, unpalatable gristle... so we'll send that off to MacDonalds to go into the Chicken MacNuggets.
The BBQ chimes, and Xavier removes a plate of bacon.
"There we are! Perfect for any occasion... oh, Kharn, I think Abaddon said he was going to take your share..."
Abaddon whimpers, Kharn roars.
"Still my bacon buttie!? BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!!!"
Xavier grins, and watches the carnage as the words...


+++END TRANSMISSION+++


----------



## arturslv

+++Connecting to Imper-Net Entertainment Centre via AOL...+++
+++...Connection Failed.+++
+++Retry... Failed.+++
+++Retry... Failed.+++
+++Retry... Failed.+++
+++Attaching the Modem to a toaster... succesful+++
+++Thought for the Day: AOL is amphetamine parrot.+++

Xavier is stood upon a hill covered with dead Dark Eldar. He seems unhappy, despite the massive amount of dead xenos.
"Bloody Emperor's Haemorrhoids! Where the hell are all the sodding Mandrakes!? How am I supposed to make a plate of Mandrake Munchies if the bastards won't show up and get hammered!?"
Xavier spots on. The Eldar, realising his danger, tries to run. Xavier hurls the Thunder Hammer, smashing his leg off at the knee.
"About bloody time matey!"

Xavier grabs the fallen xeno, and hurls him onto a large oven tray.
"Right! First, we take our Mandrake... that's him."
"Excuse me..."
"Next, we add some flour..."
"Could I just-" the Mandrake stutters, trying not to choke on flour.
"Throw in four eggs..."
"Ow! Ow! Hey! Ow! Stoppit! Ow! Please stop!"
"A splash of vinegar..."
"My eyes! It burns! It buuurrns!!!"
"And don't forget the chocolate... molten naturally."
"My skin is on fire! I'm dying from chocolate!"
"There are worse ways I assure you..."
Xavier shoves the tray in the oven, and reaches for the dial. The Mandrake leans against the panel.
"Wait! Please!"
"What is it?"
"I only ask one thing; that I can die in a less painful manner."
"Such as?"
The Mandrake thinks for a moment, "Did you kill the Haemonculi?"
"Yes, so too bad!"
Xavier cranks up the oven, and the Mandrake's deathscream echoes from within.
"Aaaaand... voila!"
Xavier removes six perfect biscuits.
"Lovely aren't they? Tune in next week when we..."
Xavier looks around the battlefield, but finds no-one.
"...will be somewhere else. Okay, who let the bloody Eldar leg it on me!?"

+++Stop the program already!+++


----------



## arturslv

+++Connecting to Impernet Entertainment Centre...+++
+++...Error connecting to Server.+++
[Techmarine Mechan Has Logged On]
{Query: Cause of Error?}
+++...Insufficient bandwidth.+++
{Query: Why?}
+++...Dawn of War multiplayer is using all available bandwidth.+++
{Command: Access DoW Chat system}
+++...Accessed.+++
{Display for player Id "Sexytemplar18": Boromirous, get the hell off that bloody game! We're trying to watch CWCX!}
[.!..]
{Display for player Id "Sexytemplar18": If you don't get the hell of that game RIGHT NOW, I will arrange for you to be transferred on as the next Special Guest.}
[!!!]
+++DoW program shut down. Bandwidth requirements met.+++
+++Accessing Impernet entertainment centre...+++
+++Downloading episode...+++
+++Playing...+++
Xavier is stood in a cargo hold. A large Ogryn can be seen behind him.
"Hello, and welcome to Co-"
"Ullo!" The Ogryn shouts.
"Thankyou. As I was saying, wel-"
"Ullo!"
"Welcome to C-"
"Ullo!"
Xavier swings his hammer forcefully, smashing the Ogryn in the groin.
"...ouch"
"Welcome to Cooking with Chaplain Xavier! Today's episode will be slightly different than normal. Thanks to a helpful piece of Eldar-" Xavier spits "-technology, we have been able to break the 4th wall for just long enough to bring someone through. Say hello to this pathetic soul..."
The figure is wearing a baggy black t-shirt with the name of some obscure (and crap) band upon it. His hairstyle would have suited a drowned rat better. His fingers are ruined, covered with clipper-scars and superglue, and bits of models hang from his ears.
"Now, this loser... I mean helper, is going to prove that those dumb-ass 6 year olds who think they know everything are actually good for something... First off, we need to get him into a pot..."
Xavier tosses a small object into a large pan. The kid spots it.
"OMFG! Da new Space weevil Kablaminator modal! Dat iz 2 l33t! I must ownz it!"
The brat jumps into the pan. Xavier chunks in a krak grenade, and holds the lid down.
"Now to prepare the meat..."
The explosion nearly blows the pan apart.
"Add a sprinkling of peppers, a few spoonfuls of yellow curry powder... there! Perfect noob food!"
Xavier brings out a plate of yellow curry and fried rice.
"Try it yourself... it's not like anyone gives a damn about them."
+++Ending Program... and logging back onto DoW+++


----------



## don_mondo

There was a black and white space marine on a black and white bike.................


----------



## Zanrian

NO!

*lights his flamer*

BURN! Stupid joke. BURN!


----------



## arturslv

This is ten times funnier than it used to be


----------



## arturslv

/tg/ hates Necrons, Lolcron knows this and abuses it.


----------



## arturslv

5th Edition wrecked their shit.


----------



## arturslv

Gah, they just won't stay dead!


----------



## arturslv

The dreaded Predator Angrinator


----------



## arturslv

Here is the Angry Marines Codex
http://1d4chan.org/stuff/Codex%20-%20ANGRY%20MARINES.pdf


----------



## Platypus5

I always had the idea for a funny flash series about a guy named "Guardsman Bob." This is going to be a very long post, forgive me.

Basically, Bob is a very liberal guy who is drafted into the Imperial Guard. Witty and cynical of the dogmatic imperial doctrine, the culture clash between him and his slower witted officers is the source of humor, and how he always manages to avoid execution.

Bob hails from a planet called Berkeliana, the most liberal and eriely well informed planet in a very liberal and eriely well informed star system. To give you an idea of the planet, they are peaceful and tolerant of aliens and heretics, who become peaceful and tolerant and back. The Thor Street church of Khorne is a good example ("When Khorne commands us to kill, he does not mean kill those who disagree with us. He means kill poverty and kill social injustice... And now, let us pray for peace at the Cadian gate, that our misguided brother Abbadon will recognize that the gods never wanted violence...") The reason this planet hasn't been blasted to smithereens by the inquisition is that the tech-priests threatened that if anyone touches the vast amounts of ancient macbooks found in the area, "The titan legions will be marching on Terra." (joke highlights how unstable the Imperium really is)

Anyhow, Bob is drafted and halarity ensues.


----------



## arturslv

sounds good man. lol, ancient macbooks


----------



## arturslv

also, i'm getting myself busy with writing a warhammer book. so far i've done 23 pages, aiming for at least 100. it includes abaddon getting killed by a guardsman, emperor awakening, eldar making peace with the imperium, and the like. gonna put it on scribd.com, so stay tuned.


----------



## DeathJester921

Lucky shots from a guardsman waiting in ambush somewhere i'm guessing?


----------



## arturslv

well, almost. the guardsman has fallen in love with a sororita, abbadon tries to sway their faith. their answer is a frag in face. as abaddon readies to kill them, empra wakes up. he creates a psychic shield, to guard the two, and abaddon breaks his daemon sword, but i have to get that far first.


----------



## DeathJester921

Ok. one question. How would you aim to bring the emperor back, because remember he's basically just a corpse sitting on a golden toilet. How would you go about rejuvenating his flesh, bodily tissues, and organs to bring him back?


----------



## arturslv

a righteous FWAH of awesome righteous light, but it will be written in teh book. but basically, when empra feels the AWESOME and GAR of Ventory, a single tear runs down his cheek. a flash of light erupts and shakes the whole Sanctum Imperialis. and where was the corpse, stands the emperor, and epic amounts of AWESOME, MANLY and WIN emanate from him. something like that


Thought for the day: A good soldier feels nothing but hate


----------



## arturslv

DeathJester921 said:


> Ok. one question. How would you aim to bring the emperor back, because remember he's basically just a corpse sitting on a golden toilet. How would you go about rejuvenating his flesh, bodily tissues, and organs to bring him back?


golden toilet. that's so true


----------



## dedredhed

Dawnstar said:


> Enjoy :biggrin:


:rofl::grin::biggrin::rofl:


----------



## dedredhed

Ever wonder why Guard get crappy armor saves?

They buy their armor at walmart, you know kinda like those tux shirts:laugh:
ha..haaaa...:blush:
i thought it was kinda funny


----------



## arturslv




----------



## Platypus5

Platypus5 said:


> I always had the idea for a funny flash series about a guy named "Guardsman Bob." This is going to be a very long post, forgive me.
> 
> Basically, Bob is a very liberal guy who is drafted into the Imperial Guard. Witty and cynical of the dogmatic imperial doctrine, the culture clash between him and his slower witted officers is the source of humor, and how he always manages to avoid execution.
> 
> Bob hails from a planet called Berkeliana, the most liberal and eriely well informed planet in a very liberal and eriely well informed star system. To give you an idea of the planet, they are peaceful and tolerant of aliens and heretics, who become peaceful and tolerant and back. The Thor Street church of Khorne is a good example ("When Khorne commands us to kill, he does not mean kill those who disagree with us. He means kill poverty and kill social injustice... And now, let us pray for peace at the Cadian gate, that our misguided brother Abbadon will recognize that the gods never wanted violence...") The reason this planet hasn't been blasted to smithereens by the inquisition is that the tech-priests threatened that if anyone touches the vast amounts of ancient macbooks found in the area, "The titan legions will be marching on Terra." (joke highlights how unstable the Imperium really is)
> 
> Anyhow, Bob is drafted and halarity ensues.


Not long after being drafted, Guardsman bob accidentally dives into the same foxhole that a fire warrior is in. After a few awkward moments, they eventually become drinking buddies via an underground tunnel between the tau and regimental barracks. (His fellow barracksmates don't mind, as they are also liberals, though not as liberal) They often turn to each other for advice.

Episode ideas:
1. Guardsman Bob & the uplifting primer. bob is set to the task of finding a way to make the uplifting primer more respected among the troops. His first idea is to print it on the toilet paper, as "they already use the book that way, so at least you can make them respect it in smoothness on the skin and ability to absorb fecal matter."

2. Guardsman bob accidentally introduces marijuana to the Tau empire via his drinking buddy. 

3. Bob, in an effort to be more "humane to animals" tries to adopt a baby squiggoth.


----------



## arturslv

idea 3: he turns a blind eye to whatever the squig eats, telling that 'thousands of Guardsmen die every day anyway'. Somewhat like the South Park episode Spooky Fish.


----------



## MadMaxx




----------



## Doelago

The story behind the Rouge Riders. It all started with an IG Colonel and a Private talking about the Imperial Guard bike:


Colonel: OK, we've got a bike here,
It's not armoured but designed to take you fast across the battlefield and close in on the enemy.

Private: Eh, sir?

Colonel: You know private. Just like the Marines and Orks do. Ride up fast and beat the living crap out of the enemies.

Private: It doesn't sound really safe sir.

Colonel: You can mount a Plasma gun on it too!

Private: Ehhh...

Colonel: It's been design by the same man who invented the Democharge!

Private: Heck, sir. We might just as well use...a horse.

Colonel: Hmmm...great idea private, great idea!


----------



## Platypus5

In guardsman bob, which of the following should be the case?

1. The general is a moron.
2. The comissar is a moron.
3. The priest is a moron.
4. All of the above.


----------



## arturslv

i'd say that the priest and commisars could be morons, they have a general that actually KNOWS stuff, but the two still don't listen to him, especially after he said NOT to do some stuff.


----------



## arturslv

mah book and three chapters of it r ready

http://www.heresy-online.net/forums/showthread.php?t=65121


----------



## arturslv

I got some Orkhammer stories on Imperial Guard, Necrons, and Astartes for you, guys!

Orkquisitor 
The inquisitor was not pleased. 

“Governor, I’m by no means a strict man. But the reports I have been hearing have shocked even me. If what they say is true, it will not bode well for your title.” 

The two men were seated on either side of the Governor’s desk, drinking tea. 

“Why, Sir Inquisitor, I am shocked! What could you mean by such allegations?” The governor was a heavyset man, tall and broad. If he hadn’t known better, the Inquisitor would have sworn the man had Ogryn blood in him. 

“Unseemly actions of your men. Possibly, the taint of Chaos. Even… that foul xenos have infiltrated your army.” 

The Governor stood abruptly, setting his teacup down firmly. ”Are you accusing my men of heresy, sir? My men are clean of Chaos, I can swear on my life! They may not be… the most tidiest or formal of soldiers, but my Planetary Defense Force are true warriors in every sense of the word!” 

The inquisitor looked at the other man, unimpressed by his posturing. ”Calm down, man. If I had anything but hearsay, you would already have a laspistol to your head. I am merely here to see if there’s any truth to the rumors.” 

“You’ve come at a good time, then. We’re holding the bi-annual training tournament at the moment, the last training before the troops leave for Elkoss VI.” The governor smiled thinly at the Inquisitor. “You can consider having it held in your honor, if you want.” 

--- 


The training grounds were relatively far from the palace grounds, it seemed. At least, the old guardsman took a long time to drive there in the regimental car. 

“ARE YOU SURE THIS IS ONLY THE TRAINING GROUND, GUARDSMAN?!” The guardsman swerved round a crater and jammed his foot on the accelerator. “What? Sorry, sir, I can’t hear you over the Basil-“ Another series of explosions rocked the ground, an almost constant krump-krump-krump. “We’re here, everyone out!” The governor had pulled on a massive power claw out from somewhere in the back of the car, and was already striding towards the concrete barracks. 


“Well, then, Inquisitor, come in and feast your eyes on some of the finest of the Imperial Guard!” Green helmets. Green armor. Green boots. Green- well, almost green everything. “Governor.” 

”Yes, Inquisitor?” 

“What exactly am I looking at?” 

“Why, the PDF being trained here, of course! What else?” 

The barracks were full of soldiers, kitting themselves up and getting ready to go. In the maelstrom it looked like no-one had noticed the pair of humans at the door. 

“And the green skin…?” 

“Ah- we’re trying an experimental procedure of permanent camouflage. I’ve had an idea to train all of my troops extensively in the Doctrine of Stealth-” 

“And the fangs for teeth?” 

”Bad dental hygiene, I’m afraid. We’re not the richest of planets, and we can’t afford EVERY bit of cleaning-” 

“Governor,” the inquisitor snapped, “These ‘men’ of yours are clearly orks! What the hell is going on here?” 

The Governor looked bemused. “Corporal, get over here!” One of the soldiers, hesitating for a second, ran over. “Are you a human or an ork, Corporal?” “Me, boss? I’z definnily a humie, ain’t that right, boyz?” The other muttered various forms of agreement. “Yer right!” “Izza humie fer sure, heh!” ”Look, Inquisitor, we all know that orks are short, squat creatures. These fine humans are nothing of the sort!” It was true; the ‘guardsmen’ were all well muscled troops, above average height and looked menacing. The inquisitor muttered something under his breath and marched out. 

--- 


“They’re everywhere!” he said, looking out at the battlefield. 

“Of course, dear inquisitor. This IS the training grounds for the guard, after all.” The inquisitor looked on in near horror as two sides of the “guard” jumped out of their trenches and charged the other, meeting in the middle with an almighty crash. Limbs flew everywhere. “And what exactly are you training them for here, then? How to die?!” A basilisk shell crashed into the fray, blowing one unfortunate individual to pieces. “And WHY ARE YOU FIRING ARTILLERY INTO YOUR OWN BASE?!” 

“Oh, they’re practicing basilisk- rapid-fire. You’ve got to hand it to those boys, even though they’re not the most accurate, they can get off three times as many shells as the other armies! Pretty good, eh?” 

One of the soldiers, larger than the others, ran up. “Boss, we’z got the tanks reddy fer inspekshun!” The governor nodded. “Carry on, Sergeant!” “They’re, they’re orks… you can see that, can’t you?” ”I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The two of them were walking past the firing ranges, now, with the sound of las-rifles piercing the air. However, something sounded slightly… off. “For instance, do Orks use las-rifles?” The governor nodded towards one corporal who was charging at his target, firing as he went. “Las-rifles do NOT sound like that!” As the corporal got closer, yelling, the sound of him shooting grew louder – zakkazakkazakkaZakkaZakkaZAKKAZAKKAZAKKA!! “Are you sure? We’ve got some excellent tech-priests.” “Right, I’m sure…” 

--- 

“ROIT, BOYZ! FOLLOW ME TA GLORWAAAAAAAAUGH!!” The speakers on the baneblade blared out over the field. As it rumbled forwards, the mob of infantry followed around it. “Those really aren’t standard parts for a baneblade! You’re not allowed- YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO TAPE SPIKES!! Techpriest, how could you allow such sacrilege?!” The red-dressed, bionically clawed man span around to face the Inquisitor. ”Techpriest? I am no techpriest, good sir! By the Emperor, I’ll have you flogg- Ah?” The governor chuckled. “Inquisitor, meet Commisar Kleinst.” Kleinst bowed, turning to meet the man properly. “My apologies, my lord. My eyesight was not as well as it once was.” It was not just his eyes – the commissar looked more mechanical than human, with a giant robotic arm and both legs, and both eyes replaced with bionic implants. “No harm done, commissar. Tell me- you have noticed something odd about your men, haven’t you…” The commissar looked surprised. ”How did you know, sir? They’re the fiercest soldiers I’ve had the chance to serve with. I wish I could go with them, but for these damn implants..!” ”You haven’t seen anything… odd about them?” ”Well… not really. I’m afraid these bionic eyes let me see in black and white. I can’t fault the techpriests, of course. They’ve tried their hardest, but I guess the machine spirits don’t smile on me.” “Carry on, Commissar.” The crippled man nodded curtly and strode off, shouting at another group of soldiers. “A good man, even if he’s not as well as he used to be. Now, has that set your mind at ease yet?” The inquisitor started shaking his head when another basilisk round exploded nearby. “And that- what- by the Emperor, how does that even-?!” He ran over to the Leman Russ tank that had been hit. Its maintenance cover had been ripped open, and it was obvious that the engine was completely missing. 

A hatch flipped open and one of the drivers clambered out. ”Zog it, looks like itz busted.. OI, TECHPRIEST, GET YER LAZY BUTT OVER ‘ERE!” 

The techpriest was certainly impressive. With a metal jaw, several metal arms and a ragged red cloak, he ran across the field. “OI HEAR THE MACHINE GUBBIN- no, wot wazzat again, SPIRITZ!” He took out a handbook and looked at it carefully. “Anin-anno-anoin.. put der oilz on it while beesechin the machine’s gubbinz… lessee.. OI, SPIRITZ! WAKE UP ALREADY!” He splashed some… liquid into the empty engine cavity. “Thanks a ton, boss! WAAARR-THA-EMPERRRRAAAAAAAAUGH!!!” The tank roared off, leaving the inquisitor silently in its wake. 

--- 

He remained silent even after they reached the field headquarters. 

“Look, our forces are so dedicated they allow their children to help wherever they can.” And it seemed true; small green-coloured folk ran around, carrying all sorts of gadgets. Listening carefully, he overheard a small voice. “Quiet, ya gits, we’z got a good gig going on ‘ere. These boyz are giving us some reel flash dakka, and we’re lootin some good gubbinz, too. Now we wait for the big boss to give the signal, and then we’re off, ok?” 

“…Are you all right, Sir Inquisitor? Do you need the help of a psyker? Sanctioned psyker, to me!” The inquisitor spun about, alarm in his eyes. Forward shuffled the psyker, two guards accompanying him and gently leading him forwards. “MY MOIND BEARZ A GREAT PAAIN..” “No. No!” The inquisitor lashed out, knocking back the cowl to reveal a bandaged green face. “OW! IZZA GOOD PAIN!” “No, no, NO!” He shoved the psyker over backwards. “IZZA GOOOOD PAIN-“ ”Shut UP! Governor, follow me!” 

The back room was quieter. The inquisitor was breathing hard. “Perhaps you doubt my ability, Inquisitor.” The governor’s voice was silken. “You’re damn right I doubt-“ “But you see, the High Lords trust me to the extent that they’ve given me control over a Callidus assassin.” The Inquisitor didn’t jump as he gently pushed the poison-tipped blade away from his throat. “I… see. Well, I’m not one to doubt the High Lords.” He looked at the assassin, mercifully in the shape of a pretty, pale-skinned young woman. “But they wouldn’t have released an assassin to you without a specific mission in mind. Tell me, why were you sent here?” The Callidus answered him. “CAN’T SAY, BOSS. IZZA SEKRIT.” 

--- 

Back at the palace. The inquisitor and the governor were on opposite sides of the table once more. “Well, inquisitor. Have you satisfied yourself enough?” 

“I have, I’m afraid. At first, I didn’t believe it. Those ‘men’ out there, are clearly orks, and whether you’re trying to hide it or you really just don’t believe it, the verdict is the same. Even the most radical inquisitor couldn’t accept this! Damn filthy xenos infesting the Guard? Give me a break! I have no choice but to sentence this planet to be purged, and you, personally as a heret-“ 


--- 

Sister Catha looked over at Sister Lestrine. ”Have you noticed anything odd about the Inquisitor, lately?” The other sister shook her head. “No, why?” ”I can’t help but feel something’s wrong…” They both quickly turned back to their duties as a voice roared up from Inquisitor’s room. “I’Z CAN HEAR YOU, YA GITZ! GET BACK TA’ WORK!”


----------



## arturslv

Orkron 
It was rather worrying, thought the Necron Lord, to have such a large gap in his memories. 

The last raid had been an utter failure, as it recalled. There had been the hated living, swarming on his – HIS planet, crawling over the once-blasted plains and barren soils. Now awakened after so long, he had marshaled his grand forces to strike at the enemy. Even with their powerful guns, the pitiful bovine creatures dressed in beige and tan had perished by the hundreds, their citizens, their troops. By the Star Gods, they were crawling all over the surface! He made a note for his next body to be made several times larger than standard, to make the harvest easier. 

He had marched straight into their capital in a slow parade and taken the heads of their blue-skinned leaders with his own warscythe, sending them running in fear of death itself. And then there had been that strange asteroid, crashing down upon the city with brutal precision… 

He had not minded, waking once again in a new metal body, as he had done so long ago. He had not minded, finding half his systems still unfinished and his chronological marker showing a half-cycle round the sun had passed – the price to pay for such upgrades to size and raw power. He even almost applauded the fact that monolith monitoring statistics showed almost more blood had been spilled than the whole of last cycle. But the fact that almost his entire force of Necrons had converted themselves into Flayed Ones was rather disturbing. 

The Necron Lord, in his new, giant body, stumbled from the Monolith portal back onto the surface. Warscythe in hand, he watched his forces do their deadly work, killing even the animals that roamed the surface. Watched one necron kill the small being with its mouth, crushing its head with a metal jaw. He mentally nodded to himself, killing being what a necron’s job is. Very good. He screeched his rallying call, summoning the warriors and servants to do his bidding. 

And they came, shambling and tottering. Hundreds of his finest infantry, metal exoskeletons dragging themselves over the ground, swathed in the flesh of his enemies. 

Rather a lot of flesh, now he came to think about it. 

And he certainly didn’t recall seeing any enemies with green skins, either… the lord of death made another note to ask where his troops were getting their decorations from. 

“[Brothers!]” he screeched (perhaps it really wasn’t a good idea to have swapped out the communications and life-sensing array for the extra extra large pauldrons? Ah, a bit too late now to change his order) “[Heed my call! The enemy of us all are here, on our surface!]” He pointed towards the next city (he’d made a whole annotated to-do list, starting with ‘wipe out all significant pockets of populations’, followed by ‘kill any other sentients nearby’, ‘finish up by gaussing all the wildlife, plantlife and microscopics’ ‘check answering machine’ and ‘go back to sleep’) with his warscythe and roared. They answered him in the necron way – a howling omen of death and despair, sure to tell all who heard their death was imminent. 

The Necron Lord tapped the side of his metallic head. They weren’t usually that loud. 

The harvest in the city had been a bountiful one, and the Necron Lord’s fears had mostly been allayed. Still, there had to be some major flaws in the resurrection tomb system, what with the Flayed ones using non-standard gauss weaponry instead of their claws, and more flayed one torsos being mounted on destroyer bodies. He couldn’t doubt their effectiveness. The Tau (as his inbuilt translator told him they were called) had broken and run once more when the metallic green monstrosities started clambering out of the broken streets and tearing into their fire teams with green lightning and claws. Lots of green. It was then he noticed the internal alarm going off – those wretched living had the gall to attack the necron staging grounds! Grabbing a nearby destroyer, he stepped onto its metallic carapace, gesturing back to the Monolith. “[My subjects, we must make haste! Back, back to the monolith! Destroyers, Spyders! Split to two groups and flank the enemy! The rest of you, ready your phase units! My signal will tell you when to strike!]” The destroyer he was on turned to look at him, puzzled. The metal jaw moved, speaking the long-dead necrontyr language. “[Er… You’z want us to go over dere and crump da Tau, boss lord?]” “[…Yes, that is what I spoke. Come hither, my army! Strike, strike them all dow-]” 

Nearly falling from his mount as it jerked forward, the Necron Lord grabbed onto the shoulders of the Destroyer. He’d really have to check the Monolith diagnostics for corrupted repair algorithms. This one’s power core was so out of alignment he could feel the heat of it right through the dead flesh. 

“[Be ready my subjects! They will know their fate tonig-]” “[QUIT YER YAPPIN, BOSS! WE KNOWS HOW TA GET REEL KILLY ALREADY!]” The Necron Lord almost lost his footing again. How dare- How DARE his subjects talk back to him? Why had- ah yes.. flayed ones. While the immortality process that the necrodermis granted them had dulled most of the necrontyr minds, it was sometimes the case some memories remained.. and the flayed ones were the most erratic. Having been drawn from the ranks of the insane, it wasn’t surprising their politeness was lacking. 

Calming down, he tried to remember the management courses he had sat through when still one of the hated living. ‘When trying to deal with unfriendly workers, remember to-’ Ah, yes, that was it. A gout of green blaze engulfed the outspoken flayed one, sending its destroyer body crashing to the grass. ‘Remember to assert your authority first.’ ”[WHO ELSE WISHES TO DOUBT ME? YOU WILL KILL! THAT IS YOUR ROLE! WHAT SAY YOU?!]” 

A half second of silence. Then- “[WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUGGHHHHH!]” 

The Lord only tilted his head, this time. It was kind of catchy the more he heard it. 

As they crested the hill, his jaw dropped. The Monolith was awash with gauss energy, splaying its deadly arcs of lightning everywhere. Quite literally, everywhere – it looked like someone had been modifying it a great deal, a quick count showed at least 12 more Flux arcs on it, as well as – were those infantry-class flayers mounted there? Who’d been tampering with it? 

The Tau, with the loss of their high command, had seemed to lose hope, sending a near-suicidal charge at the Monolith. Thousands of Kroot lay dead already, their bodies stripped of flesh. But the meat had had some effect – smoke came from the black (well, /mostly/ still black, he’d really have to have words with the necron who’d done this) pyramid, pierced by hypervelocity rounds. Still the Tau came, unaware of the danger he brought. 

He crashed into them, taking their lives with wanton lust, tearing through their screaming ranks. His forces followed suit, ripping armor off crisis suits to rend the flesh beneath, beating fire teams to death with their own shielding drones. He laughed as they tried to regroup, walked straight through their (mostly) ineffectual fire. ”The monolith!” cried one T’au. “If we destroy that this will be over!” He made a point of killing that one personally. 

It had been a slaughter from that point onwards. As it had always been. As it should always be. 

Once again, analyzing the statistics he found himself surprised by the after-battle results. Yes, the added gauss flayers and flux arcs were against building regulations. Yes, the new paint job wasn’t authorized. However, results were results. The AI in the building must have been motivated by the effort someone had put into redecorating – it had boosted firing rates and movements almost 300%. And the kill to damage ratio- ! All right, the Lord decided. It wasn’t as if red paint jobs were unheard of. Especially if it was the blood of the once-living. 

“[Immortal! Was it you who oversaw the modifications to the Monolith?]” “[Yer wot, boss?]” The Lord paused as he worked out how to talk to an obviously mind-damaged Necron. “[You put more guns on the pyramid thing, and painted it red, yes?]” “[Ah, wuz me all right. Heheh, fixed it good.]” The immortal seemed pleased with itself, the large metal exoskeleton heaving with enjoyment. “[Tell me, what was the scheme you had in mind when making it?]” “[Uh… we’z made it Or- I mean, we made it ded killy by adding more flash bitz.]” He nodded sagely. More killing – that was indeed the ultimate aim of all Necrons. “[Good. See that all our monoliths are modified like this. And try to fix the repair protocols while you’re at it – I believe I need a few holes patched up, so make it good.]” The immortal nodded enthusiastically. “[Uh, boss? C’n we add spikes?]” “[…Sure, why not?]” 

He awoke again, some time later. It seemed that his head had become much more clearer after that third slumber. And this time, he had resized to become even larger than his last incarnation. Good, good. All the better to kill with. 

Towering over his minions, he stalked out of the monolith portal once more, personal gauss generators glowing green in the dark night. All the sentients on this planet had been purged. Yet his urge for death had still to be satisfied. He summoned his troops once more. 

“[YOU’Z LOT! WE’Z DONE WELL WIZ OUR EFFORTZ SO FAR!]” The Lord paused for a second, checking his speech pattern. Strange. Oh well, the logs showed that Immortal HAD overhauled the repair facilities, and a good manager did learn the lingo of his company. “[BUT WE’Z GOT A LONG WAY TO GO, ROIT?! DERE’Z A LOT MORE STUFF TA CRUMP OUT DERE!]” The fleet had been summoned, the AIs-controlled ships speeding to transport them across the stars. 

“[WE’Z BRING DEFF TO DEM AWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUGH!!!]” 

They followed in his warcry. 

Oh, he’d have some rather interesting ideas to spread at the next Necron board meeting...


----------



## arturslv

Adeptus Orkastes 
[Excerpts from The REAL Life in the Guard: Tales of a Harakoni Warhawk] 

…And we had been bogged down for days after the initial grav-drop, leaving us in the middle of an angry Tyranid force with no resupply, no reinforcements. Regimental command had ordered us to hold our ground, and we all know when they tell you to hold ground, they mean for you to die for the Emperor. 

We were of course willing (and eager, Commissar [CENSORED BY ORDER OF COMMISSARIAT] made sure of that) to shed blood in his name, but it turns out that day most of us didn’t have to. They came without warning, crashing down amongst the xenos scum. Have you ever seen something that reminds you that you’re part of something bigger, something unimaginably big? This was one of those sights, watching the drop-pods burn through the atmosphere. I have fought over a hundred and eighty different worlds, and heard the stories of the Adeptus Astartes, seen for myself the raw ferocity of the Space Wolves, torched Servanus VIII alongside the Salamanders, barely escaped an Exterminatus conducted by the Ultramarines, and even gunned down enemies running in horror when they heard the Grey Knights were coming (They didn't, incidentally). Yet the sight of these Adeptus Astartes, ones that I had never seen or even heard of before, reminds me of how our glorious Imperium is the largest of all that is. 


Those brave men, those pinnacles of humanity did not even bother to activate their retro boosters for their drop-pods, letting the ground – and the enemy’s bodies - halt their descent. Then, leaping into battle, they laid waste to the Tyranids around them. I recall one of them landing nearby, crushing Kay and his precious vox-caster. One of them stepped past me, power armor gleaming in yellow. And he fired, a blaze of death raining upon the Imperium's foes, chanting in the Emperor’s glory. "PURGE, PURGE, PURGE, PURGE!" It was answered by his brothers. "CLEANZ CLEANZ CLEANZ CLEANZ!" "KILL KILL KILL KILL!" Glorious. One tyranid, managing to skip past the torrent of bolter rounds, impaled that warrior with one claw – yet without pause, he simply fired directly into the thing’s face (or groin, I don’t know how filthy xenos breed) until it was blown away. "YA THINK YOUZ CAN TAKE ME?! I'Z GOT ME POWA ARMOUR, I'Z GOT THE BEST BITZ OF HUMIES IN ME GUT!" And he carried on fighting, without stopping His holy work. 


I have not described our saviors yet. Let me take a moment to rectify this – the Space Marine that rescued us were apparently named after their enormous size. And let me say, the Emperor’s Giants were aptly named. Over fifteen feet tall, they stood, nearly matching our sentinel walkers in height. And they outweighed them, too – I had seen one of their massive veteran Terminators carry a hammer the size of a Baneblade engine, and swing it hard enough to send a hive tyrant’s leg flying over the rest of their forces. They must have been a truly ancient chapter – the amount of repairs and patches to the holy power armor was testament to that. The array of forces made me want to praise the Emperor in my codpiece, if you know what I mean. Their strength seemed to be their firepower, holding larger-than-possible weapons, carrying bolters that seemed more fitting on our armored divisions and hand-held flamers that would put Hellhounds to shame. And their vehicles- ! They must have been the latest advanced designs from Mars, newly approved by the techpriests. Such firepower! Such ferocity of shape! They had mounted extra weaponry on their Land Raider, and opened up the top to allow them to fire out of – fearing not their enemies, and wishing to inflict ever more harm – that was their doctrine. Their melee weapons were not to be found wanting, either, giant chainswords that would bisect whole squads nearby, enormous hammers and power fists. The specialized designs gave them extra reach, no doubt, and they were certainly “lots more choppy dan der uz-ual choppaz”. What wise words of wisdom. 


But back to our rescue! Once the Giants had pacified the Tyranids near them, they cheered in the Emperor’s name, a long and heartily felt “FER DE EMPERAAAAAAAAAUGGGGGGHH!” that we all joined in. Then, the same space marine came over to our squad, carnifex claw still hanging out of his chestplate. 

“WHY’Z YOU NOT GOT GOIN’ YET? WE GOTTA WHOLE PLANET ‘TA PURGE!” Commissar [CENSORED BY ORDER OF COMMISSARIAT] was about to speak up when the honorable Astartes interrupted him. “YOU’Z A RED ONE, AIN’TCHA? YOU’Z MOVIN TOO SLOW!” And with that, he crushed the Commissar with one blow of his fist. Not even a power fist, I might add. 

We all cheered. That commissar was almost certainly a heretic, anyway. 

--- 

I heard them celebrating as their main forces went past, chanting more devotions to the emperor. 

"PURGE DA ‘ERETIC!" 

"BURN DA MUTIE!" 

"KILL DA UNCLEAN!" 

"…Nah, ya got it wrong, ya git! It’s BURN da ‘eretic, KILL da mutie, PURGE da unclean!! NOT ‘DAT ‘ARD TO ‘MEMBER, EH?" 

"..PURGE BURN KILL CLEANZ?" 

"Eh, good ‘nuff." 

It was at that point I made one of the largest errors of my career – given a minute to rest in the Emperor’s name, I leaned against one of the Space Marine drop pods. Immediately, I realized something was wrong when the ground shook and a metallic voice rang out – “I’Z WOKEN UUUP! IZ IT FIGHTAN TIME YET?!” I scrambled away from the pod, for even faithful servants are in awe of the wrath of an awoken dreadnought. And this one looked truly wrathful – someone had painted a giant grimacey face on the front, and its yellow paint was rust-encrusted at the sides. Yet its arms had weapons fit for a Titan, and did I mention this thing was massive yet?! It grabbed Jonas and threw him into the air, smashing his body over the column on the way down. 

"EVEN IN DIZ CAN I’Z STILL SERVIN!" 

“Aw, no, which git woke up Grakkar da Big-‘Anded?! We only got ‘im ta sleep da last time after dat’ Elfdar raidin’ party!” 

“TWINS, DEY WUZ!” boomed Grakkar. He rampaged through the column towards a distant firefight. Serving even after being felled, still purging xenos. Truly an honor to the Imperium. 

It was strange, I found, that these soldiers never showed their faces, not even their sergeants, not even in death. I saw one headbutt a Genestealer to submission once, then spin away in a ballet of death to cut down yet another Carnifex. 

“Sarge, we’z got a problem!” One of the marines had come up to the front. “It’z a giant wyrm t’ing!” It indeed was a Trygon, as we learned later on. 

“TA ME, YA GITZ! TA ME, BRUTHERZ!” The sergeant rallied us with his call. 

“D-did you mean us, too, Astartes?” asked Earnst. 

“YOU’Z STANDIN NEXT TA ME? YOU’Z MAH BOYZ, THEN! WAAAAAAAAAUUUGGHH!” What could we not do with such comradeship as that? We took up our arms and fought as we had never fought before. 


Over eight hundred of the Warhawks died that day, but we did our part – our light infantry holding back the tide of bugs while the Astartes took down the Trygon with only their infantry – several battle brothers fell before it before Grakkar threw the sergeant at it, who flew straight and true into its mouth. It took a very short time to cut its head in two with his chainsword from the inside, and with the death of the big one the Tyranids fell as the Uplifting Primer said they would. With his other hand, the sergeant ripped the massive teeth of the bio-titan out, and held them up for all to see. 

“AN OPEN MIND IZ LIKE A FORTREZ – CUZ WE SMASHED IT!” 

We cheered. 


The Emperor’s Giants departed a week later, after cleansing the eastern continent with holy fire from above. I never saw them again, but whenever I put on my carapace armor and feel the scars from the acid burns, I remember them. Remember those giants among men. 

--- 

[DIZ TEXT CENSURED BY DA AUTH’ITY O’ DA ORDO ‘ERETICUS AND ORDO MALLYUS – INQUIZITOR **************]


----------



## arturslv

Some Tiny Hammer as well.


----------



## arturslv

Not mine, found them on 'net.

So my Tech-priests got out of their box and to my computer again last night. I found them in the morning, a dozen Techmarines and Enginseers and their Servitors jumping up and down on the keyboard and using a Dreadnought to operate the mouse. 

We had to speak at length about Wikipedia. They were convinced that nothing told to them by the Great Machine could be so fallacious. Oh, and they got into my porn file and demanded to know why there was so much information on human procreation when schematics could be kept in the same space. 

Also, I've finally had it and will be taking my Dark Eldar to the sex shop. Again. The first time I was kinda drunk and they insisted (they had been begging for days and threatening to order more pay-per-view). It's not like I've got some moral opposition, but, jeez, ever see an inch-and-a-half tall Wych trying to operate a thirteen inch-long vibrating dildo? It's...disturbing. 

Oh, and they're ALL fighting over control of the TV. Literally. The Tau only want Discovery Channel, the Space Marines and Sisters want the religious networks, the Orks want Spike on, and the Eldar all want me to put on Lifetime. Except for Eldrad, who I haven't seen in days, but made a collect call and just said "Channel 4, Tuesday news at noon." I'm a little afraid to turn it on. 

Doomrider found my stash. Which was just weed and two hits of acid. But given his current size and the fact that he smoked all of it and rolled around on the LSD he's driving up the wall. Literally. 

Also, Privateer Press just made their big press release. It was simply "Well, fuck." I think the wargames industry might take a bigger hit. 

For some reason the Tyranids have been watching Nickelodeon. I can't even begin to explain why. We've set up a sort of truce around the TV. Everyone gets one hour except when I want to watch something. Then the Orks inform everyone else "DAT GORK WANTS TA WATCH 'IZ UMIE SHOWS." Which would be less weird if I didn't watch so much election coverage. The Imperium is having a hard time understanding why we aren't purging the heresy of those trying to usurp our planetary governorship. 

One of my friends brought over his Rogue Trader today. Which would have been okay, seeing his ship was pretty cool (it was about as big as my car) but the rat bastard tried to sell me my own tree. I have a single tree in my front yard and I had to pay fifty bucks to buy it back from him. Damn. 

I'm trying not to be too loud while I type this. The Necrons are sleeping. I had to bathe the Nurglings today. The stench was just too much. God, it was horrible. Most of them came apart in the sink. I...I don't want to think about that anymore. 

Apparently an Eversor got into my book bag. In the middle of a U.S. Foreign Policy lecture he made this very clear. I'm sure everyone's had a cell phone go off in class? Sucks right, even if the professor's cool, you still feel like a douche. Ever have a tiny, clawed lunatic scream "WRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY" and run across the desk shredding everyone's notes? 

But the Eldar have predicted next week's lotto results. Which would be great, but Eldrad insisted that I shouldn't get a ticket with numbers but instead ask for "L-O-L-D-O-N-G". And I'm pretty sure there are no letters in the lotto balls. 

I need to be careful with my weedwhacker now. Before it was just rocks, dog turds, and the occasional bees' nest. Now it's Catachans, Kroot, Tyranids, and Orks that don't like it indoors. You don't know what a bug bite is until you've been peppered with fleshborers. 

The Orks caught a garter snake, then let it go when they found out it wasn't venomous. I thought they were going to eat it...then the Kroot and Catachans caught it and ate it...raw. It wouldn't have been disturbing if it was just the Kroot (or the 'nids), but the Catachans had their snake sashimi-style, too. I'm going to pick up some vinegar so they can at least cure the meat first. I wish my cat hadn't killed all the shrews. One of those would go through EVERYTHING living in my yard in a couple of days, I'd bet. 

Speaking of my cat, Jones, he's been acting strangely...


----------



## arturslv

I rubbed my hand over my face and put my feet down on the floor, only to feel something go squish under them. That's not the way that a person wants to wake up. Glancing at the underside of my foot, I quickly decided that not only was it impossible to figure what I'd just killed, but I wasn't entirely sure that I wanted to know. Maybe later. Maybe once I'd gotten human again. 

Of course, since these things all ended up at my house, it's been a little more difficult to do that than ever. I positively glowered at the shower. "Hey! You little fucks! What the hell have I told you about screwing on the soap!" I don't know what they are, and I don't care. I don't want alien jizz on my soap, no matter how little the creature is. 

I marched back out and began the hunt. I don't know what they're called (my friend, Dave, he knows and has told me a hundred times, but it keeps slipping my mind) but those little guys in armor, with the swords and all the whack about some sort of god-ruler thingy? I found a bunch of them on the kitchen table. Despite their protests and their curses, I snatched all four of them up and carried them back in with me. 

"Permission granted to kill these two xenos." I didn't have to say it twice. We had an agreement - they thought they'd gone through some sort of time/space wormhole, shrinking them and sending them back in time. They were putting up with me only until their god guy came into power or something, but until then, I was in charge. Whatever. Either way, they literally leaped out of my hand and went to town. I looked away. Nobody wants to watch that. 

Just as much as somebody wants to watch an inch tall figure stroll past the doorway, dragging a much larger rat behind it. It was yelling something about a blood god. A different god, I'd learned. But it was streaking blood all across the carpet. Good pest control, those guys. Hell on the cleaning bill, though. 

Fuck coffee. I don't even want to think about what those one things did to the kitchen while I was sleeping. Probably ate everything. AGAIN. Good on garbage disposal, but... 

Computer. Play some Team Fortress or something. Blow some steam before I start dumping these guys in the garbage disposal again. Wiping off the last of the grunge off my feet, I tossed the tissue to one of those red praying-mantis-looking thingies to eat before reaching to turn on my computer. Only to find that the guys with the hard-on for tech had it open again. 

"What are you doing?" I asked in a harsher voice than intended. 

One stepped forward. "The holy electron flow-" 

Fuck. I knew where this was going. I cut him off quickly. "Like you'd tell one of the other guys." 

He seemed disappointed. Screw him. "We are...upgrading your RAM?" 

I closed my eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and looked back up. I don't know how they got up there, but the white-haired chicks were dragging me a cup of coffee. They're nice. Religious nutbags who I'm always being careful what I say around, but nice. I was completely distracted until one of the green guys poked my arm. 

"Me an' da boyz wanna ride again, boz." 

"Later," I grumbled softly. They loved riding in my car, but had spent the last two days painting it red. To make it go faster. Their version of logic made my head hurt, but them and those freaky armored dudes love riding with me, even more so when I turn the music all the way up. 

It was at this point in time that I felt something in my sweatpants. I've gotten used to this enough that I virtually ripped them off. There was one of the blue things, with one normal arm and one that's kinda like a blade, and she was...you know...trying to go at my junk. 

And that's when I started screaming, officer... 


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's been a couple of weeks since the cops came over me freaking out. Things have...calmed down a bit. Not with them, mind you. They're just as freaky as ever. Just...I've adjusted more. 

We've kind of fallen into a routine. I get home from work, and the noseless guys instantly let me have the TV in the living room. They're pretty easy to keep happy. Anime, Zone of Enders, and the sequel on the PS2, and just let them do their thing. They're fairly harmless when left to themselves, and they're really accommodating of me. When I get angry at everybody else, they try and calm me down. I'm starting to adopt them as my favorites. 

The white-haired chicks, they cook me dinner. Hand-cook me dinner. Seriously, they've got these flamer things, and...I don't know, to be honest. They seem so militant and pious at times, but at the same time they're kinda nice to me. They've almost gotten to the point where they can cook a steak that isn't well done, too. 

After I watch an episode or two of the old Batman animated series (the good one), I'm always surprised to find the little human-like dudes sitting next to me and the noseless aliens. Not the humans with bulky armor and swords, but the trooper dudes. Their boss-guys mutter under their breath about heresy, but let them get away with it for the most part, so long as they don't start talking with the noseless ones. 

Anyway, after dinner and the Batman episode, I put the green guys and some of the humans in the car, along with some of their equipment, and we head to the park for a bit. To the green guys (Orks, I guess) it's a trip, because we seem to be going so fast to them. The militant dudes, they're just looking forwards to practice. I have a "no-fly zone" rule in the house, so this gets them off my back about maneuvers and training and shit. I just hold a complex plane remote I picked up and tell people that I'm playing with models. 

When we get back, though, I always go hunting for the metal skeleton dudes. At first, they used to attack me, but lately we've come to a truce. Ever since I bought that electromagnet, that is. The noseless guys handled the negotiations for me releasing them. Best $300 I've ever spent, let me tell you. 

Before I made that investment, though, the Orks used to defend me. When they all showed up, there were the most of them and they all attacked me. I killed only about a few thousand of them while screaming bloody murder. As time's gone on, they've started calling me "boss" more and more. They, uh, got a hold of one of my videos of me at the shooting range and were in awe. Over what, I'm not sure, but they just went on about "big dacker" or something for ages. It can be hard to figure out what they're talking about. 

Some of the pointy-eared ones are jerks, kinda thoughtless hedonists in a way, but others are kinda cool. The Elders, I guess that's what they call themselves, they aren't that bad. When I do laundry, they get their big thing to help me fold clothes. I don't fully understand it, but...yeah. Kinda strange, more than a little creepy, but I'm not going to turn down free help. 

I had to commit a little bit of genocide, and I kinda feel sorry about that at times, but...those little fuckers were dripping and disgusting. Their armor...well...somebody's doing something with it. I don't know. I'm kind of scared to ask. 

Sometimes, though, I gotta admit, everything gets me down a little bit. I've really come to look forward to the big brick dudes. They're normally in these coffin thingies, but they've been letting them out now and then here lately. When one notices that I'm down, he comes to talk to me. I think everybody else is kind of afraid to. They can handle me being angry, happy, whatever, but when I'm sad, I guess I'm a little unpredictable to them. The metal brick dudes, though, they aren't scared, and they understand more than I give them credit for. 

Apparently, the little uber-hedonists have been, uh, "attacking" me while I'm asleep. Dave, he tells me that there's some kind internet fetish about tiny creatures and keeps saying that we could make a mint. Yeah, I have rules against showing my wang on the Internet, and secondly, just because some people have that fetish doesn't mean that I do. Besides, I kinda want a real woman one of these days. 

Now that I look at my bedroom, with all these things around, I'm starting to realize that until this situation is fixed, I'm not going to be bringing a girl home. 


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They all collected up in my bedroom easily enough. Even the necro-thingies showed up, which I kind of wasn't expecting. Some of them were armed. Maybe they all thought that I was going to try and kill them or something. Sure, all that they'd caused were some little cuts and minor punctures so far, but enough bee stings can kill a person, right? 

I pulled my flatscreen out and called up the website, making them watch the teasers. One for each race, both showing them owning somebody, and showing them getting owned. Some reacted with pride, other anger, some longing, but I was surprised by the amount of indifference that was before me. I already knew these guys were basically soldiers, but for them to be this cold kinda took the wind out of my sails a little bit. But I'd already promised myself... 

"You all see this? This isn't just you guys fighting, or maybe you didn't notice that there were people, people like me, in the background. I'm not good at this speech shit, so I'll just cut to the chase. You!" I pointed at the humans. "You're all just hanging around, waiting for your God-Emperor person dealie to show up and lead humanity. So he can return you to your normal state and all that." 

"You!" I pointed at the other mostly-human guys, who were huddled up with the other things. "You've got your own pantheon thing going on. Hell, all of you have your reasons to fight, or to stay here, right?" A murmur of consent from the huddled masses. "Yeah, how do you like being made playthings, huh? How do you like somebody to try and act like a god over you?" 

That got a murmur through them. Good. I was pressing buttons. I pointed to the ones with pointy ears, but they beat me to the punch. "We would not stand by such aggression against our people." 

A warrior (Warrioress? I could barely hear them yelling at me, let alone make out their genders) of the noseless guys called out. "We would support a rescue mission, if that is what you are implying." 

The one guy, Magus, I think his name was, stepped forward from the bug guys. "What did you have in mind?" 

"WAAAAAAAAAAGH!" screamed the Orks, as if they were answering the question. I glanced to the metal skeletons. They hadn't left yet, but otherwise gave no reply. Good enough for me. 

"Close enough. I say we spring them. Bust them loose. Uh...free them from their imprisonment. And stuff. But I think that it's only right if you guys do it." I could feel the look that everybody seemed to be giving me. "Sure, I suppose that I could do it, I guess..." Me? Ha! Yeah, right. "But you guys sort of have the right. After all, it's somebody enslaving your people, so I figure that a little payback is in order, don't you?" 

A righteous cheer rang out, giving me a grim smile. "Alright then! Everybody out. We've got a week before the next match, and I'll need lists of everything that you need to get ready. I need a little time to prepare myself."


----------



## arturslv

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I closed my door behind them and flopped on my bed, closing my eyes tight. In a way, that was the easy part. It had just been yapping. Now I actually had to deal with the consequences of getting them riled up. 

"YOU DID WELL, YOUNG ONE." 

I jerked my head up, only to find one of the block guys standing next to me. The "in death I serve" ones. Another reason why I liked talking with them, they had volume control. I could hear them without straining. A weak smile found its way to my face. "I have no fucking clue what I'm doing." 

"I WOULD NOT EXPECT ANYTHING LESS FROM YOU," he said, putting one of his clawed "arms" on my hand. "YOU WOULD NEVER MAKE IT AS A MARINE, BUT YOU WOULD HAVE MADE A GOOD GUARDSMAN. YOU KNEW HOW TO INSPIRE." 

Sure. Right. I'd call it bluffing and letting the anger do the talking, myself. But I didn't want to listen to him blather on like that. Time for a topic change. "Can I ask you a question? Like, privately, it goes no further than us?" 

"MY BROTHERS ARE GUARDING THE DOOR. NONE WILL DISTURB US, NONE WILL KNOW OF WHAT WE SPEAK." A pause. "THEY ARE...ENSURING THAT YOU HAVE TIME TO PREPARE YOURSELF." I could hear the humor in his tone. 

I sucked in a deep breath. "You guys, you believe in your God-Emperor dude, and from what I've gathered, you don't tolerate heresy. Like, at all. So, um...why...why haven't you attacked me? Or the rest of us? Aren't we, you know, heretics?" 

He laughed at that. At least, I assume it was a laugh. It's hard to tell, him being a metal brick with a synth voice and all. "WE HAD MANY DEBATES ON THIS. HOWEVER, IT WAS DECIDED THAT HUMANITY HAS NOT YET BEEN ENLIGHTENED BY THE GOD-EMPEROR OF MANKIND. AS THE EMPEROR HAS YET TO ENLIGHTEN YOU TO HIS GLORY, YOU ARE NOT YET A HERETIC." 

"So, if I don't follow him when he reveals himself, then I'm a heretic and worthy of death?" 

"CORRECT." Well, that was comforting. "WE TOLERATE THE XENOS ONLY FOR NOW. WE WILL WATCH THEM UNTIL THE EMPEROR RETURNS, AND THEN DESTROY THEM IN HIS HONOR." He paused for a moment. "MAY I ASK YOU A QUESTION, YOUNG ONE?" 

"Of course, grandpa." I had to get my rub in for him calling me young all the time. 

"YOUR FRIEND, DAVID. HE IS AN UNUSUAL HUMAN." That's an understatement. "TELL ME, WHY DOES HE KEEP ASKING ME TO SAY THAT I AM 'IN IT FOR THE BITCHES'?" 

I had to laugh, if only because I didn't know the answer myself. 

--- 

The next week was...kind of intense, to be honest with you. I'll paraphrase, because the details were kind of boring. I've always kept a spare credit card in my fireproof safe, in case of emergency. Needless to say, for this I pulled it out. 

Don't get me wrong! I'm not saying that I like all those guys, but some of them are...kinda cool in a way. They're like actual people, you know? Only...smaller. (I can't believe I just thought that. Maybe I AM going nuts...) Besides, how often do you get to see something like this, you know? How often do you get to say that you got to outfit not just one army, but a whole slew of them? 

That said, it wasn't easy. I had to keep telling people, no, there's no such thing as "promethium" or bolter rounds. And a lot of the stuff that the Eldar guys and the Tech-priests asked for was well beyond my ability to comprehend, even when they kept dumbing it down for me. The Tau guys, they seemed to understand that I had limits to what I could do and asked for simple enough stuff. It took me a bit to figure out what the Orks wanted, too. At first, I thought that they were making a lousy Arnie impression and asking for a helicopter. Once I figured out what "dakkah" and "choppah" were, though, it got real easy, real fast. 

Pretty much, my days fell into the following rituals. 

Wake up. Free my junk from the little "one arm is a blade" chicks. Get the hedonistic Eldar people out of my bathroom. Shower. Enjoy a meal that the battle sisters and the slash folks cooked for me (two breakfasts, but I don't dare tell the sisters that they can't cook eggs worth shit). Take a peek at what the Orks built overnight. Watch as the humans struggle to improvise, something they don't appear to be the greatest at. They're better than the Eldar people, though. 

Go to work. Call home during my lunch break, talk to everybody on the speakerphone, get a list of what they all need today. Get off work after getting chewed out by my boss that I'm not paying attention as well as I should. Hit up the hardware store, the toy store, a few places where I can buy chemicals, sometimes cloth, sometimes paper...I'd hit up friends for fireworks, empty coffee cans or tins...whatever. I always concluded my shopping run with a trip to a different pet store. Fish, spiders, scorpions, whatever I could get my hands on. The bug guys demanded it. 

When I got home, I'd divvy everything up to everybody. Race cars, sheet metal, nails (tons of those), screws, piping, what have you. Something for everybody. 

If I could get a handle on what was going on, I'd lend a helping hand. Usually, it ended up with me helping the Orks, which thrilled them to no small end. They liked it when their "boss" helped them. Apparently, I killed their former boss during the initial attack right off the bat. With a book. I don't know why, but I'd always hum the theme to The A-Team. After that, I'd enjoy another double-meal while discussing strategy, but by the end I was always feeling pretty exhausted. I'd lumber up to bed and just flop down, hoping I didn't squish anybody. 

The only reason why I didn't kill the pervert chicks in the morning arose here. They'd start to massage me, which wasn't easy, you know? Eventually, some of the dark elder people would join in. I think that the humans thought the others were trying to corrupt me, so they'd join the act, too, singing hymns at the same time. It's...surprisingly easy to fall asleep to that kind of treatment. And then I'd wake up and start it again... 

At least, that's generalizing it all. There was plenty of variation in-between, but that's the basic idea. I'd also do stuff like scout the place where the "deathmatch" was going to take place, look into renting a truck, that sort of thing. A lot of time was spent praying that I wouldn't get arrested by the cops following my paper trail. 

Frankly, I don't think I could have managed it without Caleb, the "dead" guy in the metal walking brick. He was good about encouragement, and helping me sort through strategy. He'd fought enough "xenos" in his days to know how they operated, so he was able to give me some insights. Though some of his plans really...well, they were kind of dumb. That's where the Tau came in. Did I mention that they always wanted to help? Almost creepy in a way, to be honest. But by the time that the day had arrived, we were as ready as we could be. 


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I parked the truck and gently put on my backpack. According to my watch, I had ten minutes before the show started. Good enough for me. I made a show of locking the truck, too. Thanks to the economy, everything's been shutting down, so most of the places in this neighborhood had closed shop. This particular warehouse had been used once upon a time for those robot wars things, so it even had seating, or so I heard. (I preferred the one hosted by Lister, used to watch it on cable. Paying extra for a foreign channel was worth it.) 

The guy at the door eyed me as I held out the $50. "Show's about to start." He paused. "What's with the backpack?" 

I reached inside and pulled out a Marine to show to him, holding it by its base. "Just want to compare them to mine. See where I fucked up, see what I got right. No cameras or nothin'! I read the rules, and I want to come back." 

He seemed to debate this for a moment, then shrugged and let me through. After a moment, guilt hit me. "I didn't hurt you, did I?" 

The little guy seemed indignant, about to rip his boots free from where I'd superglued them. "It takes more than that to hurt-" 

"Right, shh." I slid him back into the bag and milled about for a few moments. Finally, I set the backpack down and moved for a seat. Too far away to see anything, but it was better that way. From where I'd ditched my backpack, I could see Marines, Caleb, some Tau, and others making their way out. Right. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," boomed the voice on the PA. Where did they get the power for that, since they didn't own the building? "Are you ready for the show to begin?" 

He had no idea. 

I wasn't paying attention to the speech in the slightest. Usual pump up the crowd bullshit that you hear at pep rallies. I left those behind when I graduated high school. No, my eyes were glued to my watch. I was close enough to hear the soft cry of the guy at the door, two seconds late. Fortunately, I seemed to be the only one who did. I prayed...fuck, I don't know who I was praying to. God? The Emperor? Slaanesh or whatever? Mork (and Mindy)? I don't know, but I just wanted to have everything go off without a hitch. 

The part of my brain that was paying attention to my surroundings told me that people were moving closer to the "arena". Meanwhile, I was counting down. My fist came to my teeth, and my heart felt like it was going to explode. Motion at the door, near the floor. Close enough. Now all that they were waiting for was... 

The crash of glass announced their arrival. It wasn't just one window pane from above our heads that shattered, it was all of them. Instantly, I began to relax. Now my role was getting easy. Wait until the chaos, go grab the people and put them in the backpack, and scramble back outside, hoping nobody got me by mistake. 

Which, considering that there were suddenly nails shooting all over the place, airplanes carpet bombing small pipe bombs and spraying homemade napalm, and then their own "heavy" weapons...That prospect wasn't looking so hot. 

I wasn't going to get involved. I kept telling myself this. In the bloodbath going on around me, with the people screaming and falling over and catching on fire, I'm a noncombatant. I was like a medic, right? As I pushed through the crowd, the people running towards the deathtrap that was the door acting as living cover for me, I tried to convince myself of this. That I was the good guy, and that I wasn't responsible for anything if I didn't actually hurt anybody. 

That all changed when I saw Caleb get kicked. I don't mean, bumped over, I mean as he was drilling rounds into somebody else, a guy up and kicked him right into a Tau in power armor, sending them both crashing into a wall. The little blue guy was bleeding, I could see that much on the wall, but all other details were lost to me. I couldn't tell if he was hurt, scratched, or splatted. And I couldn't even begin to guess at the fate of Caleb. My Dreadnought friend. 

My Dreadnought. 

My friend. 

My friends. 

I saw myself grabbing the fucker. Whirling him around. My fist connecting with his face. Again and again and again, until he wasn't fighting any more. I turned, looking back at the "arena", separated from it by a stripe of fire. I couldn't hear the battle cry of the Orks, or the screaming of the people. There was the fucker in charge. I couldn't hear the humans scream to purge the unclean, the guys with the guitars playing their ear shattering music, the distinctive sounds of the Eldar or Necron weapons. He was just standing there, watching everything. Terrified. I bellowed. I hollered. And I charged...


----------



## arturslv

I winced as the bone in my hand shifted...okay, I lied. I grabbed my bedsheet with my other hand and grit my teeth until I thought they were going to break. The Dread' had no sense of compassion right now, it just kept on setting bones. It wasn't Caleb, either. Rengar something-or-another. Caleb wouldn't be done with repairs for some time still. I was told that he would...survive. 

I kinda wished I hadn't now. If a Dreadnought ever offers to tend your wounds, don't take him up on the offer. 

When you listen to them talk, everybody tells a slightly different story about what happened. Some Orks say that I yelled "Here we go, here we go, here we go!!" as I began to assault every full-sized human who wasn't otherwise being slaughtered. Other Orks say I yelled "Waagh," or however you spell their warcry. A Tau, in order to stop the fighting, suggested that both camps might be right. Seemed to work for the time being. 

The humans were a mixed back. The Imperial guys thought I cried out to purge them all in the Emperor's name, only in less words. Meanwhile, somebody from the Chaos side said I swore an oath to the Blood God. We...lost a lot of people over that. At least the Elder and the Tau agree on what I yelled. "Finish it." Somehow, I think that everybody might be right, and wrong at the same time. 

That was...a month ago or so. Yeah, I got questioned by the cops, but when I eagerly showed them my "kickass modded remote control car collection," they seem to have dropped me as a suspect. Haven't even called into work about if I went in that day or not. Which work would look at my time card and say that I clocked out right on time. When the IT guy knows the passwords to change the time cards and knows how to cover his tracks... 

"YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE PUNCHED THE WALL." 

"It was either that or kill the motherfucker." A demonette cooed into my ear. I wasn't sure if she was comforting me or encouraging me. 

"DON'T DO IT AGAIN OR YOU WILL BREAK THINGS FOR THE THIRD TIME." A pause as he began to put the splints on again. "ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?" 

"Yeah. Just so utterly aware of the fact that I'm alive thanks to that bastard." Rengar seemed amused by that answer. You learn to tell these things. 

Dave. The bastard. I'd just tried to call him for the first time since things went down. He wigged. Needless to say, our friendship is probably over. Maybe he'll get over it in a month or two. Still, I can help but feel like he's a waste now. I did what was necessary. I did the right thing. And now he's...he said I'm not the same, and he's right. But he's the one who couldn't rescue them himself, so fuck him. I was tempted to let some of the more...disturbed Sla-whatever-I-give-up-on-this-stupid-name people have their way with him. 

...But by the way that the sisters were eying me, I knew I wouldn't. 

I had to be careful with them, now. Especially since the demonettes have been earning me extra money. They've been, uh, using household items for their own amusement, shall we say. I can see how it might be arousing, but since they started filming it with my webcam, I kinda figured why not make some extra money? Throw a filter or two on it, sell them online as CGI. Not a lot of money, but enough that I'm considering moving. Bigger house, with more bedrooms. One for each faction. That should take the arguments down a notch. 

Except for the ones about my soul. Whatever. 

Though, I had found the notes of a guy online. Another guy who had more of these people. I gotta admit, I've been considering trying to get a hold of him. You never know, right? 

...Right?


----------



## arturslv

It was 7 AM, Saturday, so why was I awake? I had nothing to do that day, and I had been up not four hours ago, I should be asleep right now. And what the hell is that tapping on my arm? 

Wait a sec, what? 

I opened my eyes, trying to find the source. Darting from one spot to another, my eyes saw nothing around me. I was in my room, TV was on low, I think some talk show was on, and the computer was on, showing some Wikipedia article on tanks. 

"Wait a moment, I wasn't looking at that last night..!" The tapping continued, feeling more and more like a poke through the sweater I had fallen asleep in. I jumped out of bed, and that's when I saw it. 

It was an alien-looking insect..type...thing. Hell if I knew, I just knew that it was alive, on me, and trying to stab me in my sleep. Almost instinctively, I grabbed a book off of my desk and as I was about to slam downwards, I heard what seemed to be warcries, and the bug was torn to bits by...laser pointers? It was splattering ichor all over my carpet, but I'd have to deal with it later. I heard one of the voices shout "Now! Basilisks, fire at the giant! FOR THE EMPEROR!" 

I heard the word "fire", and jumped back onto the bed, my face going into the pillow. Just in time, it seemed, as the next moment I heard the thump of something hard hitting the wall. I kind of didn't want to get up... 

"You missed! Ready another salvo! Guardsmen, March forward!" 

Goddamnit, today was going to be a long day, I could tell. I raised my head, and glanced at the wall. Slightly dented, quite blackened. Whatever a basilisk was, it must fire something akin to artillery rounds. 

O got up, and rolled off of my bed, to the side the...whatever the hell they were weren't firing from. I heard a splat, and it felt like I had rolled onto a small rock. I looked up, and saw a bunch of green-skinned, gorilla looking humanoids stepping back, looking terrified. 

"Oy! Da big 'umie dun squashed Da Boss!" One of the bigger ones had noticed a few seconds after the others, and jumped backward. I looked under me, and saw a larger greenskin, crushed. He kept mumbling something, I wasn't paying attention to him. I rolled over to my (somehow now open) door, and stood up, brushing the squashed greenskins off of me. I was pissed, being woken up like this. So naturally, I yelled. 

"Alright, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE!?" everything stopped, that I could see. The greenskins following me looked up, almost frozen, and the small soldiers, probably the "Guard" that had taken out that bug-thing stopped and turned around. I saw what looked like miniature tanks turn stop, their crews climbing out to get a better look. Some things with Cone-shaped heads peeked out at me from the top of my shelves, from around the scaled robots I collect. I continued. 

"Well?! And dammit, everyone here, front and center! Now, before I start breaking things!" To emphasize things, I grabbed the baseball bat I had by the door, smacking it against my palm. It helped to wake me up. 

Oddly enough, the things started to follow my orders. Tanks, greenskins, soldiers, and a hell of a lot of stuff I'd not seen yet. Box shaped armored troopers and...robots? Small things with huge shoulder armor, things that looked like the heavy-shoulders but in multicolor? I looked up, and the Cone-heads peeked out as well. A few of the bugs looked up, coming from behind my dresser. 

God DAMN, this was going to be a long day. 

There was an air of relative silence, like I said before. But it wasn't enough. I wanted answers, and dammit, I wanted them now. I scanned the Guardsmen, and found the one with the most impressive looking hat. That signifies a higher rank in most fiction, I hoped it would work here as well. I reached down, picked up the guy, and put him in my hand. I grabbed one of the Blue Big-Shoulders, one with the Egyptian-looking helmet, and one of the blocky robot suits as well. As they rose up, I heard the hat-man mutter something about heretics and "filthy xenos scum". I raised my hand up near my face, and spoke. 

"You three look like you know something. Start talking fast, or so help me I will show you what happens when a baseball bat hits a tiny thing falling from high up." My grip on the bat tightened, I wasn't bluffing. The hat-man cowered, and the robot started waving it's arms around. The Big-Shoulder put a hand on his helmet, and...spoke, I guess? It sounded like a faraway echo. 

"Ah yes....Blake, is it? We've been waiting to speak with you. What is it exactly that you wish to know...?" 

The thing knew my name. How the HELL did it know my name, and why was it so goddamn calm!? 

"Okay, first things first. Who are you guys, and how do you know my name?" I looked at the three, then glanced at the things on the floor, and on top of the shelves. The Coneheads were fighting spikier versions of themselves, and it looked like the Guardsmen and the Orks had started fighting. I held up the bat, and hit one of the tanks. It crumpled. That got the fighting to stop, for the moment. 

I turned back to the three in my hand, and the big-shoulder spoke just as calmly as before. 

"We are many different things. I myself am a Chaos Space Marine, one of the Thousand Suns who worship the great Tzeentch. My name is Erial, and it's quite nice to meet you. The coward to my right is a Commisar of the Imperial Guard, whom I plan on killing soon. The worried creature to my left is not a robot, but a Tau Battlesuit Pilot. Congratulations on picking up the leader of that squad, how did you know the leader would have red on it?" This Erial guy was too calm for my tastes. But, he was giving me answers, and that was good enough. Somehow sensing what I was about to say, he continued. 

"I know who you are because I am a psyker - a psychic, if you will. I have passed on this knowledge to my allies, but I'm positive the Eldar and Dark Eldar on your shelf have done the same. The Dark Eldar are the spiky ones, by the way." 

Great, now I find out that they're psychics. 

"Okay, now how about where you came from, and what you're doing here?" More fighting in the crowd. This time, I brought the bat down in a group of greenskins-no, "Orks", as Erial told me. Wait, was that just- Yes, that was just telepathy. Erial is talking to me in my head. Goddamn. Regardless, the Orks scattered, and the fighting stopped once more. 

It appeared that seeing a bunch of Orks get squashed was enough to get the Commisar talking again, and he straightened his hat. 

"I'll talk now, if you will. We, are from many planets. In the 41st millennium, there is much war between our factions, but somehow, all of us ended up on one planet. We found each other, and began a battle the likes of which we had never seen." Erial told me via telepathy that this battle consisted mainly of the Tyranids-the bugs, eating things and Guardsmen being killed. The Commisar continued. 

"It seems that the massive number of psykers using their powers at once tore a hole in the Warp, casting us to this world, and if I'm correct, made us very tiny. We ended up here, no idea why." 

"So you're all a bunch of space soldiers turned tiny and teleported here via massive amounts of magic. Grand." I set the three down, and hit the floor with my bat. That got their attention pretty quickly. 

"Alright, all of you listen! You're here in my house, so you're going to follow my rules, or get hit by a bigger bat. My rules are simple. First, STOP FIGHTING. Second, get OUT of my room - that means you too, Eldar and whoever's messing with my computer! Third, the Largest and Second Largest rooms in the house are neutral zones, nobody is to set up camp there. Fourth, follow any future rules I make. Any questions?" An Ork spoke up, it looked like the one I squashed earlier. 

"Yea! Who does you think you are, ya damn grot!? I'z da Boss, I'z the biggest!" I wasn't going to have this shit. Not now. Not today. I picked the Ork up, and brought him close to my face. I screamed. 

"I'M THE BOSS, SINCE I'M SO BIGGEST I SHIT OUT ROBOTS." I pointed the bat to the shelves. They were scale models, yes, but hell if they weren't massive compared to him. The Ork was blown back, but I caught him and set him down gently. He looked up at me, terrified. 

"N-No! I'z da B-boss, ya damn 'umie! You'z not nearly as O-orky as I is!" I paused. Here was the Ork Leader, yelling at me, trying to assert his dominance over me, in my own house. 

I brought down the bat directly on top of him. The crunch he made was...satisfying. "Well? Anyone else want to say anything?" 

All the troops dashed out of my room. Some flew, some rode tanks and bikes, some of the Orks jumped on other factions vehicles to get faster rides out. 

I closed the door and locked it once they all left, and got in bed. It was going to be a long day, but I was going to need some sleep first.


----------



## arturslv

"Alright, see ya 'round, Michael."

"Yeah. Tomorrow, then. Later, Vincent."

Trudging up the path to my house, I looked up at it. It wasn't a large house, but it wasn't small either.

Four bedrooms, two bathrooms on each of the two floors, a lounge, kitchen... you know, the stock standard thing for a growing family, except that I was in here alone. My grandfather had left me this house to piss off his sons, seeing as they were all married and sucking up to him so they could get the place. And... my father had left marks on me. Grandad was one hell of a guy if you pissed him off.

So, when he died his Will was one hell of a surprise: I was shipped in as the caretaker of his estate, and I had lived here with what few cousins I had going through the local colleges, but otherwise I was simply going to ply my trade as an aspiring artist. Right now, I was keeping the place down for when my baby sis would come along for her stint in college, so it wasn't a bad deal.

Unlocking the door, I opened it as a marble-sized, bright blue sun arced across the living room, instantly vaporizing a CD wide section of the carpet. Chattering gunfire, self-righteous shouts, litanies of hate and cries for medics filled the room.

What. The. Hell.

I recognized the small, table-top miniature sized figures were running around; some fighting in brutal hand-to-hand combat while others stayed at a distance in exchanged of brutal volley-after-volley barrages that more than damaged the furniture around the house. They all belonged to a game... Warhammer 40k, if I recall correctly. Good thing I had given most of the older stuff to aunt Linda, then.

My mind was going overdrive in shock, I found myself entranced, watching the battlefield as something settled into my stomach. I had played Dawn of War before. I had also tried (badly) at getting a hang of the tabletop games. Occasionally, I did a few sketches for friends who were fans. The little figures around me were from one of the most violent universes imaginable, and that universe had just deposited their most brutal warriors into my living room.

My knees buckled and I had to lean against a wall as Assault Space Marines traded blows with Eldar Banshees, Tau Fire Warriors sniped Imperial Guardsmen (which were occupying the doorway into the kitchen/hallway area, the closest force to me), and... an Inquisitor strangling his Vox-operator. A bright maelstrom of glowing skulls drew my attention to the Sisters of Battle, Grey Knights and other Inquisitional forces that were locked in combat with the other colorful Eldar and Tau forces around the couches.

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN HERE!"

Everyone stopped as the booming voice above them demanded explanation.

Several heads turned, seeing me for the first time.

Okay, I'm not quite that much of a person in real life; blond hair that was rather long at the back, tied into a ponytail at times. I have blue eyes, which were right now more worried than angry, as well as some rather plain, mostly second-hand clothes.

If I bumped into you on the street, you're most likely to forget me in about two minutes.

These guys, however, looked like they needed sunglasses. Like I was some sparkling freak as I stepped in with the bright sun behind me. A few fell to their knees as they looked up in awe or confusion

But then again, I was about the size of the Empire State building when you thought about scale, so yeah.

The Inquisitor stopped strangling the poor vox-operator, and began to shout at the nearby tank - I recognized it as from one of the few factions of the game that I was familiar with: The Imperial Guard. This shoe-sized vehicle was perfectly identical to one of the tanks that my Warhammer 40k fan of a friend Vincent had shown me: A Leman Russ battle tank, the steroid enhanced T-34 of the 41st Millenium. It swung its massive cannon around to shoot at my knee. I panicked, and fell back to Isaac's – an old friend of mine, irrelevant to the story – usual lectures about idiotic things to try; such as shoving an umbrella into a gun to stop it from killing you.

An umbrella was ripped from the stand beside the door before I rammed the tip of the umbrella at the barrel. It missed, but sent the Leman Russ skittering off on its treads. The cannon fired wildly – hitting a wall – and stopping as its crew popped their hatches and wretched up their breakfast.

I picked up the tank - it was maybe the same weight as couple bricks - turned it upside down and gave it a shake. Screams and the sound of churning vomit and clattering high-explosive shells squeaked out from inside. A few Imperium tank-operators fell out screaming as they dropped the six inches/sixty feet to the ground. I hefted the tank in my hands, and looked around. Most of the figures around the living room were stock still in a tableau of shock.

That incident, if anything, steeled my confidence; I was much, much larger, and therefore could handle more people at once.

"Okay, if anyone else gets the idea of shooting me, I can - and will - throw this tank at you." A red-robed, half-machine man squeaked and fainted behind the Inquisitor. For the moment, I ignored him.

"So... I assume you all have leaders. Those leaders will tell their respective warriors to stand down and go sulk in a corner. Then they will meet me in the center of this room, now. And if you so much as sneeze in the wrong direction, I will introduce you to a HyperVac 3200."

The human soldiers at my toes all began to wonder what the HyperVac (my rusted old vacuum cleaner) was, but decided that it was better to ask me when I wasn't angry, so they all began to mill about, shouting orders and organizing themselves into their companies and taking shelter in the kitchen. The Inquisitor and his retinue quietly fell in behind me (but I could feel the hate being bored into my ankles).

Walking into the living room, I sat down on the sofa, waiting for the others to come along.

An angled, yellow-and-red armored suit flew on plumes of brilliant blue light as it hovered in the air as below, a large, hovering vehicle with very fish-like characteristics skimmed over the charred carpet. There was a faint 'pop', I smelled a hint of ozone (being in the same Chemistry class as Vincent during high school introduced you to a lot of new and often hazardous smells) and a walking armored bear, painted in royal blue and gold, stalked in with his massive left fist crackling energy even as he hefted a massive double barreled cannon. Glowing eyes and smoking scorch marks on his armor gave him a fearsome appearance. His retinue ran or jumped up to meet on the hard, wooden coffee table.

Something disturbed the air behind him, and a tall, elegant warrior armed with a glowing spear and swirling cape appeared. Holding a (geometrically) curvy pistol and moving with unnatural grace, I again was struck by the polarity of the two races: the Space Marine, of course, was brutally stocky and looked like he could barrel through any combat situation. The Eldar here, however, was tall and lithe, slim and... fragile. The large, dozen-and a half members of this one's council took me aback, though. There were simply so many!

Other warriors appeared around them, but it was they who grabbed my attention the most. Trawling through my mind, I recognized them as a Space Marine Force Commander and Eldar Farseer, respectively. The Farseer looked up at me, and I could see that it was visibly annoyed at me.

"We are here, as you have so kindly asked us, mon-keigh. Now speak," she hissed. "and let us be back to war."

The blue suit of armor whipped around, snarling something incoherent as it swung a mighty fist around. Coneheaded and willowy simply ducked under the blow, laughing with its rather odd yet regal voice. It brought its spear back up.

"Now that's more like it!"

Both of them were audibly pained as I slammed the Leman Russ down on them. Half the assembled leaders flinched from the impact. Shouts of frustration and agony came out from underneath the treads.

"Like I said; no fighting, damn you."

I lifted the tank off the two leaders, and they straightened themselves up, considerably chastened but probably uninjured, considering their mastery of combat. Scanning the faces before me as I sat on the battle-scarred couch, I considered my situation. There were characters from one of the most grimdark universes that humankind has imagined; military officers from the Imperium of Man (as Imperial Guard and Inquisition), Space Marine, Tau and Eldar factions were all assembled before me.

"Well, at least I don't have to deal with any Chaos or Orks." I muttered, rubbing my temples in frustration.

The races in front of me nodded rather cautiously, wondering what kind of game I was up to.

"Alright. So. Introductions first, along with whoever is your command squad. I'm Michael, I own this house and can crush you with a tank."

Thinking for a moment, I decided to add: "Repeatedly, if necessary. Or with something heavier."

A few glares were thrown in my direction. I sighed. "How about you?"

I pointed at the now very nervous Imperial Guard General and his command squad. After all, he was the most squishy one out of the heavily armored Space Marine and Inquisitor, the battlesuit-equipped Tau and the elegantly armored Eldar warrior.

"General Ulrich Faust of the Cadian 938th. My aides; Commissar Tomas Sturm, Father Bennedict, Kasrkin Leon Cadiasson, and Sanctioned Psyker Ishabeth." The man muttered, his hands resting on the hilts of his weapons; a sword and pistol. His retinue was composed of a black-greatcoat wearing man who fit the Soviet Russian Commissar stereotype perfectly, a priestly man with an eight foot chainsaw, a helmeted warrior who looked about as heavily armored as a human could get, and a woman who looked about the youngest of the group around me, cradling a staff with an eagle on its tip in her hands and gently whispering to it.

I moved my gaze to the armored bear. His voice was the modulated kind you get from someone trying to speak from the insides of a very echoey helmet.

"Eizak Arelius, Commander of the Angela Crusade. Ultramarines Chapter. With me is Chaplain Morteus, Librarian Vasili and Assault Sergeant Vinters." The other three Space Marine leaders were less armored, but not by much; the black-armored 'Chaplain' wore a mask that looked almost like a skull, and eyes glowed red as they bored into my soul. I quickly turned to the Librarian, who had a massive hood of metal and wiring mounted on his head. The man's eyes also disconcerted me. The last of these was perhaps the lowest ranking, his armor with very few decorations past a few lines of prayer engraved upon his shoulder-pads. What was striking was the large jetpack on his back and the chainsaw-meets-sword held loosely in his left hand.

A pointed look at the Inquisitor got me a very hard stare back. Thank goodness I couldn't make out his eyes; they would have made me piss myself if I wasn't careful.

"Inquisitor Iosef Danilov of Sebiska. Ordo Malleus. Also Canonness Samisha Ludmilla of the Sisters of Battle and Justicar Amadeus of the Grey Knights, as well as Arbites Judge Phobias." Phou-bai-ahs, I noted.

Nodding at the three others mentioned; a black-armored female with a rather incendiary theme about her, a grey armored knight with a crackling blue halberd and a man who looked like Judge Dredd after a shave, I quickly moved on to the Eldar, which met my gaze from the glowing vision slits of her conical helmet. She had, by far, the largest retinue of the forces around here.

"Farseer Zara, Ulthwe craftworld. My protege here is Councillor Alvus. Those standing around me are the Exarches of the Howling Banshees Lyndia... " She glanced behind her. "Shining Spears Iyanshir, Warp Spiders Gladosh, Striking Scorpions Yandeer, Swooping Hawks Al-Tair..."

I quickly held up my hand for her to stop, and shrugged. There were still probably another twelve or so to go.

"Thanks for introducing me, but... I think I can learn their names later on."

I was, also, on the verge of laughter at the sheer size differences and variety among them. They looked more like a troop of clowns, rather than warriors! Although I was probably going to have to ask her to introduce us again, it would have probably taken too long. I moved on, and looked at the battlesuited warrior.

"And last but not least..."

"Shas'El Fi'rios …" I saw hesitate, and then wave dismissively. "Gue'la have a hard time understanding the meaning of Tau names, but I believe my personal name in your language means 'Firestrike', and that will suffice.. Ethereal Aun'ui accompanies and guides us. I believe you can also learn the names of our other leaders later." The Fire Warrior replied, eyeing me with the tricolored visual sensors embedded in its helmet. The smaller Tau who had accompanied him was simply robed, and probably the only one among them who wasn't armored.

"Alright." I sighed, standing. "Its... interesting to meet you all, but now that you've shot up my hous~"

The three-dozen leaders all erupted into frenzied arguments, summing up their varied arguments as 'those people did it!'. I placed the Leman Russ on the ground, grabbed the coffee table and gave it a good shaking. The artificial earthquake subsided after a few seconds.

"Look. I'm pretty sure you all have your respective differences, but this is my house, understand?" I glared at the lot of them. "Would you kindly show some decency, since you are all such 'advanced' civilizations?"

The lot of them stopped their arguments, and a few sheathed their weapons. Then there were subtle murmurs in the tune of 'alright' chorusing around. I sighed.

"Good. Now lets find you some bases, and we'll draw up some kind of agreement and... " I paused, sniffing the air. The others noticed, and did the same themselves.

"Wait... what's burning?"

I looked from one face to another, before we all turned to look at the smoking cabinet of DVDs. A large hole was burned into the paneling. I noticed several soldiers nervously tuck away tubular weapons and flamethrowers. Inside, something flickered. My DVDs were burning.

"OH SH~"

- - – - -


----------



## hungryugolino

Never mind.


----------



## arturslv

Thought for the day:

"The weak panic and act. The strong panic, think, then act.."

"Alright... is that it? Can any of you guys see any fire?"

I held the fire extinguisher loosely in my hand, which had been hastily ripped from its place underneath the kitchen counter, and prepared to squeeze out another blast of the carbon dioxide. The white powdery gas still wafted around the room as I coughed a few times. My DVD collection was simply ashes. The Tau stealthsuits boosted their way up into the cabinet, and were quickly joined by the Assault Marines and peered around inside. Their investigation lasted all of a brief few seconds.

"It appears so." They replied. Sergeant Vinters added his own report; "A lot of the crystalline structures also seem to be irrecoverably damaged."

"In English, please?" I grumbled, half sarcastically.

"Hmm?" Came the grunted reply.

"I believe that he means for you to speak simple Low Gothic, Sergeant Vinters." A black armored woman said, rather timidly. "English is one of the most archaic of languages... I believe it originated from Terra itself."

"Oh. I see. Well, then here's some simple Low Gothic for you: We ruined his disks."

I gave a great sigh of anguish and frustration, and turned to look at the assembled armies behind me. In particular the ones who held heat-based weapons; flamethrowers, tube-like weapons that I learned later were called meltas, plasma guns, plasma cannon, plasma rifles and the long, thin lances of the red-armored Eldar (called Fire Pikes, I believe). Their respective owners quickly tried to hide behind larger allies, who kept shuffling out of the way. They didn't want to get in the way of a titan's wrath.

It must have been confusing, to them, that a giant such as me could wear a face of absolute anguish. I mean, my entire DVD collection! Years of time and maybe hundreds of dollars simply down the drain because of one errant shot! The classics in there; Jackie Chan, Charlie Chaplain, Bruce Lee and the Three Stooges, I mean... they were irreplaceable! Most of them weren't being sold anymore. I tsk'd in frustration, and a few of the soldiers assembled visibly winced.

"So, what have we learned here today, folks?" I muttered sarcastically, hefting the heavy fire extinguisher onto my shoulder. Quick consideration of scale here; the actual fire extinguisher was maybe two feet in length, six inches wide at most. On their scale, it would be the size of the orange part of the Space Shuttle. In other words; very large and very heavy. I looked down at the various troops, who had come along to see what the commotion was about, especially with the large blasts of fire-suppressant smoke.

I let my back hit the wall behind me, and I sunk to the floor, with hundreds of eyes and optical sensors tracking my descent. My mind pushed away the matter of my DVDs, they could be dealt with later. What I needed to do now was to keep these guys from hitting my TV, or computer, or the other precious and expensive things in my house.

"Leaders, I know who you are. Come here."

The characteristic leaders of the three forces quietly shuffled forward. I looked from one to the other, seeing a mix of confusion, sympathy, disgust and apathy.

"Okay. The fighting stops now. I don't want you guys ruining anything else."

Protests came up, but were quickly stopped as I slammed down the fire extinguisher.

"Second: I'll try and give you guys as much breathing room as possible, but what I say goes, understand?" I looked on, and it was the Eldar Farseer who spoke first.

"You do not dictate our actions, mon-keigh!"

There was a chill in the air as she stretched out her hand, and lighting crackled from her fingertips. I felt an unbelievable migraine pulse in the back of my head. I quickly realized that she was doing something to me. I slapped down, smashing the Farseer to the side. She gave a cry of pain as she was knocked into the nearby Tau Battlesuit.

The Shas'El staggered as the impact caught it unprepared, his burst cannon going off and glancing off the armored figure of the Space Marine. For a moment, I thought the fighting would end. But then, the commander howled in rage, charging forward in concert with his retinue, and knocking over a green colored Eldar with a chainsaw/sword weapon, who swung the long, slender sword wildly in response.

That chainsword cut off the augmented limb of a red-robed cyborg, who gave out a synthesized cry as he fell over backwards, a plasma bolt shooting off from one of his mechanical arms, and hitting a Grim Reaper-esque Eldar.

The slug of sunfire splashed over his heavy armor, blackening the bright portions of his black carapace. The Reaper was stunned for a second as his suit dissipated the heat, and he quickly prepared his weapon – a large, pen-like weapon that was fired from the hip. He returned fire, sending a hail of mini-missiles into the black-armored Canoness as 'Sanctioned Pskyer Ishabeth' threw herself out of the way.

The return fire went wide as the tumbling Farseer and Terminator Commander bumped into her, sending a ray of pure heat shooting past my head. I fell back, and got back up to see the Inquisitor pull out a pistol and start shooting red beams at the Eldar. Behind them, the various armies were now re-equipping themselves to get into a fight – a big one. The escalation was magnificient; from a single slap, I had re-started a four-sided war.

I had enough now. A blast of carbon dioxide sent all of the non-helmeted faction leaders into coughing fits as their lungs struggled to breathe, while the others were forced to stop because of the billowing white smoke. By the time it cleared, most were again calm and peaceful. However, the Farseer Zara and Eizak were already in combat again, so I brought down the fire extinguisher on them. There was a strangled cry as the two were mashed into each other between a plate of metal and the carpet.

"Jeeze, is this going to be a running gag or something!" I growled at them, looking from one face to another. With the Sanctioned Psyker, I saw that she was looking past my shoulder. I looked up to give the burning lampshade a blast of CO2 .

"Anyone else want to start a fight?" I growled, my temper long since lost. I hefted the bright red fire extinguisher. "None? Good! Now sit down. All of you!"

Almost three hundred asses hit the floor. Those who weren't able to or were already sitting were excused.

"You are treating us like children, mon-keigh." The Eldar Farseer quipped.

SLAM! The fire extinguisher came down beside her, who jerked up in surprise as the giant red tube slammed into the ground beside her.

"Do you think I give a fuck! You guys have been tearing my house apart for who knows how long! A~"

"My chronometer says we have been fighting for approximately sixteen minutes forty one seconds from the first shots thirty minutes ago, when we arrived." The one arm less (though not harmless, ha ha ha.) cogboy piped up.

"I really didn't need that, but my point still stands: you guys took less than twenty minutes to almost burn down my house! And after that, you refuse to keep still!"

"Duly noted, mon-keigh." The Eldar grated her will against mine, and I simply rolled the giant tube of CO2 closer to her legs. She shuffled backwards a little.

"Alright, guys. My house, my rules: No fighting, full stop. If you want to have a fight, then prepare for the consequences, which will be either big, red and tubular." I hefted the fire extinguisher again. "The other consequence really sucks, too." I sat down, careful not to crush anything important – like, maybe, an Ethereal – and looked on at the faces around me.

"We can decide the niceties of your stay here, but for the moment I want anyone who knows anything to try and figure out why the hell you're here, the rest of you can get to work cleaning up this place. I'm happy to help either job get done."

In the distance, out in the back-yard, I heard a rough voice shout out.

"Oi! Lookit ovver dere! Go tellz the boss, yer fat git! Movvit! HEY BOSS! I SEEZ DEM PINKIES!" There was also a distinct pause as the scout goggled at me.

"AN' A BIG WUN TOO!"

I recognized the rough pattern of speech as belonging to a ramshackle buggy-thing, with a large, green-skinned ork riding on top. I let out a groan of anguish. Here were the orks.

"Damn..." Picking myself up, I quickly jogged out to follow the scout. In my back yard, there was a rather large battlefield, which had shredded quite a bit of the grass. Craters and scorch marks were liberally scattered throughout the back yard. There was also a few eviscerated corpses of greenskins. It was easy to see what had happened; someone started a fight in the mob, then it spread throughout the ork contingent. What remained had been rallied and put under control, and were now heading towards me.

Running back into the house, I picked up my only weapon; the fire extinguisher.

"So, Michael, what have you found?" The Imperial General asked me.

"Green guys, lots and lots of little green things. Orks, I think."

The ranks began to panic. The shout of 'greenskins' began to run through the armies as they attempted to bring their weapons around to bear. There were several cries to halt, particularly from the Eldar. I looked at the leaders of the elfin race, who were almost grinning at me. Oh shit. They were going to play by my rules just when it would be the most inconveniencing for me. Damn.

"So I'm taking it you won't fight?" I asked them, bitter.

"No, mon-keigh, we shall not. We will abide by your rules for as long as you live and nobody initiates violence against the Eldar." Zara replied. It was the same kind of tone that you'd get from someone being bloody cheeky.

I gave out a long sigh. "Ugh... fine, I'll go take care of them myself." Picking up the fire extinguisher, wondering if there would be enough CO2 in there to take out the assembled Orks, I walked out into the dining room. The Farseer just sneered at me, daring me to take out the Orks single-handedly.

Its about this time that you'd like to know a little more about the layout of my house, particularly the part that was about to become a battlefield. Well, the living room was connected by a wide archway to the dining room, which then lead out to the porch, where the Orks were currently assembling. There was a small table, with various bits of clutter and art supplies scattered about. A large piece of canvas was leaning against a wall, which had various sketches of things on it – damn, I hope they don't get ruined – and opposite that was a simple, square mirror.

The green tide and my weapon of choice met just before the door at the porch. The lead ork was a big bugger, with plates of metal all over him. A sudden impact from my fire extinguisher left him a green and red smudge on the ground. And the four or so orks that were just behind him. I hammered away like that for a while as the Orks looked on, jaws dropping from surprise. They then got over it rather quickly and continued their charge.

"Stop, damn you, stop!"

A series of gunshots sent my limbs on fire; it was like getting stabbed with a hundred needles. I simply wasn't used to that kind of pain. I fell to my knees, since most of the gunfire was concentrated at my legs, and tried weakly to keep hammering at the greenskins. In the distance, I saw the largest one I had seen so far raise an axe. He roared, and was soon joined by the rest of his army.

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

Slowly but surely, I was beaten back, trying to keep the stinging pain away from me as I swatted uselessly at the rocket-propelled orks that kept zipping past my head. They were going to bring me down with a death of a thousand cuts. One of those Orks slapped my nose with a little plate, which I managed to rip off and throw away before it exploded. A demolitions charge? I didn't have time to wonder as there was a series of pops, and a small swarm of missiles slammed into the greenskins around me, blowing them out of the sky. The Sky Ray missile gunship of the Tau lowered its twin pods.

"Gue'vesa'o Mi'kel! You have so far striven for peace with honor, and the Greater Good! We shall not abandon you to face the Greenskins alone!" The Tau were already marching out, their odd blue gunships hovering into position, deploying troops as the sound of the Ork war drums filled the air. The Tau's heavier battlesuits began stomping into the ground like sumo-wrestlers readying for a bout in answer. Large cannon glowed blue as they prepared to fire.

Behind me, there were the sounds of mechanical footsteps. The heavily modulated voice of the Space Marine Commander pitched in. "Michael, we shall also join you in battle." The booming vocalizations of Ultramarine Eizak reassured me, marching forward with his retinue, who were already grinning in anticipation, although with the fully helmeted Chaplain, I wasn't quite sure about.

"You may have harmed us, but it was for the sake of pacifying your home. For that, I bear you no grievances. And anyway, one less ork is one less trouble for us. So... ANGELS OF DEATH, PREPARE FOR BATTLE!"

I smiled at these two races, who were already putting aside their differences to fight a greater enemy, pepared to defend my house.

The Ethereal walked forward, a small device in his hand. Beside him was one of his bodyguards, who had a very large box mounted on his back. He turned to face away from the Space Marines, and it was there I realized what they were; a speaker and microphone combo. Behind him, someone had projected a simple battle-plan onto the wall. The Ethereal's voice was absolutely authoritative and a.

"Space Marines, if you would be so kind as to deploy in a staggered formation with our Fire Warriors, we will appreciate you to keep the greenskins from engaging our forces in close combat, we will strive to thin out their numbers from long range. And as Gue'vesa'o Mi'kel is more than likely to add, let us all attempt to keep environmental damage to a minimum. Imperial forces, if you are joining the battle, then deploy alongside our Fire Warriors, or in front of them if you are more inclined for close combat."

There was an almighty roar from the Space Marines, who all did a synchronized about-turn and began to march out into their battle lines, deploying alongside the Tau. From the Imperial lines, there was was some argument and quite a bit of pointing-of-storm-bolters-to-foreheads-of-Generals-and-assorted-officers, but soon enough and without need of executions they got the rest of the Imperial forces into the fray as well, deploying behind the Adeptus Astartes.

I got up, gave one final look to the bewildered Eldar, and joined the battle lines.

The coalition army advanced as one, the Marines spreading their bolter shots liberally across the front lines as the Tau whittled them down from the back lines. Missiles and beams of light – the hypersonic railguns igniting the air, I later learned – crisscrossed the room as I moved away from battle. There was an audible crunch as the two armies met, the revving of chainblades and the other, more exotic sounds of war echoed off the walls. I was still dizzy from the pain, so I picked myself up and looked on, half amused at the war in my dining room. The Marines were having the time of their lives in there, the blades and hammers and armored fists rising, falling, cutting, slashing and generally butchering whatever was green. The rear lines were lobbing artillery at each other, and I was thankful at the sight that my floor was standing up pretty well to the exchange.

Soon enough, I was able to join in by slamming the few Orks that peeled off from the flanks. It was almost comedic, how suddenly the battle would pause as a giant red tube would fall from the sky and smash a half-dozen orks. I was probably bleeding from a few dozen little holes, so I happily handed the battle over to the rest after a few of the extinguisher strikes.

"GET DEM, BOYZ! C'MON, YOU 'ITTLE RUNTS!"

The cries of the Warboss attracted my attention over the sounds of battle, and I briefly remember hurling the fire extinguisher in his direction. There was a moment of uncertainty as the Warboss was crushed under the weight of the heavy metal canister. Skidding across the slick blood, it rolled a few times, crushing this and that and knocking a few of their tanks over.

All of the orks lulled in their fighting as some cries going along the lines of 'the Boss is dead!' swept through the greenskin ranks. They all stopped for a second, before looking to the source of the large, red projectile that had smashed – no, smudged – their leader. A few front-line bosses looked from one to the other.

"Da big oomie did it!" One exclaimed. He prodded his armored companion. "Wot we do now?"

"Soz, if dat big oomie squidged the Boss, dat mean he'z da new boss now?"

"Naw, you silly git, dat wouldn't be orky!" A third barged in, his red eye aglow as his metal helmet/skull sparked from some exposed wires. "I'z the biggest Nob after the boss, soz I'm da new warboss!"

"Then eat my muzzles, Ork."

Justicar Amadeus, who literally appeared in a halo of light, dashed forward to punch the third Ork in the face, before unloading his double-barreled-automatic-rocket-propelled-armor-piercing-grenade-launcher into the choked maw of the big, red armored Nob. The greenskin's head exploded, for lack of a better description, sending bits of metal and skull – I'm not sure if the two were mutually exclusive – spraying into his friends. The stump that was left didn't have time to do anything but fall to the ground, where it got stabbed a few times with the glowing blue halberd of the Justicar.

"Any more complaints?" He asked the assembled Orks.

A fourth Ork Nob stomped forward, his armored claw clacking like a crab. "Yea, m~"

Anywhere between one to twenty flavors of explosive, armor penetrating, high velocity or extremely hot munitions were pumped into the Ork from every direction before he even got a chance to take a third step. When I had finished blinking the spots out of my eyes, there was a black smudge where he had stood without anything, even falling parts, to acknowledge his former existence. The other orks were simply awed at the display of pure, concentrated firepower.

"Now dat's lots o' dakka." One managed to say.

I grunted sarcastically. "Well, I guess there aren't any more, then?" My body was burning up, and I was so tired from both my college and from dealing with these guys that I had almost sounded nonchalant.

"No? Good." I looked at the assembled armies.

"Aun'ui Alva, please make sure the Orks are gathered up, co-ordinate with the others to search around the back yard to make sure that there aren't any more Orks running around. I'm going to go clean up." I looked at the remaining orks, maybe a little more than half of the initial army.

"Okay... you guys can stay, so I suggest you start learning manners, like not fighting. Start fighting, and you'll be seeing that thing." I pointed at the fire extinguisher. "Stomping on you. Understand?"

Overwhelmed by the firepower presented to them, the Orks were mostly smart enough to nod and bunch up. A few tried to WAAAGH! their way out, but were soon put down by the ring of firepower surrounding them.

"Now that that's sorted, lets get to moving you guys in."

Well now, that's the end of this chapter. I have to say that I know that the Orks wouldn't go surrendering so easily, but I use creative license and the fact that these guys were both disoriented by the new world and the fact that they had just been shown what happens to boyz who don't listen.


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## arturslv

Warped Spiders:

"Exarch Arachnos, that last jump was off by three meters. Meters, Arachnos! What is the meaning of this?"

The Farseer watched on as the Warp Spiders adjusted their equipment. The mostly crimson colored armor of the Warp Spider Exarch shifted around as its owner's mind raced around the problem. His calm, modulated voice echoed through the bathroom. It had only been two days since their arrival here, in 'Belmont Steet'. But of more major concern was the fact that the Warp Spiders were missing by such a huge margin. The fact of the matter was, that the error of their jumps were mostly measured in centimeters, or even milimeters. But to miss by meters was simply impossible!

"The Warpways on this planet are disturbing us greatly, Farseer. We have not yet had time to calibrate for this new... factor."

"I have never foreseen such an event, Arachnos. Hurry, lest those mon-keigh catch us off guard. Especially the large one."

"So shall we focus on this temporal objective."

– - –

One of the more junior of the Warp Spiders, a certain Urual, was fiddling with his backpack. His Death Spinner sat beside him, ever ready, as did his helmet. He was blowing into the Eldar equivalent to a tin whistle/concrete mixer, a simple instrument of the Bonesingers. He had walked that Path, a long time ago. His first, in fact. The young Eldar was frowning now, wondering if he would be able to fix this error in his Jump Generator's complex mechanisms. He changed the pitch slightly, and that was enough to get the psycho-reactive wraithbone to shift around a little more.

There was a tube running from his suit. It was attached to the curved pack that housed the jump generator. It was this device which would rip a hole in reality to allow the Spiders to take a step at one place, appear somewhere else, attack with their monofilament Death Spinners, and withdraw back into the warp before counterattack was possible.

It made them the least trustworthy of the Aspect Warriors of Kaela Mensha Khaine, but also the bravest; only they among the Eldar faced the Warp at its most horrifying, unflinching with only a few centimeters of wraithbone separating them from the doom of both body and soul. Urual looked up as his battle-partner Nelas beckoned to him.

"Hey, Urual, have you adjusted your Gate yet?"

Urual gave a small nod in reply, his eyes focused on the small crystal mounted on the gate. The most vital component of each backpack was the miniature Webway Gate, which controlled the reality-rending pulse of Warp energy which allowed them t~

Several crystals hummed to life; they were activating! Behind him, Arachnos shouted out to him.

"Shut down that Gate, Warp Spider!"

There was the sensation of one's soul getting an electrified shock. Urual fell back and was plunged into the tunnels of the Webway. He stumbled around for a second, panicking as he looked from one tunnel to another. This wasn't meant to happen!

Shadows emerged, and some horrifying thing leaped at him. Urual discharged three of his Death Spinner's nets into the thing, watching the warp-spawn entangle itself in the mono-filament strings, tearing itself apart even as it spasmed in its death-throes. The mewling mess left behind was barely recognizable as having been living.

Turning around, he saw his flute on the ground. Hurriedly, he picked it up and checked his jump pack again.

Knowing that life or death would quickly be decided, he opted to tear into the wall of the tunnel with his suit, and jump through.

It was better to face whatever was on the other side of this tear – something in the real world - than to face the horrors of the Warp for too long.

Throwing himself into the bathing pool of the Howling Banshees Aspect Warriors... well, that made his earlier conviction more than arguable. With a splash, the young Warp Spider tumbled into the pool.

"Warp Spider. I do hope you have made peace with your fellow teleporters."

Ural was aware of something soft. Underneath him was the shapely body of the Howling Banshees Exarch. His armored hand was... somewhere near her shoulder. The Exarch – Lyndia – rose from the pool, her bathing robes falling to drift around her knees, her ink black hair clinging to her body, still wet. She was – like many Eldar – a tall, lithe beauty. But even among the race of graceful, elf-like beings, this woman had a beauty about her that was unmatchable to many. And along with that beauty came a fury to compete with it as her primary trait.

The Exarch – a being trapped in the Path of the Warrior - threw him out of the water with ease, her long, slim limbs belying her strength. The Warp Spider landed roughly somewhere at the edge of the pool, and then was suddenly the center of a ring of feminine rage. He knew that many men – human and Eldar alike - would kill to have a chance to be surrounded by half-naked women such as these.

Little did they realize that any one of these women would be able to cut him into neat pieces single handedly with their Mirror Blades. They were normally encased in wraithbone armor slightly lighter than his own, but now he could see them without such inhibitions.

Urual coughed. Blood leaked from his nose, yet he had never been struck in that whole time. One of the Howling Banshees bristled furiously, though she was unarmed, unarmored and even disrobed.

"Y-you perverted being! You still refuse to avert your eyes!"

– - –

In the distance, there was a scream of absolute anguish as the cry of the Howling Banshees went up. A former member of that sorority herself, Ranger Serafenn pulled back her camouflage cloak. She turned to face Boblee, the leader of the Ranger detachment, who was already crouched over his large sniper rifle.

"What was that?"

"It appears." He said, more than emphatically as he observed the scene through his scope, affectionately nicknamed 'the Oracle'. "As if an unfortunate Warp Spider has just appeared in the middle of the Howling Banshees... while they were bathing."

"Ouch."

"As a mon-keigh warrior would have put it; it must have taken cast ferric balls to try a stunt like that. Or a fool. Oh, they're wrestling him to the ground now... there goes his helmet... and the Death Spinner. The boy's putting up a good fight, though. He managed to get one of them, the lucky bastard."

"I see... Boblee, why is your nose bleeding?"

- - – - -


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## arturslv

Hey guys, here's things starting to settle down in day three. Michael's getting rather lucky with things being settled, but they'll be explained soon enough.

Thought of the Day: "You shall not corrupt me, Chaos spawn, for my faith is armor proof against your blandishments, and I'm sure my Power Fist can pop your head open like a ripe tomato." - Terminator Virgil

"I SAID STOP, DAMNIT!" The large, barrel-like form of the rusted HyperVac 3200 slammed down onto the ground, crushing a squad of Terminators and the Seer's council, which had been locked in mortal combat up until a heartbeat ago. Now they were in mortal danger of being between a vacuum and a hard place.

Its been three days, now. I thought. And its been... fifteen hours since the last unauthorized skirmish. You'd think that fighting together against the Orks would mean that they'd start getting along, but nooo.

Farseer Zara and Captain Eizak were again impressed by my display of combat prowess. Well, in the I-can-see-my-dent-under-your-hammer kind of impressed. I looked as sternly as I could at the twenty odd combatants, demanding explanation with sheer willpower as my communicator.

"He started it!" Zara piped up, thrusting her spear in the Space Marine's direction.

"'He started it' So that is all that the Eldar's highly evolved brains can come up with!"

The two made a threatening move towards each other. Their retinues all made two smart steps backwards.

SLAM.

"Ow... arg... Apothecary!"

"That hurt, mon-keigh!"

I sighed. "Go back to your rooms, and please don't fight on the landing again..."

I had quickly learned after two days of sporadic skirmishing and running around with the fire extinguisher (both for fires and for the skirmishers), that it would be impossible for the varied factions around me to stay in the still and calm for very long, so instead I had allowed them some battlefield time, which usually happened just after the afternoon lunch-rush; a quick battle for those who wanted to get it out of their system, usually in the back yard to the sound of me playing around (badly) on my brother's old trumpet the first time, to muffle the various noises of battle. Both the Ork and Imperial Guardsmen forces involved later complained that it was worse than fighting the Noise Marines of Slaneesh, and after a little research into that particular soldier type, I stopped.

The Orky comment about it sounding like a Squig being kneaded with tank treads was also apt.

Of course, tensions were still high among all of the four groups, but the fact that I had moved the factions into the various rooms around the house that I thought would suit them the best was cooling them off rather well. Right now, I was down in the kitchen, grabbing my coffee and checking up on them, jug of coffee in my hand. Normally I'd only have a cup, but it seemed like these guys liked the stuff.

Tau's Earth Caste – the builders and scientists of the Tau empire – had been hard at work, using some clay I had to make themselves some buildings. The curved architecture of the Tau were apparent in the corner of my living room. They had chosen this place specifically because it provided great lines of sight and therefore were advantageous to their own style of fighting. The long rifles of their basic troopers were stacked neatly against the makeshift barriers they had constructed as their perimeter, and the drones patrolling around the perimeter quickly parted to let me through. Sitting down, I watched as they put together a glowing power generator, which had been salvaged from one of their wrecked vehicles. I wondered – briefly – what it might do if it exploded in my living room, but then again I decided it was probably best if I didn't tempt fate.

The various vehicles they had brought along with them were named after fish, and the dark blue armor of the Fi'rios warriors contrasted darkly against the bright gleam of my whitewashed walls. There was something very simplistic about the architecture of the Tau warriors; there were no scrolls of prayer or devotional trinkets like with the Imperium, nor the complex plating of the Eldar. Just simple, utilitarian curves that would deflect incoming fire and keep whatever was inside safe.

As I looked on, a few of the Tau were already getting themselves familiar with a game of chess. To them, it was an interesting intellectual exercise, and they used the Fire Warriors – the basic infantry – to haul around the large wooden pieces. It was interesting to watch. Beside the chess players, several Tau were rambling on, apparently arguing like good friends about which was better among the aircraft listed on the book of Second World War fighter planes.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a Tau 'Crisis' battlesuit drift up on pillars of plasma fire. "Good morning, Shas'El Firestrike." I greeted, already used to the Tau's peaceful demeanor. Of the many races living under my roof, I was most comfortable with these guys; they were the most cordial, most tolerant of them all. But then again, they were also the ones who had banged heads with the cogboys recently. I looked at Firestrike, who was now climbing out of his battlesuit.

"Morning to you, Mai'kel." His odd, almost Chinese-like accent made my name sound rather strange as it leaped from his tongue into the air. I nodded in reply.

"Anything happen recently?" I asked him, indicating the fact that most of his guns were pointed at the basement door; the Orks were down there.

"Well, the greenskins have tried yet another incursion into the living room, but we have managed to hold them off... err, we might need more cleaning supplies, too, there's quite a bit of blood around." He reported.

"I see. I'll go down and tell that 'warboss' to keep his boyz in line after I check on the Eldar." I replied, pinching my nose again. The Orks were easily my largest headache, since they were probably the most eager to get into a fight – heck, they fought each other when they got bored, so it wasn't a great leap in logic to tell that they were more than ready to start fighting the others when given a sliver of a chance. Excursions from their home in the basement had lead to the other races banding together to keep them down there.

In fact, the Orks were that much of an annoyance that they actually helped the other races to bond and learn to trust each other somewhat. I sighed as I walked up the stairs. Well, time to get to the rest of them. The Tau were easy... the others were hard.

The Imperium of Man dominated the upstairs, taking over two of the three bedrooms. Imperial Guardsmen now camped out in lego-brick habitats strewn across the floor of one of those rooms. I opened the door to the welcoming party. A few Guardsmen looked up and saluted, or cheered and cracked into smiles. In the tough routine of the military, it was nice to see these guys unwind. I smiled as I poured out a large glass for their rations.

"Good morning, Guardsmen! Here you go, strong and black like you guys like it, right?"

"Absolutely, Governor Michael!" The General managed, still trembling. Having conversation with a skyscraper was rather scary, if you ask me. So was talking to someone who was no taller than your thumb. General Faust had apparently decided to entitle me with 'Governor'. Sounded much more... awkward. He looked around to speak to the Commissar, but that black-coated man had already hurried over to get first dibs on the coffee. The Sanctioned Psyker – a term for a licensed psychic, apparently – Ishabeth giggled from her perch in the women's barracks.

"I've never seen Tomas get so... obsessed over anything before." She had exclaimed the second day, when he had first gotten a taste for coffee. "Apparently, he calls it the Emperor's recaf. I like it as well, but... Tomas has standing orders that I am never to drink any recaf... or anything with simple carbohydrates. I go... funny." The actual temperature of the air around us seemed to sink along with her disappointment, and a few Guardsmen nearby were already running.

I had someone explain that phenomenon to me: Another Psyker, this time the Librarian Vasili of the Space Marines, explained to me that she was rather less stable than other Psykers, but her ability was on par with many of the Primaris – or top rank - psykers, albeit outside of her conscious control, hence her classification as a Sanctioned Psyker.

Well, back to the present, I was lazing off and chatting to the Guardsmen around me and looking across to see a Sentinel – a two legged scout walker – stepping gently on the remote control to switch channels on the small TV set in the room. The only way the Guardsmen could channel surf, really, since jumping on the buttons was too tiring. Those guys absolutely adored watching cartoons, although I'm sure they were familiar entertainment, but not like this. Apparently, Elmer Fudd was their favorite for his hunting of the tall eared xenos.

A small squadron of tanks passed by underneath my feet. I saw one in particular, and smiled.

I had returned their Leman Russ to the tank crew, the commander of which was named Thujan. He thanked me for its return, and then asked what the Space-Marine and Farseer shaped dent on the underside was about. I told him to ask his General. Now that Leman Russ was nick-named Mikel's Hammer, and became quite well known among the Guard. I was already getting a small following for using a tank as a club.

The Guard were a proud army, all maintaining themselves to the highest forms of discipline when in combat, but still managing to relax somewhat when they were off the fighting. It was like seeing a whole army of coins: sometimes you were seeing their heads, and their more mellow demeanor. It was interesting to see the more exotic of the Guardsmen, who regaled me with stories of deathly jungle planets, frozen ice worlds and weightless asteroid colonies. Their command squad was even more impressive; there were psykers – combat psychics – and priests, mechanical monks and hardened veterans. To see simple, unaugmented humans who could fight – and win – against the likes of the Eldar and the Orks was simply impressive.

The head Commissar – Tomas Sturm - was one of the four combat commanders of this unit, since the General too often lost his nerve in the heat of battle. Instead, the stocky General organized the troops and gave out general objectives. The other three were the Laughing Priest Jeremiah, Lieutentant-Colonel Salacia Marsch and Sanctioned Psyker Ishabeth, who always combined forces with Sturm. It seemed a rather odd way to command, so I asked.

In the words of the Commissar himself as he answered: "He handles the big goals, we make sure that nothing goes wrong."

I nodded in reply, and moved on as he sat down beside Ishabeth to chat.

Moving on, I dropped in on the Space Marines, who were exercising their morning close quarter drills on a cinder block, which the Marines were steadily pulverizing by wave-after-wave of synchronized shoulder barges. As it turns out, the Marines actually came from a multitude of different Chapters, from all across the galaxy, having been pulled together to fight as a crusade. The leaders of this Crusade were the Ultramarines, and they had been joined by the Salamanders, Blood Ravens, Dark Angels, Black Templars and the Imperial Fists. They were now drilling constantly to achieve unit coherency, as only ten or so Marines of the seventy strong force came from any one chapter. They had brought along with them a Dreadnought, the squat walking tank named Tankred. He was among their most honored brothers-in-arms, due to the simple fact that he had warranted internment in this majestic, fighting sarcophagus.

Like the Imperial Guard, the Marines also appreciated my ration of coffee. The overall force commander, Eizak, sat on the beside table as I sat on the bed itself. I surveyed their room as he tried to meet my gaze. They had a central 'highway', which wove around in such a way that it was easy for me to move across the room. It was almost like walking, except that if you strayed to either side, you'd probably squish someone and get an army of supersoldiers up and gunning for you.

"Brother Michael, a pleasure to see you this morning. I have just finished my sermon." The skull-masked chaplain's voice was deep and powerful, and I chuckled as I poured him a few drops of coffee. He was the only one among the Marines who called me by a name that I liked. Brother. It sounded... plain. Nice and formal yet plain. I liked it. The Chaplain looked at Eizak, who was now being rather childishly sulky. Maybe it was because of the impression I left on him... and the tank... and the fire extinguisher... and the vacuum cleaner... and the floor... yeah, you can get why he was angry at me.

I looked again at the skull-shaped mask. What would Father Tim – the local church evangelist – have said if he had met Chaplain Morteus? I looked on to the other side of the room as a breeze drew my attention; it was the Librarian that had waved his hand, turning the page of 'A Short History of Nearly Everything' over with his mind. Dang, that was cool. The Chaplain chuckled. Many of the Marines were now more relaxed. For many, it was their first chance in centuries to unwind for a moment.

"Show off." Morteus muttered as he removed his skull-shaped helmet, showing a heavily scarred face underneath. Okay, scratch that. Showing this face to Father Tim would be all the more funnier. I sipped my own mug.

"Good to see its all quiet. I hate having to get the Adepta Mechanicus guys to repair all the shell-holes."

"Adeptus Mechanicus, Brother Michael. I hope that poor Genetor stops oiling his knee joints every time he sees another of your machines. It really is unbecoming of an Emperor's servant..."

"Bless these buttons, so that we may change channels..." I muttered, which got my drinking buddy to smile.

And that brings us to the Adeptus Mechanicus. The worshipers of machines. Red robed and I'm not sure which ones were man and which parts were machines. Some walked around in boots, others on tank-treads and a select few skittered around on spider-like appendages. One was carrying over an issue of Spider-Man; they were obsessed with Iron Man and Doc Ock. But besides our mutual fascination with comic books, that was about it: I had absolutely no skill whatsoever at fixing machines, except maybe the lucky slap that would get my lawn-mower going. They were a rather odd lot, with their odd cog version of the yin-yang symbol, but nonetheless impressed me by getting the old heater in the downstairs bedroom working again. These guys were the least troublesome of the many factions in my home, though a few of their actions really caused me concern; they prayed to my TV remote! And the microwave.

Oh good lord... the microwave! It was... spring loaded now. Like a toaster. Seriously... it spat out my food after it was done. Gave me and the Tau one hell of a surprise when that happened.

And speaking of toasters, where did mine go?

"Hahah. Well said, Brother Michael." The Chaplain's voice brought me back to reality.

"Yeah. Well, you have a fun day. There's some rats in the wall-spaces, so if you wanted to go hunting, feel free to eradicate them. But please, no high explosives, okay?"

"Rats? You don't mean those little sewer cretins that you find in the underhives?"

"Yeah, but for you, they'd be about this big." I held my hands apart approximately seven inches apart. That wold be about twelve, fifteen feet for the Chaplain, who just grinned like his skull-helm.

"Excellent."

Upstairs and into the attic, I was met by an oversized dual-barrel flamethrower – at least for their scale – being pointed at my face as I poked my head through the opening. A bright blue flame lit up my nose, making me lean back from the heat on my nostrils. But then again, that was only the primer for the main flame. The black armor, red drapery and white lines detailed the machine's origins from the Order of the Valorous Hearts. And the twin flamethrowers mounted on the Immolator class AFV really could melt my face. They were the ones responsible for slagging my trash can, too. And if I guessed right, my DVD case. I looked to see if I had identified her correctly.

"Canoness Samisha. Good morning... and... ah... please point that stove-lighter somewhere else."

"Stove-lighter? Are you making a slant at my gender, Michael?" There was the sound of promethium being dumped into the reservoir of the flamethrower. You've been reading my mother's books on feminist rights, haven't you? Samisha was a very touchy person, and that was before she had read up on feminism and decided to start teaching it to her sisters. I blinked a few times, and hurriedly thought things through. Well, I could apologize... my panic addled mind was very afraid of what that little flamer could do to my face. At such close distances, especially.

"Ah... No, I am not. I am merely pointing out that the primer flame reminds me of the one that I use." I replied, as calmly as I could. She raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry if it was insulting." I added on, and got a satisfied smile from the woman.

The turret – and the fate of my eyebrows to be burnt off by combusting promethium – quickly swiveled away, and I climbed up into the realm of feminism. While the Imperial Guardsmen and the Space Marines had set up camp in the bedrooms, the Sisters of Battle had opted for the two dollhouses that my aunts used to have, grand palaces of childhood as they were, up in the attic. A few short days of modifications later, those dollhouses looked far more... Gothic now. Repainted black, white, red and gold, with a large, three-petal flower painted in various places (I had given them access to some of the cheaper paints that I had as part of the peace treaty), the Cathedrals of Saint Linda and Mother Alicia were almost complete now.

I admired their work, and looked to the attics around me. The place had been stripped of a lot of the bits and bobs that had been around, mostly to be used as building materials. A lot of the machinery that had been up here now was used by the cogboys. The Inquisitor had been particularly interested in the sewing machine's repeated stabbing motions, but I banned him from testing it on anyone. So that was now Adeptus Sororitas property, since they were secluded, would notice anyone trying to carry off a sewing machine, and had the weapons to stop someone trying to.

"Everything alright in here?" I asked, pulling the little electric fan up with me. It was an old thing that I had put in one of the other rooms and forgotten about. Walking over to one of the four windows up here, I set it up to the plug nearby, and turned it on. Fresh air began to flow in, and I looked on, rather satisfied as the Sisters breathed in the fresh air flowing in.

"There. Is that better?"

"This air out here is almost as good as that at Tranquility." Samisha laughed, and smiled back.

"Tranquility?"

"One of our Abbeys in the Gothic Sector. It was a heretical agri-world before we went in. We completely purged the central continent clear; cyclone missiles from orbit, then Titan volcano cannon, then our purifying flames from the Immolators and Exorcists burned what was left, and then finally the Sisters themselves, with their meltaguns and flamers. After all that it was a very quiet place. We built a new Abbey there afterward, to train up a few of the natives, and called it Tranquility. Sister Meliya over there was one of them."

The shy battle-sister was masked by her helmet, which she apparently never took off, but nevertheless it was still a profound thing to see her slight nod. Meliya was one of the more prominent Sisters of Battle, as she was the only one who could understand the myriad of languages – she was a Sage, as they called her job.

"I see." I answered, ending the conversation. "Well, time to check on the xeno now..."

"Walk softly, Michael, and carry a big stick."

The Eldar were more mysterious, and altogether a little unsettling in that they had chosen the unused, but still clean bathroom downstairs. I never really used it, and wondered why the most advanced of the races here chose a toilet, but then again I guess the white ceramic tiles had reminded them too much of home. Several 'bonesingers' were already making progress with their bagpipes of creation, with Eldar structures popping up throughout the floor. The shower stall was now was a hydroponic garden of many colors, a motor pool for the various vehicles where the toilet had once stood, and various other buildings – most of them housing – building themselves up on the latticework around the room. It was almost impossible for me to move about inside of the room now. I sat down beside the door, the only clear space, as I looked on.

The musical tunes of the Eldar construction workers were much more melodic and easier on the ears than human construction, which – now that I had seen how the Eldar did it – I saw as very, very crude at best. However, I still smiled at hearing the melody of Iron Maiden in the background. The Howling Banshees were quite smitten by the band and heavy metal in general.

Think of it as the difference between a young child lumping sand together to make a sand castle, to the skill needed to building a skyscraper. I mean, the Eldar creates buildings by music.

"The difference is much greater than that, mon-keigh, but I will grant you that your analogy bears on the same principle."

I jumped on the spot from the sudden voice beside me. And the fact that it had just read my mind. The voice itself was distorted, feminine, and a little hostile. Standing atop a pillar of wraithbone, as I had come to know the building material, was the Farseer I had unceremoniously and brutally impressed upon the underside of Mikel's Hammer. She was dressed in her craftworld's colors of black and white, the former being predominant, with a green sash – her personal color marking, it seemed – wrapped around her waist. She had stowed the shuriken pistol – the curvy little weapon that had caused me no end of wounds that seemed like someone had surgically implanted a dozen splinters into my arm.

"Farseer Aldir." I managed to reply. Her gaze was... very disconcerting.

I hope she's gotten over trying to flay my soul apart. I've got enough migraines as it is.

Maybe it was about the sense of scale, but the Eldar Farseer had tried to rip my soul apart on the first day, when we had a bit of a spat. The psychic attack had failed miserably on account of the sheer quantity of soul which I had. Kind of like trying to shred a piece of paper, then doing the same with a phonebook. I had a migraine for about three hours later, though, while I was buying cleaning supplies for obvious reasons. The Eldar Farseer now looked at me, bemusement radiating from her gestures. She was reading my mind again, wasn't she?

"Yes, mon-keigh. Such unguarded thoughts are refreshing to listen to... however, I still wish to splinter your mind. But for now, you are more useful to us alive than dead."

It was seriously worrying me. I looked at the Falcon, which stopped to deliver a few of the 'Exarchs' These were – as I had been told – Eldar citizens who had become enraptured in the Eldar lifestyle of war, and had given into their warrior personalities. Now they donned armor that would forever become their faces, fighting for their Craftworld – their homeworld – until the end of their lives.

The first to arrive was surfing on one of the curved sides, the Exarch of the Swooping Hawks, Tameeran. Her aquamarine armor and glistening wings were all that anyone ever saw of her. A faint popping sound beside the Farseer revealed the presence of the Warp Spiders Exarch, Arachnos. They were teleporters, but had quite the trouble adjusting to this world; many a time, the Warp Spiders were teleporting into the (thankfully hollow) walls, and caused a small ruckus between the Eldar and the cogboys because of their sudden appearance in the fuse-box.

"Exarch Arachnos, I see that your suits are functioning again." I smiled, nodding my head to each of the Exarches as they appeared in their own ways. Most of them were inside the confines of the Falcon and the Wave Serpent vehicles, which were nearly identical barring the fact that the Falcon had a turret.

The red and black Exarch nodded. His voice was perhaps the most distorted of the myriad of voices that I had ever heard over the last week. It was... electrified, if anything else suited that description.

"Yes. I has taken us a while to adjust, but now we are fully materialized."

Materialized, I had learned, was the Warp Spider slang for ready.

"Good. Well, it was nice to see you all."

Now it was time for the Orks.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


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## arturslv

Thought for the Day: "'ere we go, 'ere we go, when we'll get there, no-one knows!" - Ork Boarding Chant

Well guys, here's chapter 4, we have Orks, we have the Mechanicus, and we have Michael's friends coming to visit. Enjoy!

Critique, reviews, any commentary at all will be much appreciated!

Time to visit the Orks. Of all the forces here, they were the least controllable, so the others worked together to keep them bottled up in the basement.

The basement themselves were sparsely used, just four walls with a door leading up some winding stairs. Shelves were fixed into the walls, and all manner of junk was strewn about. The Orks moved in after I had removed anything vaguely valuable, dangerous, combustible or useable to create a weapon, so in essence I emptied out my basement – the shelves and cupboards excepted – to make room for the Ork horde that had to move in. It was only a small force, the fact that they had lost just over two thirds of their hundreds-strong force in the first day of scrappin'. But then again, the coalition of Tau and Imperium had only accounted for one third the total losses, The other two thirds would be because of the internal animosity between the greenskins themselves, especially after the confusion during the first few minutes of their arrival.

I looked at the encampment surrounding the doorway to the Ork domain. "Justicar Amadeus, Shas'vre." I greeted the two figures in command: a well decorated Grey Knight Justicar – the equivalent to a Major in this Earth's military rank, and the orange painted helmet of the Tau Shas'vre, the equivalent to a Lieutenant, or maybe Captain.

"Titan Michael." The Grey Knight stationed at the doorway said. The Tau and Imperium had both cooperated, and were keeping the Orks bottled up inside the basement. The Grey Knights, and Tau were stationed at the doorway, while the Sisters of Battle and the Cadian Guardmsen were keeping them from the window exits, along with the Space Marines spread between those two. I reached up, and grabbed the overhead pipe to steady myself as I missed the first step; that was where the Grey Knights were stationed, with the more fragile Tau units behind them. These guys got the brunt of the fighting, but I smiled to myself as I saw the ten Grey Knights sitting there and peacefully talking to the Tau. Armistices had never been so peaceful before, with the shared threat of the Orks below them.

However, one of them stood out. He had, for lack of a better word, a very large hat. It seemed to go with the theme of Inqusitors, so for the moment I looked on. This particular Grey Knight wasn't quite... standard. His weapons were a pair of bolters, their large, drum-like magazines about the size and weight of a man's torso. He waved one around like a toy, causing one Tau soldier to duck under an over enthused sweep of the arm as he tried to regale the stories he was no doubt spinning. There was a small, shared chuckle as the routine of the sweeping arms continued, and soon enough they noticed me. The Grey Knights – with one exception – snapped to attention. The hatted Knight just waved at me with his left arm, before realizing why there was a thump on the way up. A knocked out Tau soldier shook his head as he tried to blink the stars out of his eyes, his helmet cracked.

"Uh... hi." I managed to say, kneeling down beside the dazed Tau. The soldier took of his helmet, where I saw his markings around his armor's collar – unique among the Tau, almost, they were personal name-tags. This set belonged to a Tau Sergeant named Shas'ui D'lytir Nin'per... er... the name got a bit tricky. It meant 'Talon of... something', so normally we just called him the Gothic equivalent: Sergeant Talon.

"Good morning, O'Mikel... what just hit me?"

"This dude's bolter, Talon... why do you use a bolter, anyway, I thought Grey Knights used those wrist mounted things..." I looked at the wrist-mount, which had been shaved clean into a flat panel. The hatted Knight simply looked up at me. His face-plate and armor bore a lot of burn-marks and a corner of his pauldron had simply been slagged from a near miss with a heat weapon. Unlike the knight-like crusaders of the other Marines, resplendent in hearldry, this Grey Knight had little in the way of decorations, beside the hat and the bolters.

"What hap- "I DON'T KNOW!" The automatic response shocked everyone within hearing distance.

"Uh... the- "DONT EVENT THINK ABOUT IT!" I pulled my hand back as the mouths of twin bolters grinned at me.

"Alright then... Good morning to you..."

"His name's Silverite, from what I gather." The dazed Sergeant Talon said, pointing at the person who just broke his faceplate.

"O-kay... see ya."

And with that, I moved on.

"Mornin', gretchz." I greeted the outcast little goblins, who were tinkering away at a short, stubby Duracell battery. Though the rough equivalent to mechanics and repairmen, these guys often got the short end of the stick when it came to Ork society, and often were living in outposts at the fringes... or they could just have been the security teams, deprived of fighting while the rest of the Orks fought downstairs.

"Mornin', boss." They replied, wary of any whimsical punishment that might have come their way.

Now, with the Orks bottled up in the basement due to their inherent... well, the word for it would have been aggressiveness, although the difference between an orkish attitude and 'aggressive' was... vast. Like, from the Earth to the Sun kind of vastness. Although, thankfully, this attitude tended to implode when left in a small, enclosed environment. The large Ork 'WAAAGH!' had divided in their little underground basement. The mob had migrated into their respective 'clans': the 'Deathskullz', the 'Evil Sunz' and the 'Goffs', with their own color schemes and style.

The first were brutally cunning in their ability to mash two things together and make a vehicle or weapon, the second cunningly brutal in their speedy raiding and vehicular man/alien/people-slaughter, and the third were just plain brutality incarnate in in-your-face or stomping on your guts hand-to-hand brawling, with close combat weapons galore. They were fighting among each other, as I – their 'Big Boss' - had ordered them to stop fighting everyone else. An interesting loophole, but one that everyone was rather happy with having.

Descending the stairs and the jarring shocks that it shot up my legs reminded me of my injuries. My entire body was still sporting small scars from my skirmish with the Orks, which had made me look like I had been dragged through a garden of roses and shattered pottery. Actually... that would make a good excuse! I made a mental note to use that excuse for my appearances. Not wanting my house to be undermined by constant use of high explosives, I had told these Orks they were allowed to fight, but without anything that could punch through a tab of plywood at long range. That limited them to their axes and smaller caliber weapons. The heavier guns, the looted tanks and the rokkit launchas were right out.

Mind you, the black and white checks of the Goff's colors were very interested in my 'no big gunz' attempt at giving rules, too. They loved close combat. The Evil Sunz, red comets of the battlefield, were having a roaring party with their speedy vehicles, as the Deathskullz's blue facepaint and looted gear compressed into a dense formation as the two sides fought to get at each other.

Watching from the stairs, I was faced yet again with the reason why Orks were ignoring the others. It was simply that they didn't care who they were fighting. The three Greenskin factions were in a melee in the middle, quite happy to bash each other's brains in. The average Ork 'Boy' used weapons drawn from a very ramshackle arsenal; they used both home-made and looted gear, often from the larger of the Space Marines. The close quarters weapon of choice was the axe or cleaver/sword, collectively known as a 'choppa'.

The triangular battlefield was awash with Orks, all clambering over each other to get to an enemy, hacking and stabbing their large, heavy weapons. I quietly walked over to the underside of the stairs, pulling out a rusted old vacuum cleaner, affectionately known as a 'Sukka' by the Orks. I mean affectionately in the way a pyrotechnician would be affectionate to a pyromaniac. Plugging it in, I swept the long tube over the Orkish lines. A few of their still-living members were sucked up the tube, to be deposited into the vacuum bag. Wartrukks and buggies were knocked over as I slapped them with the tip of the HyperVac 3200. A few seconds of that, and the fighting had stopped.

One Ork looked up at me. A Deathskull Nob. His lower jaw was made of metal, a replacement jawbone of steel and whatever alloys they had cobbled together for him that was painted a deep blue. He held a drum-fed shotgun-type weapon, which he held as if a pistol, and waved the serrated blade welded onto the tip. A clumsily constructed dual-bolter arrangement was strapped to his back, which had all shades of blue in skin-pain painted on, and his left hand held on to the most stubby looking rokkit launcha that I'd seen. The greenskin turned around, bringing his rokkit up to launch at me.

He was promptly swept up into the tube that was my HyperVac 3200.

A Goff charged up to me. He was pretty young looking, still barely up to the chests of his seniors. Probably a young'un. He was introduced to the Sukka, and joined the Deathskull Ork that had gone up earlier on. A third Ork was booted as he tried to stab me in the ankle. Numbers four and five also went up the Sukka's gob as they came forward.

"Anyone else?" I asked, looking at the stunned Orks. There were no takers.

From the innards of the vacuum machine, though, there was a little clanging as a smaller scrap started inside. Picking up the heavy machine, I gave it a good shaking, jostling its contents violently. The screams subsided a few seconds later.

"Gork'n'Mork, that sukka's nasty!" A familiar voice echoed out from the innards of the 'Sukka'. I recognized it instantly, as the Deathskullz Ork that had too much dakka for his own good.

"Is that you, Gunna?" I said to one of the ventilation slits. There was a little scuffling around inside, before a shotgun-bolter-gun-thing went off, blasting a hole into the side of the Sukka. I had no doubts about it; the Ork was one of the 'Flash Gitz', an Ork who had it in for Dakka. He worshipped firepower and high lead-content in the air.

"Yep, 'ts me al-rite, boss!" The reply came. "'tho dere's sum sneaky smart'rses that're tryin' ta take me shoota!"

"What did I say to you earlier on?"

"A lie? You sez dat I 'ad too much dakka. Ain't no such ding as too much dakka, Boss." The voice protested, to the assent of many of his fellow Orks, both inside and outside the vacuum cleaner.

I sighed, and spoke again. "There is such a thing as 'Property Damage' or... how about 'Collapsing a house on top of yourself', Gunna. Too much Dakka around here, and there won't be anyone to fight, y'know. There won't even be a you, kapeesh?"

"Uh... soz does dat mean dere be no thing like too much dakka?"
"Nothing is too much, but just point it in the right direction, okay?"
"Okay, boss!"
"Good."

"Uh... boss?"

"Yes?"
"Can youz let us out now? Its kinda dark in 'ere."

Having pacifed the Orks for the moment, I quickly went over a few administrative stuff, namely: "Oi, boss, can wez make dat tin' goez boom?"

"No."

The Goffs chortled at this, as they were the Orkish clan that most preferred close combat, and therefore because of my rules they enjoyed themselves the most. Their 'ead nob was an Ork that used a massive powa klaw in combat, as well as a massive cleaver when - not if - it broke down. He was called 'ead-smasha for a reason, and a damned good one. The blue with black-and-white checkered trim banner waved about as he made his way over to me.

"Oi, boss! We'z gettin bored down 'ere! Can we go an' giv de'm el-dar boyz a liddle smackin'?"

"No, I don't want any more trouble with those guys... I'm getting enough migraines as it is."

"Oh... iz it okay to crump each other, den?"
"Yes. I guess so. Try not to make too much of a mess, cuz you'll be cleaning it up."

Mounting the stairs, I went back up as the Orks re-started their skirmish without the Dakka.

As I was exiting the basement, I nodded to the hatted Grey Knight. He waved the torso-sized grenade launcher in one hand as I passed by.

My stomach rumbled, causing a few chuckles of amusement - even from the stoic Grey Knights - as I passed.

Breakfast time. I gently reassured my stomach that food was coming, so I began to make my way to the kitchen. This took me past my study room, of sorts: computer, books, all manner of reference materials, that kind of thing. Oh, mind you, I didn't study all the time. I sometimes played. The computer had been given all manners of upgrades, thanks to my tech-savvy friends. It also had CounterStrike and other simple multiplayer games, which let me play with them, on occasion. However... the Adeptus Mechanicus had also made this place their second home, as well as a small force of Imperial Guardsmen and Sisters of Battle. After all, the Cogboys were the ones who maintained their gear.

They had also found a little niche of Earth society in which they could find themselves comfortable.

"WTF! U n00b! Teh h4x0r in teh b0 1s n0t b3 4 l4m3rs!" The mechanical voice - I recognized it as a copy of the 'Microsoft Sam' program with a slight modification - mainly that it always had a rising intonation at the end, which made it sound like it was constantly asking questions.

"Huh?" A confused male female voice drifted to my ears.

"He says: What are you doing, you idiot. The computer is not for incompetents." A more bored, male voice intoned. I recognized the voice. Sohm Vekt, an Imperial Guardsman. He was a simple trooper with an interpreter's job back in his homeworld. The guy loved to pore over the more philosophical texts my grandfather had left behind in my care.

"Oh. Well, I'm trained in the Gestal pattern logic engine, which isn't too different from this... can you let me through, please?" The last word would have twisted many a man around its owner's pinky. The owner was... it was... Meliya, wasn't it? She was the Battle Sister translator, and the second voice coughed.

"Sure. STFU... no, wait... GTFO... is that right? Oh, here it is: 'GTFO t3h l337z way, n00b... uh, I'm not too sure... This neo-lexicon is confusing."

I chuckled, and suppressed my rumbling stomach in time for them to see me. The cogboy immediately went into ecstatic convulsions.

"PH33r teh 4w3s0m3! M1kk3y'z h33r!" He shouted in a semi-deadpan voice. It was disturbing, for lack of a better word. I blinked a few times, before turning to Sohm.

"Uh... What did he just... say?" I'm a casual gamer, sure, but I just had no idea what the bastardized language was supposed to mean.

"He says its good to see you... I think." Meliya said, a loud whisper in the room. I nodded, and looked at the red robed tech-priest, and the smaller mechanical constructs that chittered around it.

"Tech priest?..."

"Nuuu! Mah t4g b3 h4x0r-c0gb01!" 'Hacker Cogboy' shouted. He had been a rather mature-sounding, very serious worshipper of the machine before he had found the 'Temple of Pentium IV'. Sadly, he had now fallen into l337-tardation. No offense to the real people who came up with it, but some people were just... stupid.

"Wow, you're really getting into this." I looked at the two other Imperials, one of which nodded her head and the other gave an exasperated sigh.

"Yeah, he's... l337 now." Sohm muttered, (deadpan snarker mode, on!). "They've been like this since they found that... CounterStrike game of yours."

"KEKEKEKEKE! Ph33r da wr4t|-| 0 da 3mpr4! L0l0l0l0l0l0l, pwnt!" A cogboy jacked into the modem cackled, typing away furiously at the keyboard sat on his thighs, his mouse was being operated by his mechanical fourth arm - the third was a plasma torch. I tried to ignore the madness for a little while.

"... somehow, this worries me more than the possibility of the Orks attacking." I muttered. "Is there anyone here still sane?"

"That would be me, your lordship." A deep, vox-enhanced voice spoke. It belonged to, by the looks of it, the demented, crack-enhanced machine-human combination which would have put Doc Ock to shame. The cowl was thrown back, the mechanical collar (the kind you'd have on as armor, not the leather band around the neck) pulled down. Loose strands of green hair were shaken loose. It was cropped close to the scalp, barely coming to the Adeptus Mechanicus' ears. It framed the face of a young woman. She was beautiful, in that aesthetically pleasant way, but like many of the Sisters of Battle and the female warriors of the Eldar, there was that sense of absolute confidence in her position and strength that gave them a very valkyrie-like fashion. Flippantly, she flicked a lock of hair from her face.

"Boys and their toys." She sighed, to Meliya's most empathic nod and Sohm's snort of amusement. Amisa 238041-194513 (normally in barcode-like format) was a Skitarii lieutenant, and for all intents and purposes a second in command from the Artisan - the foreman, in other words. Her mechanical appendages - servo arms, plasma cutters, chain-bladed rippers and various other tools of mechanical warfare - curled around her like errant strands of her hair. After all, there were a series of cables attached to a metal plate on the back of her neck, which ran into her backpack and the armored suit.

"Forgive the Tech-Priests, Michael. Its just... well... all these ancient technologies..."

"Hey, its not that old!" Indignity laced my voice as I cried out. Most of my stuff was second hand, sure, but not ancient! Well... admittedly, some of it could count as ancient, but it wasn't that old!

"... again, forgive me, m'lord." She bowed her slender (and literal) frame, and looked back up at me. "Its just that... all these technologies have the hallmarks of pre-Here... no, pre-Crusade technologies... and even then, I'm suspecting them to be Pre-Dark Age as well. All considered, that would make this technology almost 30,000 years old."

"Hell no! My stuff isn't that old!"

DING DONG!

"3h! W00t, h33rz sum ppls!"

Oh shit. And I haven't even had breakfast yet.

"Yo, Mike!" A rather accented voice called out – Vincent! (Quick note: His given name was Vincent, he also had one in Chinese, but identified with Japanese more – anime otaku – and was born of Indonesian parents. Its complicated.) "... Hey, are you in there! I thought I heard voices... you know I can break locks, right!"

"Michael, ya in there! Its us!" A southern belle voice filled the house. Alice, one of my circle of friends. Tau and Imperials alike were running around, looking for direction.

OhshitohshitohshitOHSHITOHSHITOHSHIT!

Short Omake: Dawn of War

"What is this?" A CD was flipped over, and the cover art inspected. Force Commander Eizak peered at his Blood Raven counterpart. The Commander had... hair. He rubbed his bald scalp enviously. Turning to the Sister of Battle beside him, he pointed at the large, stone letters. They were merely printed on cheap paper, but nonetheless the effect was stunning. Such heroism captured in the heat of battle.

"I d-don't know, Force Commander Eizak." The white and black armored Sister replied, more than nervous.

"Dawn of War. I believe they use this program to simulate combat to allow for the training of a new generation of commanders." Sohm Vekt looked at a Cadian, standing there half-frozen in the snow. The Cadian 412th... he hadn't heard about that unit, and the Lorn V system was entirely unfamiliar to him. The two armored figures whipped around in surprise.

"How did you know that?" The Space Marine spoke first.

"It says it on the cover." Two sets of eyes were giving him confused stares. The Guardsman sighed "I read, I learn. My scholarium was based at the bottom of an ancient library, so we did a lot of reading into ancient texts, particularly how to read them. I learned how to read this... the Terran alphabet, when I was in my final year." He finished his little explanation with mutterings of how there wasn't any humor left these days...

"I see... and these?" Meliya looked at the other CD cases in the shelf. She peered at them as the Commander walked off to sulk.

"Those are the expansion packs, this one here is called Winter Assault, that one's Dark Crusade, and the other's SoulStorm."

"Ah, there's a Canoness from the Order of the Sacred Rose on here!"

"Yes, apparently the expansions includes data and the ability to lead other factions as well... it seems like in this particular expansion, the Sisters of Battle have been added, as well as the Dark Eldar." Sohm had also been a translator, back in his day, and would interpret all kinds of communications. So he was well versed in the myraid of languages – even more so than the rather sheltered Meliya. She crouched down beside him, looking at the blurb and 'system requirements' of the case.

"I see..." She murmured, leaning forward to look closer. A slight shift on the table – caused in part by the Mechanicus boys lifting a generator down and changing the weight distribution – caused the young Sororitas to tip backward. Hands reached out, and caught her before she could fall over, and pulled her forward. Into the arms of her Cadian counterpart. Both flushed red.

"..." Taking off his helmet, Sohm quickly separated from her. "My apologies, Sister."

"Just call me Meliya!" She grew red as her fleur de lis tattoo (it was on her neck).

"Alright... my apologies... Meliya."

She gave a small smile. It was... something he'd remember for a long time. Sohm scratched at the stubble on his jaw, looking back at the giant disk. He was getting a little uncomfortable when he looked at the white-haired young woman underneath the helmet.

"Fine. Now... how about if we see about playing this game?"

"I dibs the Sisters of Battle!"

"PWNT! j00 ju57 g07 0wnt b41 d4 c0gb01z!"

"... I think we'll have to get past those guys first..."


----------



## arturslv

"I hate those mon-keigh." Zara fumed. "Stupid, barbaric primates..." She threw her shuriken pistol at the plush couch set into the wall of her room.

The slender pistol bounced off the backing, and then lay still where it came to rest. She stalked over to the mounting for her armor, setting her conical helm down on the head of her mannequin double. The Eldar Farseer sighed, her worn and torn cape unclasping from her shoulders, the psycho-reactive armor responding to her urges for freedom.

Zara caught the black cape, and threw it gently around the doll.

The mesh-like fibers of the doll was quick to catch the clasps onto the shoulder, affixing it into place. The armored wraithbone 'wings' came next, the mounting/backpack support and sensor systems that supplemented her already acute senses. They were carefully detached from her back, revealing the skin-tight suit underneath, and pressed the armored plates against the back of the mannequin. Those reacted to the mesh-skin of the doll just as her cape had, the two surfaces interfacing as tiny machines embraced each other with their eldritch adhesives.

Her armor began to slowly unravel, little seams appearing and separating, allowing her to shed the wraithbone plates without having to worry about missing or losing anything. She rested pauldrons, chipped and scarred from a thousand battles, and the breastplate, inscribed with dozens of runes, which had turned aside more daemon blades than she could care to remember. Of course, one blade was one too many for her. She continued to do this, removing sections of her armor slowly and meticulously, hoping that the almost ritualistic process and the prospect of her freedom afterward be enough of a reward as well.

Her frustration did not end with the sensation of freedom that came with being released from the skin-tight embrace of her armor suit. Zara ran a slender hand down her lithe figure, brushing off dust that wasn't there. A brush was snatched up, and began to work their way through her hair. Having shed her personality of the Farseer, Zara was now... Zara, the Eldar woman. She sighed, her comb tugging through her hair, searching for something pleasant in her life, as if grasping at straws.

Not even that worked, and Zara soon found her silky strands too smooth for any more brushing to help. She stood, and began to peel the thick layer of her undersuit off. The fibrous second skin was what kept an Eldar warrior comfortable in their form-fitting suit, as well as adding an extra layer of protection against impacts, the gel-like inner layers of the multi-layer suit helping to dampen blows. Now out of the suffocating black suit, she began to dig around her possessions for a robe or... something.

In the far reaches of her mind, her Farseer self screamed at the sulking woman to get up. Something is coming, you silly girl!

There was a disturbance behind her. Zara tensed as she turned around, her hand reaching out for the Singing Spear on the other side of the room.

Something came shredding through reality, landing in the middle of her living space as the Shining Spear heeded her call.

Her razor sharp (well... not razor sharp, since this blade had a cutting edge honed so finely to the point where a razor would be about as sharp as a sphere) weapon halted as its tip hovered scant inches off the nose of a bruised and battered young Eldar. Zara twitched an eyebrow.

His Aspect Armor denoted him as one of the warp-hopping Warp Spiders. Her memory dug up his name.

"Urual, was it not?" He flinched visibly, all trace of Eldar dignity and poise dashed to pieces.

"Don't hurt me!" Was his automatic response.

"What in the Warp happened to you!" She asked, twisting an eyebrow up in questioning.

He was muttering incoherently, his skin-suit showing damage equivalent to being clawed and twisted about in very painful ways. The only word she recognized was 'banshees'. Zara sighed, tossing her spear aside, and knelt down in front of the wounded Spider. Without his armor on, the Eldar had none of their Aspect Warrior selves to steel against the horrors of combat. The make-believe personality was what little mental protection they had from being consumed by the sensations of battle.

He looked up to the Farseer, the luminescent stone behind her framing her figure in a soft glow. "Uwah! P-please! No more hitting!" He tried to scramble away from her bared self, clutching his warp-piercing backpack along with him.

"Calm down, Warrior of Khaine!" She growled angrily. "What's wrong with you?"

"L-look, I'm sorry, okay? Please... just don't..."

There were the sounds of a stampede outside, and the door burst in two heartbeats later, a dozen half-dressed Aspect Warriors of the Howling Banshees shrine poured into the room. Lyndia the Exarch looked at the scene, and her face grew as red as the blood blooms in the Gardens of Radiance back on the craftworld.

"Farseer! Even you! You wretched, craven... grah! Nothing is sacred to you, is it! DIE!"

The pink haired huntress leaped forward, but her slap was intercepted by the Warp Spider's shoulder pad being raised in defense. The rest piled on, knocking over Zara's armored mannequin. The Farseer snapped as the rest of the Banshees dog piled on the Warp Spider.

"EVERYONE, OUT! THAT MEANS NOW!"

"Can't get any peace and quiet even in my own room... damn it... what the Warp was that boy up to, anyway?"

Zara continued to mumble as she walked beside the wall of the building, where the Seers and the commanders were housed. She sighed again as she played with the small brooch that held together her robes. Humans of Michael's civilization would see a resemblance between the robes she wore and Greek/Roman toga, but of a much finer quality. Like a cloud wrapped around a mountain (though she had none), they seemed to float as she walked to the gathering hall. A place where Seers would convene, where they could find friends to talk, to seek council and comfort.

"Something disturbs you, Farseer Zara?" A voice called out, making the Farseer turn around to face its owner.

"Warlock Yoza." She greeted, her ever cold facade melting. The older Warlock – he was maybe fifty years her senior - could have been a Farseer by right of skill long before she had even begun the Path of the Seer. But something had stopped him. His mind's parthenon of personalities had literally warred over the decision to become consumed in the Path of the Seer. The mind-war had become almost famous in the Ulthwe craftworld, as the powerful Warlock had exiled himself to an abandoned garden complex deep in the belly of the crafrworld, and the splinters of his mind had taken physical form to fight it out.

As evidenced by his still being a Warlock, he had obviously reached the decision to remain in the Path of the Seer, but not to become a Farseer. He made an excellent mentor and teacher to most of the Ulthwe Seers, as well as his reputation as an unparalleled spearman. She had experienced both first hand, ever since he had attached himself to her retinue as a bodyguard. And as the path of the Seer was the first Path she had come into, she had been taught... other things by him as well.

"Zara." He spoke her name again, concern edging into his usually detached voice. "Something troubles you?"

"Y-yes..." She was suddenly nervous as Yoza contemplated her facial expression, feeling like a child being scolded by her teacher. Of course, their histories considered, that was a more than fair analogy. Plus, since he had mentored her through almost six decades, he knew every quirk and tic of her subconscious. Zara regained her composure, and sighed.

"Then let us talk about it."

The Warlock gave a small gesture, completely physical, but Zara felt herself pulled towards him, falling in step with him as they walked off to a more secluded place. The meditation chambers for the Seers were perfect for that purpose.

Inside the Seer meditation vaults, they found a small room; white walled and circular with a large platform in the middle, which would facilitate the meditation of any Seers.

"The mon-keigh – the big one." She started as soon as the door had slipped closed. The security of privacy was comforting, and so was the presence of her bodyguard/teacher/confident. "He's... annoying. He doesn't act like the other mon-keigh. He's brash, he has an overwhelming desire to impress me onto various objects... yet he doesn't have that arrogance the mon-keigh we have known over centuries seem to call their 'rights'."

"However... he is not the real problem, is he?" Yoza queried. He never fluffed up conversation.

Zara gave a reluctant nod. The Warlock went on.

"The Imperials themselves have been shown in a new light, have they not? With the other Psykers, talk to them in their dreams, I have. That female psyker of theirs; little control, but much power she wields."

"Oh?" Zara looked up, half-confused. He spoke... differently now. The open-minded Warlock had changed since they had arrived into this place. She had faced the same problems herself.

"A pressure based dispenser, she is like. Expecting a small trickle, you turn the regulator, but a torrent you get. So turn it off again, you would, in"

"What is with that grammar, Yoza? I do not remember you speaking like that. Until... now."

"An interesting character, I saw. Yoda, he was called. Very entertaining, he was."

"..." Zara looked confused for a second, blinking a few times in disbelief. By a piece of mon-keigh drama, he was... wait! She was getting into that style too. Must avoid falling into that trap. So a piece of mon-keigh flat-screen drama had influenced him that much?

"It was a very good movie. One of the few that survived that errant shot from Fuero's Fire Pike. The Empire Strikes Back, it was called. A classic of a past age, as Michael had put it." The Warlock grinned, he looked surprisingly young when he did. Despite his centuries of age, most humans would not have put his age past the mid thirties. By comparison, Zara looked in her early twenties, and was only a century and a half old.

"So... back to the problem, we must go: Because the future is muddled, you are frustrated, yes? That you cannot see what is to happen? Confused, the futures have become. Out of a job, we Seers are."

"Warlock Yoza, please return to your old way of speaking, it is much less annoying."

"Fine, fine. So we've got a problem. To try and fix it, you need to relax. I've read into the depths of this space. She Who Thirsts has not touched this place. There seems to be a barrier of some kind. I believe that Macha's destined has something to do with this." The Warlock mused, again in a serious mood. The swings of his personae was obvious to Zara, who – like many before her – wondered for his sanity.

"In short, we can afford to be relaxed under Michael's care. That boy may well be a psyker. His influence, however, is more subtle. He persuades. We are at peace, are we not? Millennia of war has left our races bitter, but in one afternoon he has managed to bring us to stop. Annd create a treaty; an uneasy peace, but peace nonetheless. If I were to gamble on this, I would say he is a psyker.

However, this could also be a scale factor. Our minds are much smaller in size compared to his. He is, after all, that much more massive than we are. Therefore, his force of personality, however small it would be in his scale of things, is much more than ours. Other mon-keigh on this planet would not be affected, but... the more malleable of us – like the Imperial mon-keigh – would find themselves empathizing with him."

Yoza looked into her eyes, confiding in her. She looked back, her mouth agape. The idea that a mon-keigh could wield such power... she leaned back, against the wall. He stepped forward as she began to slide to the side, catching her and supporting her. His breath caressed her neck as he held her. Such comfort... Zara placed her hands on his forearms, supporting herself now. This man... he had always supported the leaders of Ulthwe, as a bodyguard and as a teacher and as more than just the relationship demanded of their Path.

What would have happened, had he lost himself in the Path of the Seer, or taken the Path of Command?

She gasped as he sat her down on the pad, a circular platform of springy cloth which provided a comfortable place to rest and meditate. Zara sighed as he sat down beside her, her breathing deepening as she contemplated the facts that he had presented her. So Michael was a psyker; at some level all living beings were, but him? In general, the concept was not well received: Michael was far too ignorant! Well, they had appeared in his backyard, and many daemons and other travelers of the Warp used psykers to guide them to their destination, so it was not a huge leap of imagination to think of what Michael had to be.

Yoza's face appeared above her, smiling gently. His hand began to tease her robes from her shoulders.

"Zara... relax." He whispered, lips inches away from hers.

There was, again, a faint popping sensation. Someone gave a squeak of surprise.

"Ack! Sorry, sorry! I didn't meant to interrupt! Those Banshees have been hunting me all day!"

The panicked Warp Spider was trying not to stare at the two figures on the platform, and was frantically fiddling with the warp jump generator cradled on his lap.

"You again!" Zara looked around, trying to find a weapon.

Yoza sighed as he casually tossed some wraith stones, the Eldar equivalent to tarot cards, to predict the future. They fell erratically, defying prediction. The Rune of Warning, however, landed side-by side with the Rune of the Present.

"As Michael would say: 'Oh crap'." Yoza quipped.

Banshees were close behind, followed by some rather uncomfortable Seers who had been caught up in the search. Yoza stomped on the ground, sending a psychic shock-wave that made everyone stop in place.

"Alright, enough!"

"So it was all an accident?" Lyndia eyed the Warp Spider, who was more than nervous at the prospect of being caught by her. Warp and Daemons be damned, an angry Banshee was far worse a foe!

"Y-yes..." He stammered in reply.

Yoza facepalmed, sighing in frustration. "For the love of dignity, Urual, please stop stammering!"

"Uh... sure!" Came the response.

"Now apologize to the Exarch."

"I'm sorry for teleporting into your bath-house! It was really an accident, but I ask for your forgiveness!" The Warp Spider bowed to Lyndia, who was now dressed in robes similar to that of Zara, rather than the hastily wrapped towel.

"Good boy. Now... Exarch Lyndia. What do you have to say?" Zara asked the Exarch.

"Sorry for assuming you were a depraved, teleporting pervert." She droned.

"And..." Yoza added.

"..."

"Something to do with why you were waving your Power Blades around." He hinted.

"And sorry for trying to cut you into small pieces."

"Good girl. Now that that's all sorted, lets just shake hands and get this over with."

Before the two could reconcile, however, something massive happened.

"GOOD MORNING, ELDAR!" Michael cheerfully boomed, throwing open the door. The gust of wind it generated threw light objects everywhere, including the rather airy clothes of the Eldar women.

Urual blushed as he tried to cover his eyes as Lyndia tried to push down her robes. "They're pink!" (1)

She flushed bright red as her clothing settled back to their place. That stillness that followed lasted but a few heartbeats as Lyndia exploded.

"YOU IMMORAL, DEPRAVED, PERVERTED HOUTAN!(2)"

[A/Ns: (1): He was not referring to the color of her undergarments.

(2): A Houtan is a type of primate native to a jungle world named Sumatra IV, often visited by the Ulthwe for supplies and jungle warfare training. It is well known for its mischievous playfulness and habit of stealing small shiny objects. Imperial forces in the area are therefore banned from polishing weapons and uniform in a unique exception to dress code regulations. Infractions are punished with the offender being deposited into one of the many local mud pools.]


----------



## arturslv

Scrape.

Scrape.

Scrape.

The hard dirt moved aside easily as the Flayed Ones sliced with their finger blades before pulling out the neatly sliced black rocks. They were impatient, if that emotion was able to be felt among the race of the dead. Their green eyes glittered as their fingers moved aside dirt. Around them, small scarabs the size of their palms picked up chunks of rock and moved it further away from the excavation. Emotion held little sway over the Necron, but if anything they could feel hate. Hatred and hunger. For the souls of those who were still alive, while they were cursed with such undeath.

The Necron Lord overlooked their progress as his warriors began to rise. Swathed in a black cloak, his decorated body of living metal glowed as he paced forward, rolling a green orb between his hands. The golden masked flared as it picked up a signal from the army around him. They were rising... they were rising.

Arcs of green energy danced between faded grey metal as the soulless machines staggered to their feet, ancient fingers grasping at ancient weapons. Some picked dirt off their metal bodies, while others shook aeons of dust and grime off. The green tubes of the gauss flayers came to life, and joined the Flayed Ones as they tried to dig their way out of their tomb. Behind them, a pyramid much larger than themselves shimmered to life, the green crystal mounted atop the giant structure glowing to life as its four turrets began to swing around, testing the limits of its motion.

All throughout this, small, miniscule spiders and scarabs moved between the rising Necron forces, assisting a Warrior here, assembling a Destroyer there, and pulling a Pariah out from under a seam of stone. Irritation's imiation pulsed through the mechanical processes of the Lord. Their teleporter had yet to be awoken in the Monolith, so they would have to get out the slow way.

Scrape.

Scrape.

Scrape.

A parody of joy broke out, the shadow of elation spread through the ranks as the wall crumbled through, revealing an entrance into a second cavern. It was rough but almost circular, and the faster Necron – the Wraiths and the Flayed Ones – stumbled out into this new space. Most had barely enough room to move about, it was like a sewer. The Necron's abstract feeling of triumph did not last very long, as they realized that the darkness ahead was sealed.

They moved forward, the Necron Lord joining them.

Reaching out, a Flayed One pushed his claw against the seal. It was a brittle material, it realized. A collection of carbon fibers that were bound together by pressure and a crude bonding agent. The material tore easily once a tear was made. It was a dark, gritty red, but on the inside it was the purest white that they Necrons had every seen. Continuing to tear jagged triangles off the material, they found that it was a container: Now they faced another material, this time it was almost fluid: At the touch of the Necron blades, it seemed to absorb the blades, a dark pit leaving it. A very pliable, soft material. It was grey, although a lighter shade than their own metal 'skin'. A scarab went up to the wall of pliant resistance, and bit off a small section.

Analysis confirmed it as C7H5N3O6 , a semi-organic substance.

The Necron felt confusion for perhaps the first time in millenia.

What the hell was this stuff?

A sealant?

The Necron Lord waved for his minions to dig around it. The newly activated excavator scarabs swarmed, moving forwards now and digging around the pliant material.

Vestiges of emotion surfaced in the Necron Lord. His purge would soon begin. They would soon break free... A siren cut through the air.

"FIRE IN THE HOLE!" All of the Necrons froze in place, their weapons raised. Scarabs chittered as the voice boomed out.

"FIRE IN THE HOLE!" The second shout spurred the Necron Lord into a charge. The rest of the Necron tomb advanced, looking out at the bright tunnel. The cavern they had dug out into was massive... it could have easily accommodated a starship.

"FIRE IN THE HOLE!" He was suddenly aware of the big red pipe running from the pliant obstacle and out over the edge of the cliff.

The Lord turned back, a small section of his logic cortex pinging a very disturbing message.

C7H5N3O6 was the chemical formula for the explosives used many, many aeons ago, to blast out their tomb worlds.

The whole cavern lit up in a massive expansion of gases. The very air ignited as 200 pounds of C4 detonated in the enclosed space.

Foreman Dave Bernly pressed down on his hat as the explosives kicked in, ripping a massive chunk out of the mine. The wave of pressure slammed into the gathered team, buffeting them with a millisecond's worth of supersonic wind. Half the crew knelt on the ground for stability.

Dust rained down as the few who saw it cheered, whooping in pyromaniacal joy.

Beside him, Matthew Nickel chuckled as he stood up from the detonator. His short, curly hair was strewn all over his face as he cackled with laughter.

"Never gets old, does it?" The youngest member of the team, Henry, asked. He stood up, pulling his hard hat off as chunks of coal rained down from the sky. He walked over to the laptop, where cameras had recorded the explosion from far closer than it was possible for the humans.

"Never does." Matt agreed. "C'mon, lets get the diggers in. Whatever was in there's been blasted to bits. Lets go clean up."

"Okay. Vincent'll love this." Henry chuckled, quickly scanning through the recording. A few seconds before detonation, he stopped.

"Hey... hey, guys... look at this."

"Hmm? What is it?"

"Look there. A flash of green."

"What the hell was that?"

"Dunno."


----------



## arturslv

The banging on my door got a bit more anxious in its pitch.

Oh crap! If Vincent and Alice see this... shit! All hell would break loose... well, at least for them.

I burst out of the study, leaving the three Imperials behind and stepped out into the corridor. The front door was only a few meters away, but already the Warhammer 40,000 universe's denizens were already hauling their 1/56th scale asses, trying to get moving and were mass-migrating back to their rooms. They weren't stupid, and they knew what it could mean when the titan-sized friends came along. The Eldar were – for once – cooperative with me when I said that secrecy would be priority. Skimmers were used for this rapid evacuation, and it was surprising to see Space Marines boarding a Tau Devilfish troop carrier without complaint. Unsurprisingly, the heavy Power Armor caused one side of the troop carrier to dip down, the pod-mounted gun-drone scraped the carpet as they bugged out.

Chimera and Rhino APCs, the carriers of the Imperial Guard and Space Marines, rolled in formation with Kroot – Tau auxiliaries that looked like a walking, featherless chicken that could rip your head off - hanging on to the pintle mounted weapons. Others were more passive in their hiding, the Tau Stealth battlesuits running to the potted plant and activating their active camouflage system. Eldar Rangers were following suit, their 'cameleoline' cloaks shimmering as they raced across the floor out to the patio.

My head throbbed as an Eldar Wave Serpent hovered past.

Those headaches that I got more and more often were unbearable. Zara had made a habit of attacking not only my mind, but my very soul as well, trying to shred it into pieces and sending them into the Warp. It was just the sheer difference in size between us, with me being extremely large and her being so small that saved me. My soul was simply too large for her to shred; from what Justicar Amadeus and Librarian Vasili had told me, it was like trying to use a paper shredder to try and shred a phone book all at once, rather than a cheap paper business card.

Well, back to the rushing around.

The Space Marine Dreadnought lumbered past, his stubby legs propelling him in the manner of a bull-charge. The venerable veteran was maybe twice the height of a Marine, but was more the shape of a half-brick that had marshmallows for limbs. That made him a little less mobile than the others, although to be honest they were far more stable. He followed up the backwards charge of Space Marines.

"Guys!" I hissed as quietly as I could. "C'mon, c'mon!" I picked up Tancred and pushed him along, setting him down in the corridor, where he could make his own way. It wasn't much for us, but it had cut maybe a minute or two out of his travel times, though.

"Michael! We can hear someone in there! Don't try and hide from us, okay?" Vincent chuckled as he banged playfully on the door.

"I'm coming!" I turned around as a boxy Chimera APC sped past, ready to pick up its complement of Guardsmen to evacuate. I stepped down on it as it went on underneath me, and it shot off from under my foot as Father Physics did its job: namely, the tracks did not provide any traction whatsoever as they shot forward, taking my foot with me as socks were tangled with pintle and side mounted weapons. The fact that the treads were exposed at the top as well were no help. I gave a yelp as my leg kicked forward, and slipped.

Darkness swallowed me as I felt my head hit the floor.

I looked around, and saw that this was... a room? The light began to shine again, re-defining the new space that I was in. It was extravagant, to say the least. A richly decorated room with regards to the decorations, which were slightly over the top but still had some vestige of taste. Posters of singers and celebrities, a neat stack of teen gossip magazines mixed in with an expensive looking computer. Half the room was devoted to vanity.

I turned to the middle of the room, where a figure was sitting on the ground, her legs splayed out like a 'W'.

Blood leaked from her cuts.

She had cut herself more than once, the angry red lines crisscrossing her wrist, letting the blood slowly dribble along the grooves. A razor was held loosely in her other hand. She looked like a mess; brown hair fell to her shoulder blades, and rather pasty skin made her look like someone who had just gotten into hospital or something. Her body was slim, like a dancer or a gymnast. She was, to be frank, rather plain looking; neither beautiful nor ugly. Well, could have been leaning towards 'pretty', had it not for the fact that she had streaks running from her ears to her jaw, mixing makeup with tears.

Blood ran along the grooves.

Grooves that had been carved into the hardwood floor of her room, inscribing a circle just a little too small for her to lie in. Eight lines splashed out in even intervals, their random lengths ending in arrowheads.

I realized that she had been losing blood steadily over a long time; the grooves were acting like irrigation ditches, channeling the blood. It had filled most of the circle and spokes of the wheel already. She saw that her blood was beginning to thicken, to slowly heal the gash on her wrist. A quick slash let a fresh spring burst from her skin.

Eyes flickered up, meeting mine.

I froze.

"W-who?" She managed to stammer, in a hoarse whisper.

Her blue eyes were unfocused as she suddenly mewled like a newborn kitten, curling up in the middle of the circle. An invisible hand wrapped its fingers around her throat, and she choked out a whimper as I saw raw Chaotic power begin to take hold. She began to tremble, shaking uncontrollably as something took a hold of her.

Her blood offering began to boil. Not metaphorically, literally; steam was rising from the edges of the Wheel of Chaos. She shuddered, arching her back. Her bleeding wrist seemed fixed to their spot as she convulsed in front of me.

Her mouth opened in a silent scream.

I saw her change before me: her teeth sharpening into fine points. Her eyes were alight in pained despair as the blue irises changed to red. Fine hair tangled as she writhed on the spot, convulsing in silent agony as the forces of Chaos shook her body. Whatever was happening to her, it was happening fast.

Unnatural spasms spilled blood everywhere as she struggled to speak. Her hair had now turned black, and now changed to a bright purple as the Warp took it toll from her body. Around her, shadows began to solidify. Eyes fixed to mine, her red irises locking onto mine. She whispered into my soul, her own essence grazing mine.

"Kay... Kay-ohsssss... isss hee-eer." She said. I struggled to comprehend... Ch-Chaos... is here?

The wall imploded as reality shredded, and my body felt like it had spontaneously combusted. I screamed from the pain, the absolute agony of reality being rent asunder in front of me. The circular portal was a blood red maw of unreality, mixed with white points of light, and I saw it as what it was; a gate from the Eye of Terror itself. Falling onto my astral knees, I gasped for breath as it was sucked from my lungs, hearing the chuckles and the cries of the daemons around me.

A figure stepped from the shadows, its horned helmet swinging this way and that. Crackling energies splashed out from his fingertips as he looked behind him. The Chaos Sorcerer, one of the Thousand Sons of Ahriman, looked around his new world.

A crimson-armored amalgamation of Marine and Techpriest stepped out beside him, a Techmarine. He had with him armored servo arms similar to Amisa's, but more bulky and battle-scarred. His entire left arm was wrapped in an interface of some kind, as was his right shoulder. Servitors – nearly identical to the ones that the techmarine living under my roof had – spread out around him.

The mottled armor of another Chaos Marine showed me that the next Marine had arrived, followed closely by several dozen more Marines. Severed heads were mounted on a series of poles on his back. Tau, Eldar, human, Ork. Faces that I would never know. Some were trapped in eternal agony, others were ashen and blank. His daemon blade glowed with ethereal fire, and as he brandished it, the eye set into the crossguard blinked, looking around the room.

Obviously the leader. He looked at the Sorcerer.

"Why the hell are we so small!"

A bright pain flowered on my nose.

There was only darkness.

*STAB*

"Did it work?"

That voice belonged to Sohm.

"It appears not... shall I try again?"

Zara was a little too enthusiastic about the prospect of trying to... wait, my nose...

It was really, really hurting. Reflexes kicked in.

"AAAAAARGHWOWOWOWOWO~ARCK!"

"Yep, it worked." Came Sohm's satisfied voice.

You're going to pay for that!

The sharp spear of Farseer Zara was still driven into the tip of my nose, but more concerning was the fact that she had been standing on my lips when I screamed, opening my relatively huge maw.

Gravity did the rest of the job.

The Farseer dropped down into my mouth, screaming along with my choking as I sprung upright, throwing probably two-dozen concerned miniature warriors around. Others backed away, others ran. I reckon the latter were smarter.

I gagged once.

"PHTOOEY!"

Out the Farseer was spat. She bounced off the floor I had ejected her onto, her robes were slick with my saliva.

Most of the surrounding watchers gave a collective "Ewwww."

"That was utterly disgusting, mon-keigh!" Zara picked herself up, livid with rage, and promptly slipped and fell to her knees. She got back up, hissing with rage. 'Boiling kettle' was a rather good metaphor here.

"You tried to eat me, you overgrown, barbaric... rrrrgh... mon-keigh! Not event the most articulate words will express my rage!"

"Who in the hell told you to stand over my mouth, anyway!" I retorted, spitting out one of her shoulder-ornaments. Zara blustered as I tried to pick a shuriken pistol out from between my molars and my cheek without sending monomolecular ninja stars down my throat.

"Um... Gue'O Mi'kel? You still have a spear sticking out of your nose... its wound is bleeding quite profusely." Shas'ui Talon helpfully informed me. Dang, I hadn't realized it was there. I spat out Zara's little ninja-star-pistol, and then reached up to my face and pulled it out the spear - painfully – to throw it back at Zara and accepted a tissue given to me, freshly torn from its stand in the kitchen to stem the bleeding. My head was in absolute terror as it tried to suppress the pain... jeeze, what the hell happened?

"Mon-keigh, I am talking to you." The Farseer sternly intoned. She reached out, and tickled my brain with her powers.

"Okay, okay, and stop doing that already, I ran out of Panadol™ yesterday!" I shouted irritably at her, waving my hand dismissively. There was an 'I want attention' cough from behind me.

"Uh... Michael... when you're not busy with the Farseer, can you tell these guys to lower their weapons? I'm not looking forward to seeing what a meltagun can do to my face." Came a rather nervous plea. I looked up, suddenly aware of my visitors.

Vincent and Alice sat in a corner. Knees tucked up to their chins, and hands resting on top of their heads, they were surrounded by some of the largest land based weapons of the 41st millenium. Leman Russ MBTs, Hammerhead heavy gunships, Falcon grav-tanks, a Land Raider... well, you get the idea.

Oh, I should introduce them now.

Vincent, the rather stocky Asian, had a long mop of raven black hair that touched his shoulders, and glasses that framed his deep brown eyes. His awkward smile – absurdity in the face of adversity – looked rather slapped on, and could slacken into panic at any moment. He was wearing his usual blue denim coat over a short sleeved undershirt, and long cargo pants, with heavy boots. His ubiquitous 'Bag of Holding' was resting against his toes. He had a Space Marine with a Multi-melta on his knees, pointing the barrel of the literal 'heat ray' at his face.

Alice, brown hair and green eyes, tall and willowy, was a Southern Belle in appearance, but her manner was completely opposite. She wore a sleeveless turtleneck and jacket, paired with jeans and some high boots which scraped her knees. Her handbag was at her toes, and her bangles jingled as she rested her hands on her head. She had an Eldar Fire Dragon – anti-tank specialists – pointing a long barreled Fire Pike to her throat.

Both were looking rather unsettled at the moment, but Vincent was taking things rather well, comparatively speaking. The guy could accept anything, because of his rather... philosophical approach to things. His collar, however, was visibly singed.

The commanders of the prisoner detail – Commander Firestrike, Sergeant Vinters, the Dark Reaper Exarch and Commissar Tomas all looked at me for instruction. I gave a small sigh of frustration.

"Guys, point those things somewhere else." I said, and they obeyed over the next few seconds. Alice relaxed with a sigh. She looked like she was melting as her tense muscles uncoiled. Vincent was doing the same thing. He helped the Devastator Marine down, and leaned forward to look at a Leman Russ tank that had been threatening him earlier on.

Alice took this moment to absolutely freak out.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE THESE THINGS!" She screeched. Vincent, surprisingly, stayed calm as he explained things to her. Mr. Exposition was a good nickname.

"They're people from Warhammer, I think." He mused, shifting gears from hostage to nerd. "1/56 scale models that people in the UK make to play a game. But... these guys have come to life."

"What! So we were being held hostage by a game!

"Not anymore, it looks like. These guys are the real deal. So, is this why you weren't around on Saturday, Michael?"

"Yeah. They arrived Friday."

"I see."

Vincent stood up, blinking. He looked calm, but I could see his mind going 'ohshitohshitohshit' underneath. How? I don't know... it was just a feeling I had. My friend knelt down beside the Leman Russ that had been taking him hostage. Thujan looked back up at him.

"'Malleus Michael'?" He read off the side. "Michael's Hammer... did they name this after you?"

"Yep." I answered, rubbing my lips as I looked at Farseer Zara, who was launching into the second chorus of her lecture-hymn. She was going on about things I did not understand, so I ignored her.

"Why?"

"I hit the Force Commander and the Farseer with it. You can still see the impression underneath it."

"Cool... can I see?" Vincent tried to lift the tank, but was quickly discouraged by the heavy stubber – a heavy machine gun – that was swung in his direction. He quickly backed away. "Uh... okay, never mind."

"O'Michael." That was Firestrike speaking. I turned to face the Tau commander. "What shall we do now? Even I see that the Greater Good requires these two to remain in secrecy, lest the local authorities decide to involve themselves."

"Alright, guys, go back to your rooms for now... and if someone could bring me some water, it would be appreciated... I got a funny taste in my mouth."

"How dare you!" Zara screeched. She reached out for my mind... again.

My brain exploded in another migraine.

It was the girl's room again. A quick look around showed me that not much time had passed; The shadows of the room were still in the same places, and that same rift of reality was there as well, except now there were a dozen or so new Chaos Icons, which made my eyes and very being ache from just looking at the alien geometries. Bodies mounted on pikes, some still struggling to get off, hung on each of the eight points of the giant Chaos Wheel in the middle.

The room itself was occupied by the upper echelons of the Chaos force that had no doubt just arrived here; the door had been given a few neat holes, and no doubt cultists had spread out throughout the house. I prayed to whatever God would help the family that lived here.

"P-pl-pleeshe! Hwee deed hwot yuu chol' ush choo!" A mewling voice cried out, her tone... pleading. Desperate. My internal translator again gave an almighty sigh. I wished for subtitles, but I guessed anyway: 'Please... We did what you told us to do'. I felt sorry for her instantly, even if she had intentionally summoned Chaos. They were standing in what had been the girl's bedroom, which had changed dramatically. A smashed mirror spread its shards around the floor. The eight spokes of the wheel of Chaos was a charred valley now, carved forever into the wood of her home. Their life-sized cultist was curled up defensively in the corner, and had gained many more wounds and slashes since I had last seen her.

"Did you think that would be all of it?" A rumbling voice teased her. "You give us a little blood, and we make your life perfect?"

"Hwee hat a deel!" We had a deal! She begged. It was not easy to understand her words. They were confusing, at best. I looked at her, and saw... well, it was hard to describe her. She had covered herself with the white sheets, stained red with her blood. The figure she was begging to was not visible. That figure stepped out of the shadows, the Sorcerer of Tzeentch.

"I am altering the deal. Pray that I do not alter it further." The voice continued on. "You have chosen to worship Chaos, mortal. For that, we have given you what you have always wanted. Change. The Thousand Sons of Ahriman and the Lord of Change has provided you with change. You wanted to be free of your father. Well, he is... gone. And you wanted to be different." He laughed, maliciously enjoying her despair. "Now... you are most certainly different."

I got a good look at the girl now. She had changed completely from the girl that I had seen before. Besides the change in coloring, her clothes had, for lack of a better word, been destroyed; now what was left was a tube top with too many holes to count, and a shredded excuse for a skirt, held up by a belt. The mark of Tzeentch was literally branded onto her right thigh, and was still smoking.

She had bound her arms in bandages, to stem the flow of blood; crimson streaked the white fabric and across the black tape that were used to secure the dressings to her scarred limbs.

"Hwee vanteed choo ve phrecchi! Nawt... nawt dis!" We wanted to be beautiful... not... not this! Her sobbing restarted, her hands cupping her face as she heaved in despair, her dark skin stained with tracks of tears.

His mocking laughter rang out, strong and clear.

"You pathetic, naïve little fool. Praying to the Warp, the Gods of Chaos for something as petty as juvenile vanity? Pah!"

"Bastard." I breathed, unable to stay silent. I stepped back as heads turned.

"WHO'SE THERE!"

"Hwat!" What! The girl's eyes looked up, and met mine. "Heelp m-"

"SILENCE!" The sorcerer roared, and at once her mouth closed. There was a breath at my shoulder, and something bony and clawed slashed across my back.

I hit the 'ground', and turned around to see a drooling mess of a daemon, its mouth making up fully half of its mass. It reminded me of Courage the Cowardly Dog, except with fangs and actual claws. The daemon howled as it leaped forward, and I managed to roll out of the way. The thing was surprisingly slow, and it growled in anger as it saw that it had failed to draw more blood.

"Hmm... It seems that His protection is helping you today." The sorcerer mused, but I was a little too busy trying to get away.

"ANYONE! GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE, NOW!"

The daemon grabbed me by the throat, choking off any more words.

Again, darkness fell.

* STAB *

"GODDAMMIT, STOP DOING THAT!"

I reached up to the source of burning pain in my nose – yet again - and threw off Farseer Zara, out into God knows where, and clutched at my bloody (literally this time) nose again. Looking around the room, I saw that Vincent had managed to convince most of them to head back to their rooms as ordered while the Asian had bodily hauled me over to the battle-scarred couch. There, I saw that he had followed instructions from the Grey Knights in making simple hexagram seals, like the ones that were pasted all over their bodies.

He looked at me, quite the picture of concern now.

"Michael... what just happened? You were... well... half the Psykers freaked out when you went KO, and... well, most of the Imperials tried to kill Zara."

I looked around the room: the Grey Knights, minus the hatted knight, were assembled, as well as the majority of the psykers in various places. The ones closest to me were the Tau and the Imperials. No Orks, though. We still kept them bottled up in the basement. I looked at Amadeus, who gave me a blank stare back – the faceplate of his helmet seemed especially good at doing this. I shifted my gaze to see other psykers; Vasili was sitting down, brushing his forehead with a cloth (Hey! That was my painting canvas!), sanctioned psyker Ishabeth was passed out under the watchful eye of Commissar Tomas, with a pair of other guardsmen nearby, cleaning up her vomit, and fully half the Seer council were limp (I later found out that they were only unconscious), and being administered to by the other half. Some of the Sisters of Battle were also down.

Chillingly, I saw that the other Sanctioned Psykers of the Imperial Guard weren't doing as well as the more mentally robust Psykers of the Eldar and the Space Marines; two were dead, their heads not even there anymore, and one was being given his Last Rites posthumously. Still, one other had survived relatively unharmed, but had half of his blood supply replaced by 'alchemical compounds designed to stabilize the psyche of the subject'.

"What happened?" I asked. Stupid question, I know.

"You managed to access the Warp, Michael." Justicar Amadeus said. His breathing was labored and laced with pain. "We knew what could have happened, and we didn't want you to have turned into a daemon, so all the Psykers pooled their power through Zara, and she hit you with the spear. We thought you were being possessed, you see..."

Looking from one to the other, I sighed as I rubbed my forehead. Alice gave me a glass of water, taken with a nod of thanks, and I gulped down a PanadolTM given to me by Vincent, who – sure enough - was holding one in his hand. The guy was Crazy Prepared, let me tell you. He had a freaking medical kit in his Bag of Holding. Zara was complaining – when wasn't she? - and brushing my blood off her spear. I looked at her.

"What is it, mon-keigh?"

"Would I really have become a daemon if you had not stabbed me?"

"The risk was great that you would have been so, yes."

"Then..." I paused, struggling for those two words. "Thank you. For helping me."

Zara looked as if she had been slapped in the face. With a wet fish. A wet fish the size of a truck.

"I didn't do it for you! Don't get me wrong, mon-keigh: a titan-sized daemon would have caused a lot of problems!"

I looked at Amadeus, and sighed.

"Gather up all the psykers. I need them to tell me what I just saw."


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


----------



## arturslv

It was late evening as Techpriest Ulrich 293384-491832 wandered the house, his roving band of servitors and lesser adepts of the Cult Mechanicus following him closely as the three combat servitors swung their heavy bolters warily from side to side. No telling when the xeno might attack them, despite the treaty of peace with Michael. The sound of a humming fan perked his aural sensors, and he quickly swung around to see Titanicus Michael step from a room and wander off. He was mumbling something about his injured legs and too much... warcraft? Was he secretly a commander of some sort? All indications of his pacifistic qualities did have an underlying hint of a strong willed leader, but so far he showed little to no military intelligence; after all, trying to simply smash orks with a simple pressure-based fire suppressant device was utterly stupid, even by biological standards... well, maybe with comparison to the Greater Barking Toad of Catachan [1] it was slightly more intelligent.

[1: The Greater Barking Toad of Catachan is a roughly van-sized frog, normally docile but when surprised it triggers a self defense mechanism that would cause an explosion capable of leveling entire Death-world grade forests for miles around – the only clearings in the Death World of Catachan are known to be the blast sites of such surprises (no doubt for whoever surprised the Toad in the first place)]

Attracted to the sound of humming electronics, the band of mechanical priests stepped into his study. It had been a study, until it had been converted to the purposes of a gaming room. A large (24 inch) 2D projector dominated one corner of the room, with various wires and blessed electron pipes running feeding the Machine spirit. Surprisingly, it had no devotional decorations at all. Ulrich's heart – had it not been replaced with a more efficient mechanical replacement – would have stopped at the sight of such disobedience to the Rites of Activation... as well as perhaps a thousand other rituals.

"What have they done to this place!" Asked an adept, who had far less blessed augmentations and of course was more susceptible to emotional outbursts.

"Shhh!" The Skitarii bodyguard hissed, tapping away at an interface on her wrist. "I'm voxing the Magos. He will most certainly wish to hear about this mother lode of the Machine God!"

The team advanced, fanning out from the entrance and exploring around inside of the cavernous room.

The study was perhaps the nexus of Michael's wealth; it had a few decent gaming systems (although most of the games were loaned or traded) and a well to do computer on either end of the room, with a veritable library of tomes and polymer cases much like the ones that they had destroyed in his recreational space. Grappling devices (read: a thrown servitor) soon reached the top of the table, and lowered down a rope to allow the others to make their way up to the top.

"More permanent lifting systems will be most desireable." Ulrich noted.

The massive screen before them showed a pair of primitive Arbites, with short autoguns, snub pistols and flack jackets. Featureless faces hid behind masks and goggles. They looked cold and fearsome, despite their plain appearances; perhaps the lack of individuality was what made them so intimidating. Faceless legions. Anonymous and uncaring.

"Is this the army of this era?" The adept asked.

"Possibly. Can you decode this text?"

"Yes, the text is simple English, a language which derived Low Gothic many years ago... before the Emperor's Crusade."

"I see... shall we get started, then? I wish to explore the Machine Spirit's capabilities."

The lexicalogist muttered the Litany of Communication as he opened his eight eyes at the giant screen.

Ulrich grinned. "Let us consecrate this holy machine, so we may operate it without incurring the wrath of the Machine Spirit."

- - - - - Server 'P1', 2 hours later - - - - -

The terrorist labeled 'Vector' rapidly tapped on the keyboard, and threw away his not-very-needed gun away. He surveyed his teammates. The terrorists were all in their favored skins, with balaclavas and snow-camouflage pants. They all wandered around on the 'testing ground', a custom map thought up by the local programmers for testing out new guns, tactics, equipment or just to get used to playing again. On this Saturday afternoon, the self-proclaimed gamers were sitting together and playing on some CounterStrike for the weekly 'tournament' held at this particular server; anyone in the city who wanted to be considered 'l337' was in (although some were using the internet to connect to this game). This time, they were here to protect/hold the hostages stored inside of a warehouse's control room, and for that purpose the fifteen strong team had quickly organized into five man fire teams.

Among the veteran terrorists, twelve in all (there were three regulars), a newcomer stepped up, in his green sweater and brown pants to contrast with their Phoenix Connection skin schemes, running into walls, reloading and switching weapons, jumping... and... well... everything. Several weapons dropped to the floor, including a rather expensive sniper rifle. Eventually, that process stopped with a USP .45 in his hands, then he began to jump around like an epileptic on a pogo stick. To everyone around, it looked like the guy was simply banging away at the keyboard like a monkey at the proverbial typewriter.

"WTF! R U 7r1pp1n b01!" [What the fuck! Are you doing drugs, boy!]
"R33d d4 m4nu4l, n00b!" [Read the Manual, newbie!]
"Th3r3 15 n0 m4nu4l, _DRAGON_." [There is no manual, _Dragon_]
"0h. 3h... l33rn 2 pl41, n00b!" [Oh. Eh... learn to play, newbie!]

"lol, ph41l." [Haha, fail.]

In the real world, the gamers of 'Team 3' looked with at each other with very worried expressions. Thankfully, this was only the friendly 'practice' round to let everyone stretch their proverbial legs. The real round was starting in ten seconds' time. C0gb01 was still jumping as he tried to break through a hole in the concrete.

Vincent (alias Vector) sighed, carefully removed his glasses, put the keyboard safely away and applied his head to the desk in a perfect 60 bpm tempo; bang – pause – bang – pause – bang – pause, rinse and repeat.

"This might not end well." Jarred (alias Tailcracker) croaked. Damian (Macadamian) nodded in agreement. The rogue terrorist among rogue terrorists was now out in the catwalks, jumping up and down. In the headphones, they could hear Microsoft Sam chuckling away.

Henry (ÆON) moved through, and quickly crouched down to exploit the shortcut. Seeing what had happened, the player marked as 'c0gb01' and Colwyn (Saravock)

Cyrus (alias Vladmir) nodded his agreement. "Who the hell is this... c0gb01 anyway?"

"Round starting!" Luke (Mr. Spot) warned. Everyone hefted their newly purchased weapons.

They waited for the Shakespeare.

- - - - - 1 minute, 28.294 seconds later- - - - -

"Vent tunnel, to the control room!" Vector warned over his mic from his post in the 'control room', spraying bullets in short, two-shot bursts from his weapon of choice, a Kreig 552, at the metal tube which linked the roof to their hostages. Two kills showed up on his screen. He chuckled with the success, only to yelp in panic as something drained his body armor and clipped his health bar down to 34.

"Everyone down!" Mr. Spot leveled his P90 and fired over the shoulders of the now-crouched terrorists, spraying bullets everywhere. He managed to pick off the surviving CT squaddie in a burst of 5.7mm death as he dropped down the busted grating. He returned to his task of making sure that the three sharpshooters weren't ambushed.

More counter-terrorists burst into the loading bay, to be met with crippling return fire from the terrorists camping on the catwalks. ÆON quickly racked up a headshot with his AWP. They lost Saravock and Tailcracker to a burst of Maverick return fire. Action was fast paced and brutal, with everyone losing teammates quickly. Vector ran behind into the room, his main weapon depleted. He picked up an AK-47 from a fallen teammate, and hurried over to join the rest of the combatants. A hurled frag grenade quickly ended that notion.

Then suddenly, c0gb01 was in among the Counter Terrorists, having jumped from the catwalks.

"n00b!" _DRAGON_ cried out as he ran across the catwalk, jumping and crouching randomly as he avoided the return fire from his liberal use of the machinegun. His legs were scythed out from under him as a shotgun was unloaded into his kneecaps, and a second blast brought his health down to 0.

There were ten gunshots as c0gb01 spun around on the spot, firing his USP .45 wildly.

Five bodies dropped to the floor around him, all gibbed beyond recognition.

The kill screen tallied up five head shots.

"Holy..."
"WTF!"

"N0 w41!" [No way!]

A surviving CT player capped c0gb01 in the head with his UMP at point blank range, but his triumphant 'hah!' was cut off by his head exploding from the magnum sniper rifle.

The round ended, but instead of returning, c0gb01 had left. The players of Team 3 looked at each other, as Vincent again performed the Bows of Frustration.

"Who the hell was that!"

Ulrich flexed mechanical limbs in a gesture of irritation, looking at the Skitarii who had commandeered the rodent, the struggling servitor which had been operating the optical movement sensor beside it trying to get up onto its tracked 'legs'.

"D4 fr4k j00 d0, n00b!" [The hell did you do, fool!]

"I... I... I'm not sure... something just... t00k 0v4 m3..."


----------



## arturslv

Thought for the Day: "If not accuracy, saturation." - Primary Doctrine of the Dakka Offensive Stratagem

As the miniature armies moved around, unsure of what to do, I rubbed my temples as the Panadol™ took a hold of me. I had a headache, again. Those headaches were often the cause of the residents of the Warhammer 40,000 universe sitting inside my house, more often than not the Imperial Guardsmen say that its because of the psykers that I often had to pacify. Especially the Eldar Farseer Zara. I had seen her without her helmet once, and if she wasn't such a bitch (and not a 1/56 scale miniature woman) I think I could have liked her. But then again, even at her scale, she had enough bitch-ness to cover an entire highschool cliche.

"I heard that, mon-keigh." Her voice snapped at me, inside of my head.

"To be fair, you arepretty bitchy." I thought.

"Had there not been a danger of summoning a daemon if I were to attack you, mon-keigh, your soul would have been long ago fed to the Warp." The essence of her hate seemed to needle at my brain – literally – as I rubbed at my temples.

"Alright guys, listen up." I called out verbally, looking at the assembly before me, focusing my mind. Zara slipped out of my mind as her physical form turned to face me.

The psykers of the Imperium and the Eldar gathered around me. To my right stood the armored form of Space Marine Librarian Vasili, of the Blood Ravens Chapter, who was at the head of the Imperial psykers, along with most of the Grey Knights, the Sanctioned Psykers who had not died, and the pet psyker of the Inquisitor. To my left was Ulthwe Eldar Farseer Zara and her retinue of Warlocks and Seers, who were mostly recovered from the psychic shockwave of my interactions with the Warp.

My actions – whether conscious or not – had injured a fair few of them, especially the more sensitive of the Psykers. One had literally cried tears of blood as his mind was ripped apart by the Warp. Others had simply lost control of their powers; the combined might of the Seer Council going mentally berserk had led to a fair few objects overturned or thrown against walls. I gave a hollow stare to the gathered council.

"Okay, first we recap; what the hell just happened?" My voice was audibly dry, and I coughed a few times. I was shaking like the proverbial dice in the cup. My hands were unresponsive; Vincent told me later that I didn't have the animation of my usual conversations, I used to wave my arms around and generally accompany any conversation with those actions. But not today.

Four dozen voices rose up at once, either demanding explanation or trying to give one.

"Hold on! Shut up!" The voices died down as my hoarse voice smashed their shouting. Hey, being fifty-six times larger than they were gave you a huge advantage when it came to lung capacity.

"Can't any of you get along for a few minutes?" I pointed from Space Marine to Farseer. "Lets see... Zara, you got anything?"

Even through the faceplate of her helmet, I could see her intense glare, the sheer maliciousness of her gaze.

"As stupid as you are, Mon-keigh, you do have some of the traits typical of psykers with you. I must say that constant contact with Eldar pyskers has rubbed off on you, especially with the... intensity of some of those contacts."

"So you trying to shred my soul did this?"

"N-not like that!" She blurted, her composure cracking immediately.

Before she could lose it, however, a Warlock stepped forward, holding up his hand in a pacifying gesture. He was dressed – like the others – in a black robe with bone-white decorations, and oval gemstones set into the wraithbone of his armor.

"Psyker potential, all mon-keigh have. Amounts to little, these abilities sometimes do. Faster reflexes and a big mouth, some have. Others, move little objects, perform magic they can. By contact with us, increase your powers you have."

"... uh... thanks, Yoda." I drained my glass of water, feeling dizzy as I turned his words over in my head, trying to make sense of them. His words were confusing, and I began to wonder if my borrowed copy of the original trilogy had been a good idea.

"Yoza, is this one's name. Little greenskin midget, I am not."

"... right, back on topic. So what you're saying is that being around you guys has increased my latent psychic potential?"

"Little power, latent potential means not. Strong, you have been. In your house, why else have we appeared?"

"It stands to reason that your latent psyker abilities has lead to you becoming a magnet for our appearance." Vasili rumbled from my right. The Space Marine librarian hefted his force-weapon, a well-decorated staff, and set it down again. "After all, we could have all been scattered throughout the entire planet, yet your abilities have drawn us to you, almost like bright-flies to a flame."

"Correct. And just as easily, his lack of ability could have distorted our entrance, making us this small." Justicar Amadeus joined in, his silver armor glinting off his helmet.

So that's why... Well, I wondered why it had been me that had half a dozen armies deposited in my living room and... I 'hmm'd thoughtfully. 'Destroyed my DVD collection' was a short entry in the long list.

"So you're saying I've always been a magnet for Warp powers?" I asked the Eldar Yoda.

"Not so much a magnet, but more a channel. Think of a drain in a liquid reservoir, like the one you deposited Madork Gunna in when he almost killed that 'Talon' xeno. The water is an apt metaphor for Immaterium: psykers would be drains, all drawing power – water – from the Warp. Your drain is much larger than most others, and so therefore are much more likely to have an ork stuck into the grill."

"... I see..." The bespectacled Asian rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, crouched down behind the Imperial Psykers. "So basically Michael's head is a big hole in reality?"

Ishabeth piped up to join in the conversation, the two strips of red running from her eyes showed how much she had suffered from my mistake. She had literally shed tears of blood. It was a fairly common reaction to Warp overload, and it was fortunate that she had survived... I would have hated to have had Commissar Tomas' wrath upon me.

"Yes, cor-WHOA WHEN DID YOU GET THERE!"

"At about 'more a channel'." He replied, sitting down. We had been so absorbed in the conversation, that he had been able to ninja us in typical fashion – this guy loved to surprise people and mess with their concentration. I sighed in frustration, and gave Vincent a flat look.

"My head is not a black hole. No robot arms are going to be jumping out of them, okay? I have not had a psychotic girl hit me in the head with a Rickenbacker." I pointed at my forehead for emphasis.

"You watched that show? Anyway, doesn't the good Farseer Zara count?" Vincent did have a good point there.

"... Fine, have it your way. Okay... I almost turned into a Daemon portal. Can we stop this from happening?" I asked the Psykers.

The Inquisitor's pet Psyker raised a hand. "A simple mind-wipe operation coul-" I held up a hand to interrupt him.

"Let me rephrase that; could we stop this from happening without getting me killed or brain-dead?"

Mini-Yoda stepped forward. "Yes. If you allow me to cast a simple rubric, I can show you how, mon-keigh. It is the way we Eldar shield ourselves from a similar fate; a training of the mind... we shall simplify it. You do not need to replicate the lesson, only the results. I do not believe you would understand more than half of it anyway."

Justicar Amadeus voiced his protest. "Governor Michael, you can't simply let the Eldar cast a spell here! Who knows what results it may have on your home!"

"If we don't, Grey Knight, we'll end up with a titan-sized daemon in Michael's living room." Vincent said, voice deadpan.

"Yes, but we cannot simply allow the Eldar to cast whatever witchcraft they wish to cast! For all we know they would simply eliminate Michael to re-start a war!"

"Foolish mon-keigh! You think we are that fickle? It serves our purposes greater to keep that mon-keigh alive! You, however, we can gladly throw out!"

The Farseer and the Librarian met in a force of wills and weapons, her spear sending flashes of lightning off as his staff burned with the fire of his soul. Vincent sighed, reached behind the kitchen counter and tossed me the object that was most needed at the moment.

BLAM!

The fire extinguisher stayed down on Vasili and Zara, who were both struggling to get out from underneath.

"Y'know, I'd have thought that two leaders who lead some of the most capable armies in the galaxy would be a little more mature!" I growled, grinding the fire extinguisher into the two combatants. Protests and pain filtered out from underneath. The Imperial and the Eldar Psykers both looked on in morbid interest.

"So, in short: no more fighting." Vincent chipped in, his voice dripping with faux sweetness. "Do you both understand that?"

"Mmghmm..."

"I didn't hear you, Zara."

"ALRIGHT ALREADY!"

"Okay, Michael?"

I let them go, lifting the fire extinguisher and setting it down beside me. The two psykers gave an almighty inhalation, and flopped over on their backs, breathing heavily. It must have been stuffy, squashed together underneath the curved underside.

"Repetition, we must avoid. Wiser it is, to form a truce, it is." Yoza said as he knelt down to check on Zara's condition. Librarian Vasili nodded as he looked up at the sky.

"Can we agree that nobody takes a hostile stance to each other for the duration of our meeting?" He said, wiping sweat from his forehead. I wonder how he did that with a ceramic sleeve... maybe the Marine had a little cloth somewhere there?

"Deal." Zara replied, helping herself up by her spear.

I leaned forward, to face the two. "I'd rather you stop trying to kill each other altogether, but that's just fine with me for now." Hey, I felt like I had to contribute to the peace, if only slightly.

The assembled psykers looked from one to the other, and then back at me.

"Warp, no! We like fighting each other. Just for the meeting's duration."

I sighed. There just wasn't helping some people, were there?

"So, what are we going to do about this daemon problem?" I asked. "If what I saw was true, then we have at least one force of Chaos here, and another Earth-scale human is under their control."

The entire room turned around to stare at me, a few squeaked in surprise. Emotions ranged from disbelief, utter horror or simple shock.

"WHY DIDN'T YOU MENTION THAT EARLIER!" Half of them raged. The other half were still dumbstruck.

I held up my hands defensively. "Hey, you guys never asked!"

"... this is serious." Librarian Vasili concluded. I had just finished my story of what I had seen in the vision.

"No kidding." I sighed, rubbing my temples as I tried to wonder what was happening to that girl now. The Cultist was probably going through a living hell right now, and considering where the Chaos forces had come from, I was more than willing to bet on it that she was. My stomach churned at the simple thought of what the Chaos Sorcerer could be putting her through... it was entirely possible, however, that the scale difference could protect her, just as it did with me.

"You worry about a girl that you've never met, mon-keigh?" Zara asked, looking at me squarely, which was quite an achievement, considering the shape of her helmet. We had moved our conference along to the couch, where hey could talk to me at more-or-less eye level as I explained what had happened.

"Of course. I saw what happened to her... how she suffered. How could you not worry about her?"

"You mon-keigh will never cease to confuse me." She quipped, before turning away to re-join the council of Seers and Warlocks.

"As your apathy always shall continue to disgust me, witch." The Librarian Vasili replied. Zara flashed him a glare that I could bet would have killed, and then turned away. He looked at me, as if contemplating what to say next. I looked back, rather confused. Over the days since our arrival, we had gotten to know each other relatively well

Yoza, however, remained on the coffee table, having prepared it in a way so that several gemstones were arranged in a rough symbol... it was like playing connect the dots them; I recognized it as one of the runes sewn into his robes.

As I settled down on my lazy boy, I saw that Vincent had returned from his chatting with the Space Marines and the Imperial Guard. Knowing the half-crazy nerd that he was, the guy as probably enjoying himself. Alice was nowhere to be seen, but as he settled down to give me a drink – hey, who said you could take my coke? - Vincent was telling me about how Alice had encountered the Sisters of Battle, and that they were getting along quite nicely now. Sister Samisha was very excited to meet her.

He turned to me, his voice grave as he spoke. "I have prepared the soul-stones, mon-keigh. Are you prepared for this?"

"Sure." I looked at the arrangement. Occult was the only word that could describe the feeling I got from the shrine. It had the mystical quality to it, and I found my fingers trembling at the structure, which could be covered by my palm. Oh well, scarier things existed in the Warhammer 40,000 universe.

"A place where you can't hurt yourself, sit down, sit down! Mon-keigh Vincent, watch over him, must."

"No problemo, Yoda."

"Yoza. Yo-za, my name is."

"Like I said, Yoda." Vincent gave me the 'dude, I am so enjoying this.' wink.

"... see into your mind, I can. Enjoy my frustration you will not, mon keigh." He deadpanned.

"Continuing on..." I muttered, looking at Yoza. "Shall we get started?"

"Of course... Michael."

"Governor Michael, surely you cannot willingly enter the ploys of the Eldar!" Vasili and three-dozen voices shouted out, more or less in that tune.

"Our causes are parallel in this moment, so it is in our best interest to cooperate with the large mon-keigh."

"That doesn't mean we can trust you, witch! Xeno never have the same goals as the Imperium's finest!"

"Of course, mon-keigh. You are – as always – unable to comprehend simple concepts such as common interests.

"SHUT UP!"

I slammed down the fire extinguisher in my hand, and glared at the Imperials. "Look, I don't want to turn into a titan sized daemon here, so why don't you just shut the fuck up! Unless you guys got a better idea. Look, the Emperor has not ascended to the Throne yet, as far as I can tell, so hell no you guys won't be able to pray to him... I'm sorry, guys, but the Eldar are my only choice here. But look at it this way; if she tries screwing with me, Vincent'll let you go cut loose on the xeno, understand?"

There was silence. Zara reasserted her authority now, and looked up at me. "I believe they would have done so anyway, mon-keigh. I agree to these terms. The mon-keigh book-keeper here still cannot understand that the Eldar have no wish to see a daemon manifest in this era."

Its hard to describe what happened after that, since my perception of passing time was... vague, at the most. A hundred years could have passed, and I would not have been the wiser. When my senses returned...

"...whoa."

I was in a... void. Colorless space of pure white stretched out in every direction. The endless area around me was... pure. I reached out with my senses, but I could not taste, nor smell nor touch nor see or hear anything. Even looking down, I could not see anything; it was like those First Person Shooter games, where you couldn't see your own feet.

"Where am I?"

"Absolute Territory, this place is. Your Absolute Territory, the holy ground of your soul. This is where a daemon will attack." Yoza's voice was out there. I could sense more now, the void was retreating, defining itself in vague shadows; patches of darkness staining white. "You, this land is."

"... I am not a blank sheet." I answered, my voice returning.

"Blank sheet, it is not. But undrawn map. A place to be explored, its true shape... defined."

"A journey of self discovery." I sarcastically replied.

"Precisely, mon-keigh." The Warlock replied in a flat tone.

The black-robed psyker stepped from 'behind' an invisible wall. He had removed his conical helmet, and seemed rather older than he had appeared; the wizened older man had greying hair, still dark but speckled with salt-white strands. However, as aged his hair was, his face showed none of it. Features still sharp enough to cut on, and built just like that of a wily fox.

"Yoza?"

"Yes, mon-kiegh?"

He stood, looking down so as to meet eye to eye. The Eldar Warlock eclipsed me by at least a head in height. His robes were reminiscent of Japanese kimono, a robe-like arrangement which had Eldar designs swirling all about them. I think it may have been made of wraithbone, because it looked quite solid before he moved around, which them made it appear almost liquid.

Soon enough, we were about five feet apart.

Dang... Eldar were tall.

"You're... larger... I mean... like... normal sized."

"To respect scale, our minds are not restricted."

"... Uh... what?"

Yoza gave a sigh as he raised his right hand, and palmed his face. The Eldar was soon shaking his head as his other hand went to cup his elbow. I pinched myself, just to make sure this was real. Eldar facepalming... dang, I wish I had a camera here.

A bemused cough made me turn around, and this time it was a 1:1 scale Zara that was in front of me. She wasn't clutching her gut in laughter, but I could tell that the black-haired woman in front of me was clearly enjoying herself as she watched me try to understand the situation.

"I can be as big as I want to be, mon-keigh." She stalked – I kid you not, she stalked – over to me, her limber frame wrapped in the robes I had seen the Eldar wear when not at war. They were like kimonos; hers was a dark grey/black, which looked like a bathrobe made of fine silky material; it was almost like fluid, and seemed to dance around her legs as she walked forward, giving me hints at what lay underneath before teasingly curling off.

I shook that distraction from my mind after I saw her coy smile. She was definitely enjoying teasing me.

"Okay... so then... what's the lesson?"


----------



## arturslv

Thought for the Day; "Frak this, for my faith is a shield proof against your blandishments"" -Alem Mahat, The Book of Cain, Chapter IV, Verse XXI

Inside the white void that was my newly-discovered, un-landscaped dreamworld, I sighed.

My heart was almost audible as it thumped away in my chest. I gulped down my nervousness, and looked at the Eldar before me. Standing tall with her blue eyes shining, Zara was as haughty as ever, and even Yoza was giving me a smile that showed that he was really enjoying my confusion. I let out my breath through clenched teeth.

"What's the lesson?" I repeated, looking up at the tall, lithe figures.

Their grave voices were all I needed to reassure me that they were now being serious.

"Do not worry, mon-keigh. We know we must take this seriously."

"Many lessons, you have yet to learn. A simple one, we start with. Explore this place, you must."

The black-robed Eldar positively grinned at me as his partner smile haughtily. He then gave a small bow, and stepped back into the white mist to disappear from my mind's eyes. Zara did the same, but with more flourish as her featherlight garments wrapped close around her shapely body, and then unraveled to show thin air.

Now I was alone, in my own soul... this was certainly going to be interesting. I stepped forward, and tried to feel my way around the obscenely bright space around me.

"You have got to be kidding me..." I sighed as I ran a hand over the ground. It had little in the way of texture, and was hard to describe. It was almost like a carpet of some kind. A piece of my mind told me that to fight effectively, you needed to know where you were, so this kind of made sense to me... but how the hell were you supposed to 'explore' a bright, empty room!

Explore. First lesson my ethereal ass. Yoza was just playing fetch with me.

Turning around, I began to walk in a random direction. I began to try and talk to myself, as crazy as that was.

This place was my soul, isn't it?

Then... why was it so blank?

"Could it be because you have nothing in your head in the first place?" Zara's mocking tone chirped over the empty void. She was there, a good distance away; at least two hundred yards, if I was guessing distances right. Ducking my head down, I began a fast jog to join her. Zara was still standing there, practically laughing at me as she danced about on the spot, and again disappeared like fading smoke. She was clearly enjoying this too much for my own good. Soon enough, she was standing atop a platform, like a catwalk, and beckoning at me. Like a living statue of a goddess, she smiled as her slim hips idly shifted from side to side.

Dammit. She was playing with me. I focused in on her, and began to take a step forward, running at her again. As I came within a half dozen yards of her, however, she quickly stepped back into the fabric of her clothes, giggling as she left me alone again. I began to sprint in a random direction, sure that she was following me. My eyes were dazed by the brilliant light of the surrounding halways, and I wasn't able to see anything.

So when I hit the front door of the massive whitewashed house, it quite literally came from nowhere. I slammed into the surface, which was as smooth as polished glass up until my face smashed into it. Now it had bits of me all over it. I peeled myself off, and stumbled to my knees. Before me was a giant house – a mansion – and it was stupendously simple in design. A white marble brick with windows and doors, if I didn't know any better.

Finding the door, I gave it a hard push, throwing the heavy white panels inwards.

I looked around the atrium of the large house – more a mansion – and , which was decorated in a rather plain manner; simple white pillars supported a blank sky of equally white plaster, and the walls were obviously made of the same kind of material. The place seemed like a house that was under construction, rather than one you'd live in. When you focused in on the edges of the surfaces, they seemed scratchy and unrefined, looking like they had been drawn by etch-a-sketch.

However, there were a few splashes of color in the next room, a square space with a gallery-like feel to it. The walls and the lines that defined them were even less refined now. Not even etch-a-sketch was this

Arranged around this room were pictures and paintings, which I realized were all drawn by my own hands: All that I considered my 'masterpieces'. A young woman sitting by a stream, a blazing sun in the hands of a smiling statue, Mark and Xiao Yang (two of my friends) sharing a seat... oh, and a few crayon doodles from when I was in elementary.

There were also photos, from my brief stint as a photographer. Smiling faces of my family and friends, or the intense gazes of the few models which I had been fortunate enough to work with. I looked at them all, the memories rushing back in. My soulscape, the world in my mind... was this what I was?

A small giggle came from somewhere in the vast room.

I turned to face the source of the voice, but only found a bust of a potato. That was smiling at me. With buck teeth. Grade 2 arts and crafts were kind of like that. I smiled at the old memory, and turned to look at the way I had come.

"Yoza... where are you?"

"He is gone, for now, young psyker."

I turned to see that the black-robed Zara had walked out from behind a pillar. Warily, I faced her. What was she up to? Having been given enough time to here was little doubt that she was about to test me... when and what and where, that was the thing I needed to know.

As I faced her, she allowed her face to crack into a smile that curved her lips, brilliant red ruby eyes shining. It was just as confusing in its meaning as the other Eldar of her race; both full of a fierce joy and also a tinge of arrogance; she and I both knew that she was holding something back from me.

"This is one of the things that you hold most dearest?" She asked, running a hand over a crude crayon drawing. "For such a thing to appear inside your mindscape, its obvious that you hold strong sentimental value for it, Michael"

My ears burned as my name slid off her tongue. It sounded alien to me (and not just because it was an Eldar saying it). Admittedly, those little works of toddler art were among my fondest memories, but still, to an outsider – Zara especially – this was humiliating.

"Can't we get back to stopping a daemon from bursting out of my brain, Farseer?"

Zara's bemused smile turned from the crayon sketch to me. "Of course. But first.."

She walked over to me, her legs shimmering under her robes as she came face-to-face with me for the first time. The other times, it was when she was the size of a miniature and had to climb a small building's worth of shelves to reach my nose. She was about the same height as I was, if a little taller, and while she wasn't as well endowed as most women, she was strikingly beautiful when she got up close. Like a dancer... a very powerful one at that. I found myself swallowing spit just to keep myself in check.

She didn't stop at two feet, though. Zara's face was plastered with a vampish grin as she practically walked into me, her leg stepping between my knees as she saw me backing up. Another step from her resulted in another two steps from me. My legs propelled me backwards as she continued to advance, but our chests kept bumping together as she pressed on.

Soon, I had run out of floor and she was pressing herself up against me, her loose fitting gown giving me quite the view as she chuckled at my plight. The woman before me knew how uncomfortable I was, even though it was a place where a lot of guys would have killed to be at. Zara's smile widened as she looked into my eyes, her right leg curling around my left, her ankle hooking around my waist.

"I suppose I should thank you for that compliment, my dear."

"Look, I only agreed to going in here because you'd teach me how to fight off daemo-ack!"

She threw us sideways, sending the both of us tumbling to the ground as she straddled my stomach. Her breathing was already ragged and shallow as it washed over my face, filling my nose with her dizzying scent. Zara grinned as she leaned down until her body was pressed against mine, her red eyes alight with daring as she looked up at me. The Eldar Farseer was grinding her hips against mine, and my ear felt like it was burning up as she kissed it.

A few things clicked into place in my mind.

"Zara?" I was breathless in her delighted state, and was happily beginning to claw at my shirt, her hips bucking excitedly as I gasped for breath. She wasn't heavy, but she was crushing my ribs with her knees, dammit! I looked up at her twisted smile.

"Yes, Michael?"

"You're not Zara, are you?"

I twisted my free arm, and swung it around, connecting at her left temple and forcing an immensely satisfying yelp from the thing on top of me. I was surprised in that my punch was managing to stun her that badly, so with that in mind I began to wriggle and shove, so I could get out from underneath her. Grabbing Not-Zara's waist, I heaved it off, sending the slim, female figure tumbling to the ground.

The Zara lookalike looked up at me, and blinked a few times as it re-set its neck. It was a bone-white liquid for a heartbeat, before resetting to a flesh-like pallor.

"First lesson, expect the enemy to take any shape and form." Yoza's voice called out to me. I looked around, but could not find him as I backed away from the Not-Zara

"Daemons will pick the forms of your friends, your family, those you love and those you hate... I'm not sure which I am, mon-keigh, but I do hope you learn this: to cut off something's influence to a dreamscape, you must kill its representation."

The half-sane incarnation of Not-Zara arched its back as it tilted its head, a jaw half-open with craven delight. Its foosteps were chaotic as it walked unsteadily towards me, and I began to look around, hands searching the various walls and displays.

Weapon... I needed a weapon.

I saw a little red box in the distance, inside of which was a trusted weapon: A CO2 extinguisher.

Not-Zara followed my gaze, and hissed.

We both broke into a full out sprint as I legged it for the box. Odd, that I hadn't noticed the fire-engine red box before. Again, my mind popped up with the explanation: This world was mine to make. I was the deus ex nox. The God in the Dream.

If so...

"Burn!" I waved an arm in the direction of Not-Zara's running form, my mind's eye imagining its entire body igniting, burning the Not-Zara into a crisp. That in itself would become a fondly remembered thought later, but right now, I focused less on thinky, more on burny.

But the Not-Zara wasn't burning or... anything. In fact, I think it actually got its black-haired head down and sped up from hearing my shouting.

Dammit.

The Not-Zara reached the fire extinguisher first, grinning madly as it twirled on the spot and stanced itself to block my way. I panicked for a second, before realizing something from my early years of Physics with Mr. Nickel. Kinetic energy equals half mass times velocity squared., or Ek = 1/2mv2. I was at a dead run compared to Not-Zara – who was standing still - and at more than 150 pounds, I was probably a bit heavier than my attacker was, since I had the chance of having it bouncing about on my stomach, I guessed that it was at 100 pounds soaking wet. Therefore, I had a lot more kinetic energy.

In other words: If we collided, it would be far worse off.

My left shoulder slammed dead center on its torso, throwing Not-Zara into the wall. My momentum carried me into her, slamming into her a second time. I felt a spinal disk pop out of joint as its back hit the edge of the emergency toolbox. Feeling her recoil, I reached out to smash the glass of the fire extinguisher. My fist went through the thin glass panel, shattering the clear pane into a thousand cubes, but as my hand stretched out to grab the red cylinder, a strong arm coiled around my neck.

Limber legs wrapped around my waist and squeezed the air out of my lungs before I could scream. Not-Zara had recovered from being run over, and had jumped on to my back. I gagged in the stench of its sweat and blood, and tried to shake it off. The malevolent carbon-copy (Then again, had the original been benevolent in the first place?) had run an arm around udner my armpit, keeping that arm pinned. The other was flailing uselessly as I staggered about, trying to grab its hair.

With a roar of defiance, I stopped, steadied myself and jumped over backwards. Air rushed out of Not-Zara's lungs as I landed on it. It went down, and I manged to get up on my feet for long enough to regain my balance and give Not-Zara a much remembered kick to the jaw. Scrambling over to the emergency box, I reached in to find a replica of Big Red IV, the fourth fire extinguisher that I had bought to keep the armies (and their fires) suppressed.

Behind me, Not-Zara hissed.

Hefting it, I brought the full fifteen pound cylinder down on Not-Zara's head. The etheral doppelganger kept on moving, trying to claw at me, so I repeated that motion again, sending the red tube down on its mouth. Bloodied teeth skittered across the floor. Again Big Red went up, and again the red cylinder came down. Something audibly cracked. Up again, down again. Again, again and again. I don't know if it were spinal reflexes or conscious pain that jerked its arms and twitched its legs, but I kept on going until the body stopped moving.

The results were... messy. My fingers were slipping on Not-Zara's blood when I stopped, and looked down at the results. Her face had been smashed right in, and... well... I'll spare the details here. I reached down and grabbed a clean section of her robes to wipe off the bits stuck to Big Red IV. As I was doing just that, a voice came from beside me.

"I think you enjoyed that a little too much, mon-keigh." Came Zara's rather shaky voice.

I turned to face Zara and Yoza, who were both looking at the results of their tests. Yoza was goggling at the near-decapitated body on the ground, and Zara was trying not to stare, with her blue eyes dark and brooding. I looked from one to the other, and pointed Big Red IV at them.

"Your fault. You sent this... thing to vamp me."

"An illusion, it was. A lesson, you learned." Yoza sighed, and waved his hand. The illusion of Not-Zara disappeared, and I found myself sighing in relief. To my surprise, Zara reciprocated the gesture.

"We'll call it 'even', as you mon-keigh say."

"Alright, fair enough. So, what was the lesson here? Is it that all Eldar are this weird?"

"No. The Dark Kin are, in some ways, worse." That statement from Zara sent shivers down my spine. I looked at where Not-Zara had 'died', and again shuddered from the thoughts of what might be 'worse'.

"O-kay... besides that, I'll guess that another lesson here is that nothing is fixed? I never spotted the fire extinguisher until I needed it." For emphasis, I hefted Big Red IV's ethereal copy, and sat down on the ground. There was a temptation to wish a chair into place, knowing that I could change reality. God of this place... wow. I smiled to myself, wondering how I could find this place outside of Yoza's spell-circle thingy.

Zara nodded and looked around her, where the brickwork of the walls were now visible; red brick with white mortar inside. When she spoke, her voice was grave as she explained the nuances of this place.

"That is correct. As this is your soul, its contents can be just as dynamic as yourself. If you are a what your society may call a 'douche', then the place will be set like stone, unable to change nor adapt. You, however, have some flexibility in you, so you can influence and change the flow of reality in this plane."

Yoza stepped forward, and picked up Big Red IV from my unresisting fingers.

"Dangers, such changes hold. Careful, you must be. Change your soul, constant influence creates. Chaotic, your inner world will become. Easy to change, easy to corrupt."

I looked at Yoza, and nodded. Of course, never was anything that easy, even if I were a god in this world. I stared at Big Red, and placed it on the ground. "Alright, so this mindscape is going to be a bit tricky to defend. I can't change whatever I want without repercussions, right?"

"Correct. Explore this place as you wish, go and dream of a world that you will protect with your life. Constructive changes are just that, mon-keigh; they will help build you up. As well as that, a part of us will stay, and be on call to help you when you need us, mon-keigh."

As if on cue, which they probably were, the two shadows cast by the Eldar psykers detached themselves from their sources. They were both obviously copies of the two, yet had a less serious feel to them. I looked from one, then to the other.

"I sense a 'but' coming up here..."

"How perceptive, for mon-keigh." Zara smiled. She seemed more comfortable now... I guess it was because she had been talking to a skyscraper earlier, her ego blunted by the fact that she didn't come above my ankle. She looked at me now, her eyes bright with arrogance. Yoza stepped forward and patted his shadowy doppelganger on the shoulder.

"Severely limited, we will be. Substantial help, we cannot provide. Only advice, we can give. Fight for you, we cannot."

"I understand... mostly..." I replied, throat dry. Dammit, I didn't want to have to fight alone... or fight at all, really...

"For now, enough it is. Rest, we must."

Again, we were in a world of white. In the distance, though, I saw my mind's mansion. Staring at it, I sighed as I found my body exhausted. Turning to face the two Eldar, I again saw them hazing from existance, and looked down to find my own body doing the same thing.

I blinked, seeing the ceiling of my house. I blinked again, and decided that now I was awake, and so looked down (past my feeth) and saw Justicar Amadeus, Librarian Vasili and the majority of the Grey Knights standing between the Eldar any myself, their many and varied psychic weapons and oversized automatic rocket launchers poised to strike at the Eldar, who were similarly stanced with their own wierd and wonderful weapons. I gave a loud cough, turning a few heads.

"Easy, guys." My voice sounded off, squeaky. Like when you pinched your nose while talking. I realized that my nose was plugged up wtih tissue.

"Michael! You're unharmed?" Amadeus asked, turnning to face me, although his dual-barreled storm bolter were still aimed towards the Eldar.

"Fine. Better, even." I waved off his concerns, and looked aroudn for the others.

"We were certainly worried when your nose started bleeding." Vasili reported, hefting his force staff. I realized that the tissue 'bullets' were tipped with my blood, and I quickly tossed them into the small wicker waste basket. My ears burned as I looked at Zara.

"It is simply the after-effects of our training, mon-keigh. I trust we were not away for too long?"

From behind me, Vincent shouted out.

"Nah, you weren't gone for more than half an hour... Uh... Michael... do you know anything about this hunting hobby the Chaplain has?"

Vincent was in the kitchen, dangling a decapitated rat from its tail, and holding open a plastic bag to drop it down into. A rather guilty-looking and bloody-chainsword wielding Chaplain Morteus sitting down on the kitchen counter-top, his body language radiating a rather dejected vibe about it. I gave a sigh. He had been hunting rats since day three.

"At least let me keep its head to mount on the wall..." He looked up and asked, hope lacing his voice.

"For the fourth time, Chaplain Morteus: No. I'm pretty sure that Michael would not like a rat's head mounted on the spare bedroom door!"

"Emperor's Pauldrons, you're a stubborn one!"


----------



## arturslv

Thought for the Day: "Friends may come and go, but enemies accumulate." - Murphy's Laws.

Crazy. The two boys were totally batfuck insane! Little miniatures, all running around the place with functional weapons! Alice was curled up in the corner of the living room, sitting beside the charred and looted remains of a cabinet. Michael was passed out on the lazyboy a few yards away. She looked on into the kitchen as Vincent seemed to accept the new arrivals, except with some of his usual 'obsessed nerd' mannerisms. He was attracting a lot of attention from tank turrets.

"Hey, I'm only looking!" Backing away from the command chimera, he held up his hands as the commander of the 1337th Logistics Corps (It was printed on the side of the tank, in vaguely alphabetical symbols) pointed the pintle-mounted gun at the skyscraper sized nerd.

"That's the entire problem, boy! Stay back from mah tank!" The man screamed up, his voice enhanced by the vox-caster.

"Aww, c'mon! I mean, I've seen some decently painted Chimera before, but this is the real thing!"

There was the sound of movement, the subtle rustle of clothes as Vincent squatted down and reached out. A quick whine betrayed the charging of energy cells, and there was a hiss of gasses escaping their vents.

Zip-zip-zip! The multi-las made a rather odd sound for a heavy support weapon, and there was a yelp from the younger (but much, much larger) boy.

"Ow!"

Cooling machinery smoked out their wrath at the boy, who had tumbled backwards in his attempt to avoid the attack. The sleeves of his jacket were thick enough to save him, but there was a cauterized scar on his left ear, and a nearby part of his hair was still smoking.

"Be thankful that it was on minimal strength!" The commander shouted up at him, before shouting some more at his crew.

The squeal of tank treads on polished wood ended the conversation as Vincent turned around.

"Cool, Land Raider."

Alice sighed. Totally insane. All of them.

She was curled up in her tight ball of transparent security, when a voice called out to her.

"Are you feeling alright, Gue'la?"

Alice flinched, turning to see a blue-armored warrior, with orange markings. Unlike the other races she had seen so far, the only decorations on its armor were simple painted strips, and the large, circular symbol on its massive left pauldron. Its helmet was marked with orange, and cracked on the left cheek, although it seemed to be mostly repaired. Save for the little sensory cluster on one side of the face, the rest of the helmet was a featureless, smooth surface.

The warrior, gun, helmet and armor, was no bigger than her two slim pinkies put together. The Tau soldier set aside its long pulse rifle as she looked at it, thoroughly confused. Alice took a few more moments to piece together coherent thoughts, apply them to her logic and suppress her disbelief, and then form a question.

"Who?"

"Ah... not familiar with Tau class system. 'Gue'la' is 'human'." The little warrior said, as similarly armored warriors loped over to look at the giant young woman. She felt like that gigantic girl from a recent movie.

"I see..." Alice mused, disbelieving that she was having an almost-casual conversation. Oh, and to buy more time for her brain so that it could get another question out. I hope I don't regret this. She thought.

"... and you are?"

"Shas'ui Fi'rios Yon'anuk Eldi'myr." The Fire-warrior recited, as if reading a label.

Silence reigned.

The syllables and apostrophes tumbled around inside the already traumatized brain of Alice O'Grady. The 'Shas'ui' and his squad mates looked up at her face, which had fallen into a blank expression of complete overload. Gears were metaphorically turning inside her brain, then hitting a metaphorical snag and metaphorically grinding themselves into a halt. Alice's eyes flickered slightly as she tried to process the information given to her.

I'm regretting this!

Desperate to keep up appearances, her mind managed to push and shove a single word to her mouth, where it then leaped off her tongue.

"Huh?"

Even to her, it sounded awfully lame as it dropped. The single syllable picked itself up and limped away from the scene of the awkwardness.

There was a sigh from the short Tau soldier.

"In Gue'la language, I think it translates to 'Fire caste Team leader of the Fi'rios colony, the Hunter-Bird's Winged Knife'."

Alice blinked a few more times. Her brain had ground to a halt as she tried to understand the choppy English that was coming from the tiny warrior.

Another sigh echoed through the helmet of the short, blue-armored warrior.

"If easier, I can be called Sergeant Talon; the other Gue'la already call me that."

"Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

"Probably because he wanted to see your face when he said his name." His teammate chuckled, tapping a control panel on his left ear, and tossing a small chip – presumably something like a flashdrive – to the lead Fire Warrior. "I got it on combat recorders, Shas'ui."

The Sergeant eagerly slotted the data chip into his combat recorder, and began the playback, routing the others to the signal so that they could watch her face slowly transform from worried to utterly confounded. There were a few chuckles, others just began shaking in their armor and more still just howled like epileptic hyenas.

"H-hey!" Alice felt her cognitive functions return and flush her cheeks bright red, which only elicited another round of laughter from the Fire Warriors.

"..."

Prod. Prod. Someone was poking her toes. Alice grumbled, and shifted position. It was almost like her younger brothers trying to wake her up in the mornings, only with much more lethal prodding sticks.

"Forgive me, Gue'la..."

"..."

There was some frantic shuffling around as the Fire Warriors scurried about.

Shas'la Wu'bie elbowed his squad mate as Talon tried to attract the attentions of the giant Gue'la.

"How do we stop her from sulking in the corner?"

As Alice sulked, she could hear Vincent, who seemed like he had decided to relieve himself, and from the noises coming from the downstairs bathroom, he had also found out where the Eldar had been billeted. Screams of panic and the rumble of footsteps lasted for all of fifteen seconds before peace again took its place.

"..."

The assembled Tau and human girl looked from the corridor, where Vincent was profusely apologizing to the Eldar, to each other.

"... Uh..." Talon thought quickly and decided that some conversation might do the bewildered young woman some good.

"So... Gue'la... I'm curious about Gue'vesa'O Michael..."

Another confusing word. Alice hid her face as she pondered the meanings behind the word. Obviously this guy was either oblivious to his use of those words, or trying to get more pictures of her 'huh?' face. A lot of her friends had the same habit, so... yeah. She probably had an interesting confused face.

"Hmm? What's this Gue'seva... Oh... I got it wrong, didn't I?"

"Gue'vesa'O." The Sergeant patiently repeated. "It is much like Gue'la, but for someone of a much higher rank..." Talon explained.

Alice nodded her understanding, but also confusion: Michael wasn't any higher ranked than she was. The Tau seemed very wrapped up in their concepts of rank and one's place in society.

"I see... Michael's the same as us... I mean, Vincent and myself. We're just... mostly normal people."

"Oh? He is... normal?" The Tau around the Sergeant were also looking at each other. For them, Michael seemed to be a titanic figure of awe, and the source of red, cylindrical doom from above when one acted against his decrees of peace. Not anyone you'd consider 'normal'. Perspective was everything.

Talon posed another question.

"What caste is he?"

"... huh? What's this caste thing you guys have? You said Fire Caste earlier on... does that have something to do with that?"

"Correct, Gue'la. The Fire Caste is the... I suppose the equivalent to the Imperial Guard of you humans. The Fire Warriors of the Fire Caste – the Shas - protect the other three castes, we are their warriors and their guardians. We are there to step in if and when others are too blind to listen to the Water Caste – the Por - our diplomats and merchants. Everyone is watched over by the Air Caste – the Kor - our pilots and ship-crews. All of our tools – for war, commerce and transport – come from the Earth Caste – the Fio. They are builders and scientists, they develop new technologies to further Tau'va."

"Tau... va?" Oh goodness, this was starting to feel like a Wiki Walk.

"The Greater Good." Talon translated solemnly. Heck, you could feel the capital 'g's in his words.

"... Do I really need to say it, Sergeant?"

"Your face speaks for itself, Gue'la. No 'huh' is needed." Talon chuckled.

"The Tau'va – the 'Greater Good' – is the philosophy which drives the Tau Empire, from a lowly line trooper like me to the greatest of the Ethereals." Talon seemed as if he were reciting something. "The concept of this philosophy, Gue'la, is that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one, the individual." To emphasize this, he pointed first at himself, then spread his arms to encompass his squadmates in his broad gesture.

"We all strive for the betterment of the Tau as a whole, and for that we have come all the further."

"From the end of the Mont'au... the Age of Death, of civil war... the Tau have embraced this concept, thanks to the guidance of our beloved Ethereal Caste, and it has driven us forward into the Age of Expansion, the age of the Tau united."

"This philosophy is not exclusive for Tau alone. Anyone can become a part of the Greater Good without penalty, so long as they are willing." His partner added, pointing at Alice. "No matter what you may have done, if you embrace the Greater Good, we shall not refuse you."

"Of course, if you refuse the Greater Good..." The pulse rifle was hefted onto a shoulder. "... that is why we have Fire Warriors."

Alice looked on in awe. The concept of the Greater Good... it was simply one that was past human ideology... past human naivete, if she were to know the people that she had seen in the streets and in her own school.

"Well... that's great. But... what caste would I fit into?"

"That would depend on your talents, Gue'la. Michael would most definitely fit into the Fire Caste, although the fact that he uses a Fire Extinguisher would make the philosophers rather worried." Talon chuckled.

The human – a 'Guardsman' as Alice recognized – walked up to the Tau squad. He wasn't alone, there were maybe a large group of the humans approaching. However, two peeled off from the main group, who were telling the Tau that they had been put here as overwatch for Michael and his little mind-experiment.

The leader of the two – it was obvious that he was the more confident one - was dressed almost typically for any human soldier in history; on his head, he wore a rounded green helmet with a winged skull engraved onto the forehead panel. His breastplate had a similar marking, as well as '918' emblazoned in white numbers on the subdued green armor. Under the rugged plating was what appeared to be a dirt-brown overall, well kept and with a multitude of pockets. He had numerous pouches hanging off his waist and heavy-set boots. Between belt and boots were a pair of rugged pants and armored kneepads, by the looks of them worn and chipped.

The man appeared as if to be about thirty-ish, comfortable with the company about him.

"Greetings, Gue'vesa'la." Sergeant Talon turned to face the newcomers.

"Shas'ui Talon. For the fourth time; its Sohm. Or Trooper Vekt, if you must have my official designation." The man chuckled, extending an arm. Talon and the two humans shared a knowing smile, and it seemed like the usual routine for them to act like that, a routine for the three warriors. Well, it was a safe bet: All three held a weapon of some kind.

"Of course, Trooper Vekt." The two soldiers grasped each other's forearms in a bizarre variation of a handshake, and released at the same time to give each other a quick, friendly punch on the shoulders. Talon, being rather shorter and of a lighter build, staggered at the man's blow. But this seemed all in good fun, so he simply laughed it off. Turning to the fairer of the two, he executed a short bow.

"And greetings to you too, Gue'vesa'ui."

"Please, Sister Meliya will do just fine, Shas'ui."

Beside the human soldier was a woman, of the same height. However, her armor was much more intricate, looking more like a medieval knight's plate armor than his 'soldier' look: interlocking plates of black-painted and gold-trimmed armor covered her entire body. Instead of disguising her gender, however, the armored plates seemed to enhance the more feminine features, and there was more emphasis on decoration than the Guardsman beside her: her pauldrons were fixed with red fabric sleeves, which covered her arms up to the wrist. They were stained with various inks, and judging by the way they were done, it was devotional prayers that covered her arms. A large book sat on her left hip, and many small chains wrapped around her waist and looped through her armor, supporting many more trinkets – a stylized pillar, a gold human skull, a double headed eagle and a fleur-de-lis – which occasionally bumped against the parchment-and-wax seals, also covered in prayers to her deity.

"As the Guardsman Lieutenant has said: We are simply here to ensure that the Eldar do not try to escape, if they try anything malicious to Michael."

Alice's thoughts were again broken by the woman's soft voice. Her white hair wasn't an indicator of age: her voice was that of a young woman, maybe just past her late-twenties in age.

"Very well, Sister Meliya. It is pleasant to see you two again."

"Uhm... Nice to meet you?" Alice ventured, looking over her knees down at the three miniature soldiers. The three almost jumped in surprise: What the hell were they up to, forgetting about the hundred-meter tall giant sitting right next to them!

Meliya and Sohm looked up, with the latter smiling and giving Alice a wave as the former kept herself at a simple bow. They were used to giant humans, with Michael running around and all that. Alice looked on as the two gave their salutations.

"I'm Trooper Somh Vekt of Cadian Nine-eighteenth, pleasure to meet you, miss."

"Sister Meliya, of the Order of Our Martyred Lady. The same for me... uh..."

"Alice. Alice O'Grady." She responded. "Well... its a pleasure as well..."

Pleasantries aside (it seems like 38000 years did little to mar simple greetings, no matter how awkward), the assembled troopers soon got into camp, the Imperial Guardsmen – Cadians, it seemed – setting up their equipment and pointing them mostly at the coffee table.

A few minutes passed in awkward silence; Talon was either unwilling to continue his explanation of Tau society, or unable to because of the fact that Alice was now looking at the new arrivals, who had a much more familiar look to them, and therefore more pull.

"Ah... sorry about earlier." One of the men loading a rocket into a launcher-tube shouted up at Alice.

"... could you explain?"

"I was part of the heavy weapons team that pointed this..." He gave his rocket launcher a pat. "... at you. We fired the warning rocket, too."

"At Vincent's face?"

An awkward silence filled the air as the Cadian Guardsmen looked from one to the other.

"Yeah... a warning shot, right?" The man shifted nervously from one foot to the other, a 'krak' rocket still in his hands "He did dodge it, didn't he?"

"..."

"My apologies." It seemed like the only words that could save him from the look of pure, refined, feminine wrath that was being directed at him. Finally, Alice had found something to torture, something to focus her malice on. And then there was laughter.

A Sister of Battle, armored much like Sister Meliya but with far more decorations (if that were possible) and wielding a pair of flamethrower-pistols, stepped forward. She looked up at Alice while grinning, a 'just between us girls' kind of grin. Alice returned the gesture in a more subdued manner, and waved back.

"Uh... hello? You are..."

"Sister Herja, its 'Hey-er-ja'. Its good to see you." There was some looking up and down of Alice's appearances. Herja's grin grew wider. "Very good to see you. Alice, was it not?"

The brown haired girl smiled back nervously and nodded. The Sister had a very superior mood about her, and it seemed like she had really enjoyed seeing the Guardsman sweat under Alice's frown. From that, and having known Michael's aunt and the older woman's circle of friends, Alice could immediately label Sister Herja as a feminist. Who carried around a flamethrower on either hip.

"Good to see you too, sister." Assuming a more subdued, easygoing persona, Sister Herja rested her hands on her hips. "So very good..." Her grinning eyes disconcerted Alice, and the Guardsmen too, since now those troopers were busy inspecting the bottom of their canteens.

Alice sighed, and sat her head back, looking at the charred and battle-scarred ceiling. Certainly, Michael knew how to get people to redecorate. She turned to look at the Sisters of Battle, looking from one battle-worn face to another. They were strong. They were interesting. Alice found the one that had greeted the Tau earlier: Meliya, wasn't it?

"So... Sister Meliya? Do you mind telling me about yourself?"

"O-of course... where should I start?"

As they relaxed, the Guardsmen began to do what all social men did when they saw one of their number with a woman.

Sohm was jolted out of his caffeine high by an elbow to his ribs. Beside him was a Guardsman, and Alice listened intently as she heard his hushed tones.

"So... eh, Sohm. You and that Sage-girl were out pretty late last night."

More heads turned. Guardsmen began to come along closer. This was going to be interesting.

Sohm gave an exaggerated sigh. He looked up at his fellow Guardsman. Idiots, one look from a girl, one night spent poring over communiques intercepted by their vox and... well, half the regiment wanted to know if a Guardsman had managed to get a Sister to 'loosen their rosarius'.

"No, Web. We were processing this transmission... it was a flatvid, comedy entertainment. Yellow skinned caricatures."

"How about other kinds of entertainment, Sohm? By the Throne, you spend a lot of time alone with that girl. And she ain't no flatvid, either."

In the background, there was the revving of chainswords and yet another yelp from Vincent.

"What the hell... a rat!"

The Guardsmen's interest lasted only as long as the commotion went on, which ended in the Space Marine Chaplain's cry of anguish as the rat was hoisted into the air.

"With all due respect, Chaplain Morteus, Michael would not want a rat's head nailed to the wall!"

"Why does 'With all due respect' sound like 'frak you', Vincent?"

Alice couldn't help but snort as she overheard that. A very unladylike gesture, sure, but one of amusement nonetheless.

"Because the rat's head is going to stink, that's why!"


----------



## arturslv

Thought for the Day: "Wait, where did that Baneblade come from? HOW DID IT JUST APPEAR IN THOSE SEWERS! It must have taken a tactical ge-

CREEEEEEEEEEEEED!"

- Assorted Enemies of the Cadian 8th

"Michael, we are out of food rations... and recaf." Commissar Tomas pulled his hat down, face flushed with frustration. "Our foragers report that they have little to no food left to find. Only those 1337th pack mules have an abundance of food, and that is your grass." He sighed, his hand instinctively searching for the flask of recaf that he usually had slung at his hip. Commander Angruss from the Logistics Corps was also haggling me for more supplies, but being the equivalent of a Quartermaster-General, it was expected that he worry for his soldiers' nourishment.

"My warriors are running out of consumables, Michael. The loss of the rat to your friend was... a waste. It would have made good food. The Chaplain is still anguished at such a loss." Eizak looked up, palming his helmet as his solid stare looked up at me. "They cannot fight on empty stomachs, Space Marines they may be." His voice grave, the Space Marine Terminator turned away.

"Gue'vesa'O Mi'ka'el, we have stretched out our supplies, and we need more. How may we help you?" Commander Firestrike cocked his battlesuit's mechanical head, no doubt from the neural tic that he had. Already, Devilfish troop carriers were hovering with their cargo rigs, ready to help.

The slimly built Kroot Shaper – a tribal chief that looked like a cross between a falcon and the Predators from the movies – growled in agreement as he nodded his head. "My hunters are hungry, Michael."

"Thanks for your offer." I smiled. I liked these Tau, they were actually helpful. "But I think running around in the middle of the city would be more trouble than its worth..."

"Mon-keigh, perhaps you wish to starve my people to death?" Zara had her hands on her hips, in classic high-school bitch mode. She gave me a burning glare as I thought of that idea, before continuing the rant. My mind wandered as she rumbled on. "Is that a new tactic of... what are you thinking, that might be a good idea!"

I stepped out of the upstairs toilet, brushing the last of the vomit from my cheeks. Dammit, Zara, wasn't zapping my mind a bad thing to do?

Grrrrmmmgrrr...

Great. Even my stomach was rebelling against me.

"Oi, boss!"

"ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT, I KNOW WE NEED MORE FOOD, OKAY!"

"'tually, we woz wonderin' if we'ze could, y'know, blow summat up..."

"Oi, boy! You have a call!"

Vincent swung around on the swivel of his Gamer's Throne, and tapped on his cell phone, which was blaring its new ring tone – the recording of an Imperial Guardsman shouting. He tapped past the face of Alice's hilariously confused face – given to him from a Tau Stealth suit Shas'vre – and pressed the cell to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Uh... Vincent? Michael here."

"Yeah? Something happen?" The Asian boy sat up straighter in his chair.

"Nah, its just... could I borrow your car for a couple hours? I need to buy some food."

"... Sure. I'll help you out, if you want. I need to get out of the house and stretch my legs."

"Thanks."

"Be there in ten. See ya."

"Here we are." The nerd driver announced, kicking into neutral as we coasted into the parking lot.

Pulling into the supermarket, Vincent's old but still functional pickup truck rolled into the parking lot. The engine died at his touch as we slotted in between the trolley stand and a silver convertible.

Vincent pressed on the brake, jolting my satchel forward. It slid off the chair, and crashed into the footwell.

Instantly, muffled voices cried out in discomfort.

The two of us looked at each other, the color draining from my face as soon as Vincent began scrabbling for the underside of his seat. I arched an eyebrow as Vincent pulled out a rather battle-modified looking wrench – it read '18" Stainless Steel Drop Forged' on it, and had grip-tape wrapped around its handle – and prodded the satchel.

Hurried whispers called out for other people to 'Shut the frak up before he hears us'.

Vincent gave the satchel a whack.

More cries, less muffled voices rose up in answer.

My hand darted forward and upturned the satchel. A pair of 'Blood Raven' Scout Marines in their bright yellow armor (What the hell? Scouts in bright red armor?), a squad of four Stealth suits that shimmered as they stood back up, three Eldar Rangers in their dark green cloaks and a fire-team of five Imperial Guardsmen swathed in cameleoline cloaks tumbled out onto the floor.

"Had to expect that one." Vincent muttered, breathing a sigh and Bowing to his steering wheel. It seemed – to me – like a gesture of 'I don't want to deal with this, it's all yours.' - and soon enough Vincent was just lying back.

I picked up an Imperial Guardsman by the back of his cloak as he tried to skitter away. The rest scattered and disappeared into the footwell.

Vincent was quick, and being as large as he was in comparison to the others and the fact that he knew almost every nook and cranny of his car made their own stealth ability moot. He had gathered up the others in short notice; The Eldar Rangers were the last to be retrieved, and soon we had some very embarrassed guys standing there in front of us.

"What. The. Hell." I stared from one embarrassed scout to the other.

"Well, I can expect curiosity..." Vincent sighed, leaning back against the door of his car. I looked up at him, then back down at the toy-sized soldiers.

"But they still disobeyed me and followed me! Look, I can't have you guys coming along! What if someone sees you?" I shouted, and saw that even Space Marines flinched at my voice. I gritted my teeth.

The Asian boy sighed, and flicked on the radio, and fixed me with his blank stare, his eyes giving me all the communication that was needed. I was too loud.

Oh. Right. I was shouting; someone could had heard us. Dammit...

I cleared my throat, and stared at the assembled scouts, who were now shuffling their feet, wondering about their fates. Looking from one face to the other, I sighed.

"Okay, you guys stay here, in the car. You should be able to hide underneath the dashboard and not be seen."

"Uh..."

"I'll take it as a yes... look, if someone found out about you guys... things are going to get worse for us if they do."

"With all due respect, Gue'O, but we are scouts. We are trained to not be seen or heard, nor tell of our passing."

One of the Rangers coughed. "As well as that, mon-keigh, Farseer Zara is one mean b... witch, as you call psykers."

"... Fair enough."

"What's that, Gue'O?" A markerlight placed a bright green dot on a box of cereal. I quickly jiggled my satchel, throwing them off balance.

"For the fourth time, I said stop doing that! Just save it to a recorder and I'll tell you later!"

Vincent's elbow dug into my ribs as he hissed a warning.

"Michael, down the aisle..."

I turned to see a woman was staring at us, her son tugging at her sleeves. "Mommy... mommy... what's the weird man doing?"

The woman's implacable stare made us start sweating. Shoot... if she reported us to security...

"Ehehe... heh..." Vincent smiled in a crack-happy grin, waving at the woman. Hey, having served a stint as an actor didn't do much to impede his ability to creep people out with a smile worthy of the Joker. His almost bugged out of their socket, and he flashed his teeth as he grinned.

The mother's eyes widened in shock as she was presented with a view of Vincent's insane Asian facade. Mother and son double timed it out of the aisle while still trying to keep a parody of dignity.

We exhaled a collective sigh of relief when they disappeared around the corner.

"Blue-skin? Do not do that ever again." The Eldar Ranger sighed.

"Frakkin' xeno never learn, do they?" Quipped an Imperial Guard.

There was the sound of a bolt pistol being chambered.

Dammit.

I gave the satchel a good shake, which caused all occupants to tumble about helplessly as I thrust my hand in and rummaged for a non-existent shopping list, bumping into the various human and not-so-human scouts inside as I did. Vincent busied himself with checking the price difference between bran flakes and corn flakes.

"Guys, just stop it already!" I hissed into my satchel, looking at the dazed scouts below me. The group were now all confused and very much unfit to do combat with all the shaking around, or otherwise had wised up to the fact that I didn't want them fighting.

It felt like I was trying to keep a group of irresponsible kids with guns to try and keep still.

"Finished?" Vincent asked, leaning backwards to talk to me. "The stackers are getting worried."

Sure enough, a quick glance around showed that two of the employees had made their way over to us, and were now very slowly unpacking and repacking boxes of foodstuffs. I sighed as Vincent hefted a box of Sugar Rings.

"Alright, let's hurry this up."

We moved quickly now, with the boys in the bag behaving as they satisfied themselves with popping optical scopes out the top of the flap and seeing the world outside as it was.

Vincent and I went about collecting a lot of coffee and cereal from the aisle as we were watched by the two employees, and we managed to slip away without any trouble. The cereal was good, since we had small bits that didn't need cutting up to feed the minis, and then were also filling enough to get these warriors through a day. A bottle of milk made it's way through when I talked to Commissar Tomas about additives to the coffee.

Quick detours down to the snack foods aisle yielded Kettle chips, special order from Justicar Amadeus. But since the messenger was Silverite, I doubted that was true, but got them anyway. A cruel part of my mind wanted to tie Silverite to an immovable object, and the~

*CLANG*

"What the hell was that?" I blurted, jumping up from my thoughts. I turned around to see Vincent grabbing a can of spaghetti, which had hit the metal bottom of the shelves.

"S'rry..." Vincent muttered, tossing the can back into place, and almost dropping another half-dozen. My bespectacled friend began to pick his way through the other cans, checking labels and wondering about their heft. His glances at the mini-Warhammer 40k characters did nothing to help with my imagination. The guy weaponized everything as a freaking hobby. I just guessed this guy was just bored, if he was thinking of using cans of spaghetti to fight off miniature soldiers.

"Gue'O Michael, what was that?" The voice from my satchel asked. Most likely the Tau Shas'vre.

"Just a can of spaghetti."

"Spaghetti?" The Space Marine Scout – I later learned his name was Iroquois Plisskin - looked up at me. "You mean those yellow magma worms from Roma II?"

"No. Its something you eat."

"You eat them?" Scout Sergeant Plisskin pulled off his eyepatch in disbelief, although he seemed more curious than disgusted. Maybe he wanted to try some out... I chuckled.

"N-no... its not like that. Spaghetti is just Italian pasta."

"... you eat industrial adhesives!" The Imperial snipers chorused.

I facepalmed.

"Seriously. Its just... food."

The gathered scouts looked at each other in a mix of disbelief, terror and curiosity. I just about Bowed in Frustration, but kept myself from doing so. Turning to the shelves, I quickly picked off a pair of cans – baked beans – and set them into the trolley.

Vincent was trying not to laugh as he grabbed an undamaged can of magma wo- spaghetti and throwing it into the trolley. A packet of flour followed, he needed some for himself (Vincent had also thrown in several packets of microwaveable meals and another packet of rice for himself).

"Yeah, and next is the packets of raw gravel." He chuckled.

"Vince..." I sighed.

"What? Seriously, you'd think so with the stuff they put in the candied popcorn."

As we moved on from the snacks aisle, we picked up several packets of twinkies (The Zombieland movie that I had picked up off Trent – another of my friends – had sparked both humor and curiosity, seeing as how – to quote Inquisitor Danilov - 'that man appeared to be more devoted to consuming that 'twinkie' than serving the God-Emperor in cleansing this vile infection'), and sno-balls just for laughs (Consistency, they say?). Popcorn seemed traditional for any future movie-going events, so I was throwing that in as well.

Besides the objects of curiosity, I also threw in a few random items for them to test out (but nothing sugary for the Orks. Madork'z boyz trippin' on Waaagh! was bad enough already. I didn't need them trippin' on sugar and energy drinks).

Vincent quickly decided on a little bit of ecological irony and opted to see if he could find as many fungus based foods to feed them – mushrooms were a good start. Also, fruit and meat. A lot of that went into the trolley, most of which were from Vincent throwing them at me.

Staple foods that didn't bleed or wasn't naturally green colored were bread and the various packaged meals that I had picked up, but then Vincent tossed me a five kilogram sack of rice, and with a promise of teaching me how to cook them (with a rice cooker, of all things).

"Let's see how that goes." He chuckled, leaning on the trolley. It rolled back, of course, and one corner slammed into my satchel as I moved out of the way.

"FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF~"

"Sorry, Sergeant... really, I'm sorry about that..." Vincent and I were walking through an empty section of the supermarket, with the former of us doing a lot of apologizing to the Imperial Guardsman. Sergeant Taum McTavish irritably nursed his left arm, which had been severely battered by the misfortune of being between a steel trolley and my thigh.

"Ngh... could have broken something, you know." He finished with checking his left arm, and moved on to the nasty bruise that was forming on his forehead – standing beside the Stealthsuit during that event had gotten him a few more very prominent marks.

"Like your brain, mon-keigh?" The Eldar Ranger asked. "I would have thought that you would have cracked that a long time ago, your intelligence considered."

"Y~!" The Guardsman moved to attack the Ranger, who immediately drew his shuriken pistol, but I beat him to the punch, so to speak. Lifting the Eldar scout up by his cameleoline cloak, I gave him a brief shaking to completely disorient him (although, to his credit, the bugger didn't let go of his pistol), then threw him into one of the side pockets of my satchel, before zipping it up.

"Dammit, behave, will you?"

"Uh... heheh..." Vincent was giving another of his cheesy/nervous grins down the aisle, indicating with a small gesture to a girl standing there staring at us with a very confused expression.

She looked normal enough, with her long black hair coming down to mid-back, and a simple, oversized black t-shirt over a purposefully tattered pair of jeans. Slim and gracefully built, she looked as if she were a dancer – I was reminded of the Howling Banshees and the Seraphim of the Adepta Sororitas.

But when I saw her face as she grinned at us, I froze.

Sharp teeth, as if filed down to their shark like, triangular shape. Wisps of unnaturally purple hair waved around as she pulled back her veil of hair to see us properly.

Deep red eyes peeked out, which seemed to transfix my friend and myself as she gave us a grin of pure psychotic glee. The girl's expression changed, to one of malevolent joy and excitement. She seemed like a small child that had just found out she was getting a rabbit for her birthday... or the cat that had just eaten the canary.

"Hwee haff foud hyuu!." She giggled, clapping her hands together. The girl seemed almost on the verge of joyful tears. "Nao... hwee arr sorreh, but hwee haff to keel hyuu... hai vant chuu bee fwee."

Dammit. What kind of deal had she gotten herself into now? Find me, kill me to be free! What the hell was with that girl?

She reached into the tattered satchel she had at her right hip, and drew out a knife. It was a weapon made for flashing: The serrated teeth told me that much.

Well... shit.

The Chaos Sorcerer known as Tzarvos the Shadow-caller tsk'd in irritation as he looked out at the scene unfolding before him. The marble turned scrying sphere cracked in his hand suddenly, before falling to pieces in his hand. His latest daemonic gift – batlike wings - flapped irritably, then folded behind him. He could be there in mere minutes, with his new ability to fly, but for now he could not see how he could stop the girl.

"Not as planned." He observed. False hope was one thing, but killing a potentially powerful thrall? Not. As. Planned.


----------



## arturslv

"Hyoo mahst dai nao..."

"W-what are you talking about!" I looked at the girl in front of me. The sudden declaration of 'you must die' was certainly a way to throw a person off. But really, what threw me off was not what the strange girl had said, but who she was.

The unfortunate girl was as I remembered her, in that dream... no, in that vision. She was divinely beautiful, with a flawless form, her hair swung in silken strands of purple that danced over smooth, light brown skin. Her body was wrapped up in simple clothes, with a jet black shirt and blue jeans with some sneakers. She could have been a goddess of teenage desire, but... I got the feeling of her being almost ashamed of her self, or simply too shy to show it. Her arms were crossed over her body, hugging herself as she advanced.

"Hai mahst kheel hyoo."

Her murmured and badly mangled words were almost inaudible.

Vincent was slapping the side of his head - in a twisted version of percussive maintenance - to see if he could hear her right. He looked at me and caught my eye, then pointed all five of his fingers into a 'beak' of sorts, and waved it back and forth, his fingers pointed at his mouth. Italian sign-language for "What the fuck?". Russel Peters, thank you for that addition to Vincent's non-verbal communications repertoire. I shook my head in response to that. No idea.

"Uh... why?" My voice was shaky – afraid – and working hard to try and get something intelligible out.

"Hy hwan choo kou bhak." She sighed in her butchered English, her whispered voice almost in despair as she advanced towards us. "Haai hwant choo gho baahck." Needle-fine teeth showed as she spoke.

The girl swayed on her feet, as if delirious and about to collapse, although I could see that she was strong: Both her hands were clutched to her chest so tightly I could see the white knuckles through her light brown skin. One delicate step placed her at less than ten feet from Vincent, the miniature scouting party in my satchel, and myself.

The Imperials had ducked inside, and were now cursing and reciting litanies in their 'High Gothic', while the Eldar were scrambling up and trying to get their sights on to her. The Tau were confused at the excitement, probably because they had been stuck in a corner since the Markerlight incident. Vincent didn't seem to be bothered by her (apart from the normal confusion of seeing her start to whimper now), the packet of flour still in his hand as he tried to identify her.

I was entranced.

This purple haired slip of a girl moved with an unnaturally graceful gait, much like the Eldar that I had met in the past, but her footsteps sent my skin tingling. Everything seemed to haze around me as something akin to a strong smell hit my senses. My nostrils flared in the sudden assault to my senses, I was forced to squeeze my eyes shut as they began to water and throb, and I felt bile rising in my throat. Instantly, as if a small voice had whispered in my ear, I knew why this was happening.

Chaos. The Ruinous Powers that Be.

Vincent glanced aside as I gasped for breath, seeing the girl take a few more tentative steps closer. We were both backing away. His stance was lower now, centering and lowering his center of gravity for a fight. The Imperials in my satchel swore on several of the Emperor's anatomical features and armor parts (for the Guardsmen and the Space Marines, respectively) as the satchel swung around behind me.

"Uh... Michael... you know this girl?"

"From that vision. Sacrificed to Chaos." I managed to gasp. Vincent's reply was a faint 'aw...shite'.

The girl was in tears now as she passed by the shelves of spaghetti. MacTavish was howling at the vox, calling for backup.

"Hym sho shorreh..." She sobbed. The girl pulled back her white knuckle hands, to reveal a dagger.

Well, sorry my ass. Sunlight reflected off the mirror-smooth blade.

My eyes were forever burned with the shape and form of that weapon. It was a simple blade, straight edged and tapering in an exquisite curve to a fine point. The guard of the dagger looked like the typical Chaos symbol of an eight-pointed star, but in the center this time was an eye. The apologetic attacker's hands were covering the rest of the weapon, but I didn't need the rest to completely terrify me. The guard was enough, resting in the middle of the weapon. That eye blinked at me.

Cold terror filled me. It wasn't like in the movies that I watched. That fear seized up my limbs. I wanted to scream, but I choked. Fingers shook and clenched uncontrollably, my feet felt like they were welded to the ground and my breathing as fast as hers.

She ducked her head down into a run, her feet carrying her across the floor. I was too slow to dodge her tackle. The cultist hit me high in the chest, sending both of us down into the ground. My satchel was ripped off and cast away as we struggled on the ground. I was bizarrely reminded of Not-Zara's attack, although that time the attacker had been a lot more... composed. She was sobbing and crying as I tried to wrestle the knife out of her hand. Even with her one slim limb against both my hands, she was surprisingly strong. I gasped for breath as her left elbow dug into my ribs.

Vincent was swearing and shouting something incoherent, running over to the stack of shelves beside him.

"Haim shoo sorreh..." She repeated, over and over as she apologetically attacked me, her blade hovering inches from my face. I felt the daemonic weapon touch my left shoulder, and felt its fire-hot touch sear my flesh. I cried out in pain as the blade began to slip into my flesh.

"Hy hwant choo gho bahk. Bahk choo nohmaal."

She wanted to break free of Chaos. By striking a deal with Chaos. What. The. Hell.

"Sorreh..."

My vision began to blur at the edges as a new push stabbed the daemonic blade further into my shoulder, a dark ring closing around my sight. The taste of rotten eggs and the smell of brimstone was being burned into my senses as my skin sizzled from the touch of daemonic metal. My arms were starting to tire – I wasn't some kind of action hero, or even fit – and this girl was putting her entire weight into pushing the blade into my shoulder.

"Gue'El Vin'cent! DO SOMETHING!"

Vincent moved in my tunneling vision, his right arm whipping around behind me.

The blade in her hand roared and leaped back from me, moving to defend its user, almost dragging the girl along with itself as it did.

Spaghetti and two halves of a perfectly sliced tin can was liberally spread around the aisle. The taste of tomato sauce filled my mouth, and the feel of slimy noodles dripping down my face. The smell of Italian herbs and the sight of the blade whipping up and away managed to reboot my senses.

"Ah, fuck it." Vincent muttered as the psychotic girl rushed him, hefting another object.

The bag of flour sailed lazily through the air. I knew, instantly, that it would never hurt the girl in tears. Her hand again moved, dragged into motion by the knife, and shredded the flour bag in two neat cuts that sent the four pieces slamming into the floor.

White powder filled the aisle, and I almost tripped on my own feet as I scrambled to get away. Vincent's hand coiled around my hand and dragged me upright. He shouted some warning, giving me a 'get back!' gesture, and threw the burning scrap of paper that he had lit with the lighter in his other hand into the cloud of flour as he shifted his head into his denim jacket to cover himself.

The fireball that resulted with the igniting flour filled the air with the roar of an explosion, setting off smaller fires with the more flammable materials around it, and strangely enough the smell of burnt toast reached my nose.

Well, that's Vincent for you.

Behind me, the girl screamed in surprise as the fireball engulfed her.

I felt the heat as I fell to my knees, trying desperately to propel myself away. Vincent threw himself back and landed bodily beside me, rolling slightly before crashing into a stack of cans. He was clutching his left hand as he tried to bat out the flames that licked at his sleeves. No way was a normal human walking away from that without a few burns.

As the flaming mass parted, I sighed. No normal human.

"Emperor protect us..." The Guardsmen muttered. His prayer – whatever it may have been – was quickly cut off as I snagged the satchel and pulled it up.

This was a girl who had been granted perfection by the Chaos Gods. Of course they would protect their... investment.

I turned back as Vincent and I tried to scramble onto my feet. The alarms were screaming now, and water was starting to pour down from above.

The girl was standing there, her burnt arms still crackling with energy as she looked up at me with hollow eyes. Across her body, glowing lines of energy were beginning to break out of her skin. Water sizzled where they touched those lines. She gasped – whether in pain or something else – as Chaos powers poured into her. The girl fell to her knees, shivering in pain. She gave out a high pitched, almost whistling cry.

"Michael! We..." Vincent grabbed me by the sleeve. "... are..." He hefted another object from the shelves – a can of pumpkin soup – at the girl. "...leaving!" It was shredded into nothing before it got within two feet of her, although some of said soup was sprayed all over her face.

While that was happening, we were bolting away as fast as our legs could carry us without slipping.

RUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUN!

I was running on adrenaline and instinct right now. My left arm felt like it had been set on fire, and I felt like I would be nursing quite a few bruises later on – if I survived that long. Vincent was just running like hell, but I could see that his clothes were badly scorched by the flour-bomb. All around us, water was pouring down as the sprinkler system dumped years old stagnant water down on our heads.

We reached the end of the aisle, slipping and skidding, with Vincent was running like hell with me stumbling along just ahead of him. I almost slipped and fell as we slid into the main aisles and past the mini-butchery – even from such a short sprint. Vincent squeezed out a few words as he fought for breath.

"I... am... not... made... for... this... sorta... thing!"

A quick turn into the frozen foods section brought us out straight into the checkouts section. We saw the empty checkouts, their operators long ago evacuated, and picked our way through. Once out, we got to the final corridor – a ten foot span where everyone packed up and went after paying. There was a crowd trying to push through the double doors at one end, trying to escape the trouble of explanations.

Funny, that when we came in here they seemed huge, but now they were far too small for our liking. I looked around, seeing Vincent's well worn pickup truck only a hundred yards away, but with the crowd, the door and the sheet of glass in between us, it was far more than just that.

Glass? Wait a second...

"Vincent! Anything heavy, in this trolley!" I dragged a fallen trolley back onto its wheels, and pulled it back to the counter, where I began to pile in the heaviest groceries as I could.

"Huh?" Vincent looked at me with his 'are you high?' look, then followed my gaze. "Oh."

A sixpack and a watermelon was quickly added to the load. I pulled off my satchel, and opened it up at the nearest checkout.

"You guys, try and weaken a spot on the window!" I pointed at the glass sheet nearest to us, and got a few nods in response.

The Shas'vre hefted what was known as the 'Fusion Blaster' on his Stealthsuit. The Space Marine Scout beside a swearing Ranger picked up a rocket launcher, loading a missile with a needle-like tip. Sergeant MacTavish himself was busy hefting his sniper rifle into position, shouting us a warning.

"Heretic's right there! I'm taking the shot!"

Behind us was the girl, stumbling along in a mix of elfin grace and drunken staggering as she advanced, her sentient (there was no other explanation for what the blade had done) blade pulling her along. The Tanith scout-sniper leveled his weapon, and stroked the firing stud.

Crack!

The sniper's lance of red light split the air as MacTavish hung half-out of my bouncing satchel. There was the satisfying yelp of surprise, but no doubt the long-las blast had been stopped by whatever powers protected her. The knife screamed in rage as it swung around wildly, its mirror-smooth metal stained black by the heat.

Beside MacTavish, the other scouts were chattering away into their headpieces and communications gear as they pumped as much firepower into the window as they could – it wasn't doing much, with their light weaponry – and I could make out their reports as their voices overlapped each other.

"Shas'vre, adjust your focus! We are simply melting holes in that glass!"

Crack! MacTavish's shot glanced off the bubble of energy now protecting the cultist.

"This is Scout Marine Ventorez, we are in need of assistance at vector 40-203-994..."

The dakka dakka dakka of the Scout Marine bolters tore chunks off the glass.

"We are probably only ten-twenty checks out, over! It only took us four minutes to drive here in Vincent's vehicle!"

Blue pellets of energy spewed forth from the Burst Cannon of the Tau Stealthsuits, melting small holes into the glass.

"Chaos cultist! The girl that the mon-keigh saw in his vision!"

A krak missile blasted a chunk of glass the size of my fist.

"That heretic's getting closer!" MacTavish roared, his sniper rifle not caring for aim anymore, simply pumping as many blasts into the girl's knife as possible before it got to us.

"Mount up, Rangers!" A Ranger shouted, stowing away his rifle and grabbing his spotter. He threw her into the satchel and jumped inside. I grabbed one of the Tanith scouts, and he followed the Rangers in.

Vincent grabbed onto the trolley's bar, and I grabbed the other end. We both charged forward with the two-hundred pound load in front of us. The glass had been pockmarked by explosions and outright melted in others. Our combined weight and speed met with the glass. There was the sound of a terrific impact, the crunch of steel on cracked glass.

For a moment, I felt resistance, but the glass yielded. We smashed a hole just big enough to drive a Mini Cooper through, and I felt falling glass cut at my face and back. The trolley slammed into the railing at the edge of the sidewalk, and we tumbled to the ground.

We had gotten outside in one piece.

Picking ourselves up, we glanced at each other for a moment, then back into the store, and then started running as fast as we could.

"Well... we've caused quite the scene now, huh?" Vincent quipped between gritted teeth. We were skirting the edges of a mass exodus made up of panicking shoppers, with squealing tires and cursing people all fighting for a way out. I nodded grimly, and we both hurried towards Vincent's car.

"Incoming!" The Tau Shas'vre warned. I turned to look.

The girl was far faster than I thought she was. Either that, or the two of us – a rather lazy artist who barely had any exercise in his lifestyle and a computer technician that didn't propel himself faster than a swift walk on most days – were simply that slow.

She was gaining ground on us, and Vincent was starting to lag behind.

Suddenly, my mind ground to a halt.

Stop running! Stand and face her!

My feet twisted themselves into a skip on the asphalt, and my body did a pirouette one-eighty, turning to face the surprised cultist with a cry of surprise. What the hell am I doing! The occupants of my satchel were swearing and cursing in their native tongues. Her knife seemed equally bewildered, screaming out in rage or frustration - I did not know - but scream it did.

I saw hesitation pass through the eyes of the Cultist as she barreled towards me, knife raised.

Charge her! Get the knife out of her hands! It controls her!

We crashed into each other as I suddenly leaped forward, and I grabbed onto her knife-hand as we fell to the ground. My wounded shoulder was filled with an agonizing pain, but I managed to keep her down – this time, I was the one pinning her to the ground.

Yoza... is that you?

Good luck, Mon-keigh. That's all I can do for you now. The rest is up to you.

Zara... you utter bitch.

"Guys!" Gritting my teeth, I shifted my weight to let the miniature soldiers out of their bag. "Get. The. Knife!"

Instantly, they began to scramble from their pockets in my satchel, and swarmed up my torso. The Tau Stealthsuits – being jetpack equipped – were the first to get there. Second were the swift and agile Eldar, then at their heels were the lightly equipped Tanith scouts, and finally the Scout Marines.

All leveled their exotic weapons at the knife.

"The knife! Don't hurt the girl!"

The stealthsuit Shas'vre was the first to fire, his fusion blaster searing a deep gash on the perfect steel. The knife screamed and struggled, whipping around and lashing out at the scouts. An Eldar Ranger screamed as his left arm was caught in the tip of the blade. Blood boiled as the rest of the daemon knife was battered by the rest of the team.

"Break, damn you, break!"

I tried my best to keep the knife down, flailing my arm up and down to try and smash it out of her grip. The cultist-girl squirmed around underneath me, trying to get herself loose. She was still trying her best to kill me, it seemed.

Finally, one shot from a lasgun struck the eye of the knife. The weapon screamed in agony, the sound accompanied by the psychic ripple that stunned my entire body. I froze, my entire body refusing to move as the knife began to twist and deform from the rest of the scouts; they had seen how the blade had reacted when it had been shot in the eye. A fusion blast lanced through the hilt, piercing the eye. The blade snapped as it twisted into a horrifying new shape, and fell to the ground. The girl's hand slackened in a sigh of relief, and she dropped the rest of the knife. Her hand was burned and scarred as it uncurled, most unlike the flawless skin elsewhere. The girl gave a shudder and passed out, a half smile on her lips.

I rolled off, the stinging pain of my shoulder wound throbbing madly as I saw Vincent running towards me. Now that I had a good look at his face, I saw that he had lost some of the hair on the left side of his face – his eyebrow most prominently – and would be sporting quite a few burn scars there for a while. He pulled me up to a seated position, and began to look at the scouts.

Many were wounded, with the Eldar Ranger cradling a missing arm as his squadmates moved to help. Two others were dead on the ground. In the struggle, we had also lost a leg from the knee down on one of the Scout Marines, another with a stab wound that cut through his lower right torso, and finally one with an arm twisted completely the wrong way. The Tau Stealthsuits had written off a stealthsuit to battle damage – the armor was locked down now, so the fate of its pilot was unknown – and the rest were heavily battered. We also lost three of the Guardsmen – two nearly cut in half by the knife, before bleeding out as the knife had lashed out at us, and the third was crushed by the pommel of the knife.

By a long stretch, my injuries were far less. Running on adrenaline, I hadn't even noticed that I also had a few more nasty cuts on my arms and face, all shallow enough that I didn't have to worry for the moment. Now that I was coming off that high, I felt each and every ache and sore, and the creeping throb of my left shoulder as well.

As for the girl, she looked battered – bruised at best - but otherwise unharmed. I felt anger, that these good warriors had been forced to give their lives for us – for her and myself – because of her stupidity. Those Ruinous Powers were not child's play...

The bark of a pistol interrupted any other thoughts. Vincent and I both turned to look at the alleyway connecting to the carpark. I saw a man, his face obscured by the white bandana over his face. He was dressed in a crimson hoodie and black pants, the smoking pistol still in his hand. He had fired in the air, and now he lowered the weapon, holding it 'gangsta style' - on its side – to point at us. His boys were similarly dressed, but were armed only with wicked knives and crude clubs, and I could only assume that he was their leader.

My stomach dropped as I saw the symbols crudely painted onto his chest. They looked vaguely like a triangular figure-of-eight, with the top neatly split open to the sides, and bisected by a line. The Mark of the Blood God.

Frying pan. Fire.

You all know how it goes.


----------



## arturslv

Thought for the day: "Guardsman, the Emperor gave you a trigger finger for a reason. USE IT!" - Commissar Tomas Sturm, Cadian 918th.

"Aaah shite." Vincent muttered as he saw the gang that had come in.

The asian nerd was kneeling on the ground less than eight feet away, a look of borderline panic on his face. Eyes were flicking left and right, trying to find some way of escape. His hands were spread out and trying to subtly search the empty ground for a weapon. Vincent was obviously on the verge of losing it completely.

Curled up right in front of me, the purple haired cultist was lying there, unconscious, her right hand still smoldering from the intense Warpfire that it once held. Her clothes had been torn and stained by the struggle between us and the blood spilled during that fight, respectively. Hers or mine, I didn't know.

My entire body ached as I came down from my adrenaline high. My left shoulder – victim to a daemonically powered knife stab – was throbbing in protest from its overwork in wrestling said knife from the cultist it had possessed. The fact that I had been wearing a light blue shirt at the time wasn't helping with my secondary thoughts of having to wash my blood off. My leg muscles were strained from their relatively rapid use, and what passed for my shoulder muscles had been strained from the impact when Vincent and I crashed a trolley through the glass panels of the supermarket window. All of my clothes had a tear or stain on them.

Around us, the remains – maybe just more than a half – of the scouting party that had stowed away in my satchel were preparing for their final stand against the gang-boys that had assembled twenty feet in front of us.

On my side of the fight, we had miniaturized state-of-the-art Tau weaponry mixed in with the ancient but no less effective weapons of the Imperium; lasguns (the sniper rifle variant) and bolters. The Eldar were using their needle-launching sniper rifles as well, but the specialized anti-personnel weapons weren't going to be anywhere as effective against the gang before us.

In their hands weapons ranging from a freshly fired pistol to knives – both new and some seemingly rusted with blood – and crude clubs made of lead pipes and similar materials.

"Izzat tha boy K-horn wants us to fuck up?" The guy to the left of the leader asked.

"Fucked if I know." A third drawled.

"Fuckit, jus' cap 'em and go. Blood's all he needs. K-horn doesn't care where the blood comes from."

I sighed, inwardly. I knew this kind of group.

This was the kind of group that usually trawled the edges of the 'hoods: They weren't 'real' gang members, more like potential recruits for the actual ones. Posers, for lack of a better word. Wannabes. Their 'traditions' were derived from the bravado-fueled rap videos, and their behavior taken from the same. Mostly aggression-driven into a pack mentality like that of wolves, they strove to impress their peers and the real gangers... perfect prey for the Blood God with promises of power and respect.

Even so, there were five of them, facing Vincent, the scouts and myself. Normally, on a even scale, a single Scout – whether Eldar, Tau, Space Marine or Imperial - would have been more than a fair match for them.

But dammit, 1/56 scale sucked.

Okay... think.

Think... fuck!

I had some of the most brilliant tactical and strategic minds in the universe – the Space Marines, warriors that had survived centuries if not millennia of warfare, the Eldar chess-masters of stratagems, who had the oldest and wisest counsel to draw their plans from, and the naïve but no less effective Tau way of killing blow and patient hunter – and yet I had not learned a thing from these guys.

But I knew some basics, from games (of all things. Vincent would be proud). Assess the terrain... okay, okay... don't panic.

I can survive this.

Firstly, think of where you are fighting.

Our corner of the near-empty car park was devoid of anything that could stop a bullet. I had eighty – maybe ninety – pounds of unconscious female cultist at my knees, and all they had to do was start shooting; the only other cars around besides Vincent's pickup were your typical soccer-mom mini-van, and a hatchback that looked like it belonged to another suburban mom. Both were at too great a distance to actually give us any real cover. The hedges bordering the parking lot also hemmed us in, keeping us from escaping out into open road – it also concealed us from anyone trying to figure out where the shots came from.

Alright... how about consolidating resources? That was a good start. Leave nobody behind.

"Guys, get into my satchel." I muttered through clenched teeth. The stealthy scouts were crouched low to the ground, now, their cameleoline cloaks and battlesuit stealth systems allowing them to blend with the ground as they moved to sneak into my bag. Not good, not good. The miniature soldiers began to inch their way across the asphalt, backing their way into the battered satchel.

The Blood God's servants kept their weapons raised as we held up our hands in the universal 'Hey, I'm not a threat!' gesture. There were... lets count 'em... five of the crimson clothed gangers, one of which was armed with... what was that gun? I turned to Vincent, ignoring the conversation spouting from the gangers like water from the mouth of a gargoyle.

"Vincent, what kind of guns is that guy using?" I hissed to my friend. Said nerd squinted for a second, examining the weapon in the ganger's hand.

"Silver plated Colt .45. He's got six shots left if h-"

He blinked and then jerked to the left, an action followed by second gunshot from the lead ganger. The round skipped off the concrete behind us, then into the hedges. Vincent swore in surprise, the bullet had passed through his clothes, ripping a hole in the left back of his jacket. He half-rolled, half-tumbled to the side and came up stumbling, managing to throw himself into a run before the gun was brought back to bear. A third gunshot sent a bullet through the air where he had been.

All thoughts of thinking left my brain.

The leader managed to get off one more shot, which again went wide, before there was a surprised cry of frustration from him. I saw the outstretched pistol, still held one-handed and sideways, looking not quite right; there was now a copper-brown cylinder sticking out of the silver plate on the side, and the barrel was sticking out of the front.

A moment of confusion passed.

Big, bandana faced and nasty snorted in disgust and threw away the gun.

"OH-PAHN FAI-HAR!" Barked the heavily accented voice of MacTavish, each syllable emphasized by his bellowing voice. For a scout, he could sure make a lot of noise.

Suddenly, there was a bright mashup of firepower connecting the open satchel hanging off my neck to the throat of the nearest ganger – the one who had stepped forward as his leader threw away the gun. His fellows flinched and some yelped as bright lances of energy scorched their skin, but the leader was hit the worst. He clutched at the traumatized skin, letting the metal pipe in his hands clatter to the ground. Blood seeping out from between his pale fingers, I could see eyes widen as he gasped for breath. There was a choked gurgle, and the ganger pitched forward.

And then I truly felt the Hand of a God.

It came like a sudden pressure, pressing down on me from all around... You know, when you put on dishwashing gloves and then stick the hand into water? Apply that to your entire body. The feeling was crushing the breath from my lungs. The pure malice that was floating around me was tangible, and I felt the whispers of daemons as they passed by to dive into the gangers. A dry throat and trembling fingers were all that was needed to tell me that things were not going well on any of the planes of existance.

The four other gangers roared as they trampled their former comrade.

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!"

I almost crapped myself right there. Instead, I decided to be more productive and run away. Bending down, I picked up the cultist, and found my estimates of her weight about right. Why I picked her up, I didn't know.

Pity? Maybe.

But what I knew was that she had a lot of explaining to do, and I wasn't going to let her get out of it by dying. I hefted her body up with my arms, and broke off into a run... well, slow jog, at best. My protesting feet carried me as quickly as I could, satchel bouncing behind me, as the battle cry of Khorne went up.

"SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!"

A ganger sprinted ahead of his leader, leaped and tried to beat at me with his improvised club. I felt the heavy blow crash into the space between my shoulder blades, went down like a log, the cultist and the scouts coming along for the ride, and was set upon by the others.

The cultist rolled away, more-or-less safe in this situation, and I felt the satchel bouncing off my left shoulder, sending another shock of pain through my nervous system. Blows rained down on me as the others surrounded my prone form, searching for the weapon that had felled their comrade,.

A quarter-inch thick line of blue lightning sliced out from the satchel, burning a nasty scar onto the forearm of one ganger. I managed to break free for a second, and threw it open, scattering the scout teams onto the ganger climbing on top of me, punctuating each blow with a word that sent my head into another bout of throbbing pain.

"BLOOD. FOR. THE. BLOOD. GOD!

SKULLS. FOR. TH~"

"KRAK GRENADE!"

In my state of concussed disorientation, my eyes seemed to decide that it was a good idea to be aware of what was happening in front of me; a Space Marine leaped from my shoulder, scampered his way up the ganger's bandana, and shoved a krak grenade into his ear. Earlier – maybe on the fourth day – the Space Marines had shown me the oversized, tin-can shaped grenades they used to crack open doors and armor that was too strong for regular frag-grenades, but too weak to waste a melta bomb on.

There was the almost familiar thunderclap sound of its detonation, and suddenly the ganger was dead weight in my struggling arms. I decided that he was thoroughly distracted, so my arm came around to give him a punch on the right temple. Kicking the limp body off of me, I managed to scramble onto my feet as a second round of gunshots split the air.

Two pops reported the shots of the pistol behind me. I prepared myself for the pain. The crunchy sound of a bullet hitting a human body was soon followed by a scream of pain. Around me, the remaining gangers got their act together, their morale – or what passed as morale among these guys – broken, and they turned tail and ran. The suffocating anger in the air seemed to lighten, and I could feel myself breathe freely again.

Beside me, the cultist shuddered.

"Khorne does not care where the blood flows from..." She whispered.

Still crouched behind the smoking pistol, Vincent collapsed with a long release of breath, his back to the lamp-post that usually illuminated the car park at night. The Colt .45 slipped out of his hand as three shell-casings rolled about. They stopped when they hit the body of the still writhing ganger, who was clutching at his thigh, shot through by the pistol.

"Thank God for YouTube. And Halvorsen." He muttered distantly, picking up the pistol again. I was busy with searching for the Scouts, who were amazingly unharmed as I rolled the unconscious – and still bleeding with an odd whistling sound to his breath – ganger onto his side, allowing the Tau Stealthsuits to pick themselves up and crawl out. The Shas'vre's front paint had been completely scraped off, revealing the off-blue metal underneath his stealth field thingy.

Barrel pointed at the ground and slightly away from himself, Vincent began to half-walk, half-stagger towards me. "Hey, Michael! You all right over there?"

"Just fine. Ugh... I think I might need a medic, though." I jabbed him with an old joke from our highschool days, trying to distract myself from the fact that we had almost been killed by crazy cultists for a blood god.

All I got was his blank face.

I sighed. "How about you?"

"First time I ever shot a real gun... didn't hit a thing I was aiming for, though." He stammered, giving his newly captured weapon a glance. Nerding out was overriding his freaking out, it seemed. However, the guy still looked like he was in an anesthetic daze, his eyes unfocused and distant, his movements jerky and... uncoordinated. It was like looking at a puppet with only half the strings attached. Stumbling across the carpark, Vincent fell to his knees beside the ganger who had once wielded the gun.

"Dasar keparat!" Vincent swore. I think it was Indonesian for 'damned fool'. "Didn't know how to clear a stovepipe... bodoh, they put the iron sights on top for a reason..."

He shook his head in bewilderment as he poked the guy once with the gun, and pressed the weapon to the guy's neck, finger on the trigger now, and began to rummage through his pockets. Pushing the guy over onto his back, Vincent began to pat him down, his hands digging into the hoodie pouch.

"What the hell?" I asked, confused. Vincent had moved on to the other side of his pants. A cellphone was discarded offhandedly.

"Just looking for..." There was the sound of a buckle being undone, and metal sliding on leather. "Ah, here we go."

Vincent produced a pair of extra clips, and after a little searching around he thumbed a button just behind the trigger, to eject the half-spent magazine already in the gun onto his waiting palm. His hands then pushed a new clip into the slot – the trembling fingers missed their mark the first few times - and clicked on one of the catches on the slide of the pistol.

"Eight shots." He murmured to himself, searching his own pockets for somewhere safe to store his newly captured weapon. A cough from a Guardsman alerted me to him. I turned around, lowered my hand to pick him up, and sat him on my shoulder. The man raised his voxcaster to my ear so that whoever was on the other end of the line could speak to me.

"Michael, the auspex is still reading life-signs from these cultists." MacTavish reported. I nodded, and moved onto the real concern.

"How many did we lose this time?" I muttered, walking over to the second ganger that we had put down.

Put down. Funny word to use. Not killed. Or murdered. Put down.

Like a rabid dog.

Too true, mon-keigh. However, these followers of Khorne must be... how do you say it? Nipped at the bud, lest they cause more lives – innocent lives – to be lost.

A few souls damned for many more to be saved.

The age old argument, mon-keigh.

Zara's voice... well, the shadow of her voice still echoed in my head.

I sighed as I picked up a knife, wondering the feeling of its weight in my hands. Was it anything like this? Feeling the weight of a man's soul, knowing that it was yours to use, abuse or discard? I shook those thoughts out of my head as I imagined the hundreds of miniature troops in my house. My head spun a little as I thumbed the safety catch and folded the blade closed. It would do for now. No blood on it, it should be fine. The newly looted weapon went into my pocket.

"Hello? Are you there, Michael?"

"Sorry... spaced out a little there... what's up? How many wounded?" I knelt down beside the cultist, who was still unconscious. How she had slept through all that, I don't know... I wondered if she had hit her head harder than she should have. Picking her up, I was again reminded of strained muscles and aching limbs.

"Surprisingly, we have nothing more than a few more broken limbs, but they are easily repaired." MacTavish grunted over the vox. "The Eldar Ranger who lost his arm is getting quite pale now, though. We have to get him to an apocetharian, or whatever passes for a healer for those Eldar. The Space Marine Scouts are doing pretty well, but that's Blood Ravens for you, never give up, do they? The Tau are doing well enough, too; I don't think they took much more than paint scratches during that little skirmish."

The wail of police sirens drew closer. Of course, being in a rather isolated suburban area, it would have taken the cops a while to get here.

"What was that?" MacTavish's voice was edged with worry.

"Police... I think your term for them would be 'Arbites'."

"Will they assist us?" MacTavish queried.

"No. I doubt they'd believe me even if I had you guys around. I guess the best thing to do is to get out of here..." I pulled myself up, and turned to my friend. "Vincent!"

Vincent snapped out of his shocked reverie, and looked up. "Yeah?"

"Time to leave."

He grimly nodded, and pulled out his keys as he padded over to the car. His fingers missed the keyhole the first few times. He stopped, clenched his trembling fingers together, and carefully slipped the key into the lock.

"No kidding, Mike."

The door popped open as he pulled on it, and Vincent climbed inside.

I walked over to the cultist, and pulled her limp form up. Vincent started up the car.

Behind me, someone fired off his bolter into the air.

"HEY! AREN'T YOU FORGETTING SOMETHING!"

Eventually, we managed to pack up everyone and leave just as the police came wailing down the highway. I don't quite believe that the time from the Cultist trying to knife us to the last shots of the rumble we had just survived had taken only ten minutes, fifteen at most.

And yet, almost ten minutes after that, I felt my hands trembling.

Vincent slowed the car down a little as we went down along the quietest roads he could find. Speeding would attract attention, that much we knew. 'No need to rush, we had all the time in the world' was all I could say to reassure myself. The five minute drive home from this supermarket would be the longest one I've ever taken.

I was sitting in the passenger seat of Vincent's pickup, with the girl between the two of us, sitting on the middle seat. The miniatures were on the dashboard or in the open glovebox, treating injuries and taking turns at watching the girl. Vincent was obviously uncomfortable: He had his wrench out again, wedged between his thigh and the seat.

"Where to now, Mike?"

"My place, I guess."

Bring me back that girl. She is the lock to the door.

Of course.


----------



## arturslv

Thought for the Day: "Mercy is a luxury we can ill afford when at the brink of Oblivion." - Anon

My shoulder pulsed a wave of pain through me as the car hit the driveway, jolting all of its occupants around inside. Vincent eased his foot off the accelerator, and pulled up into the strip of concrete that connected the road to my house's garage, but stopping halfway.

I climbed out, the stained-red flour dusting off my shoulders and hair as I hurried to open the garage door. That short trip served to remind me of all my injuries in the past hour or so. I was still dizzy from the pain of a few blows to the head, my left shoulder had been stabbed and my right arm was burning with pain. I had a lot in the way of scratches on my elbows. My right knee had been scraped raw, and I had pulled my calf muscles when I was scrambling to my feet back on the parking lot.

Rattling on its rails, the large metal sheet eased up to allow the battered pickup to drive inside. As it rolled past me, I saw the unconscious cultist flopped over in her seat. A shot of pain reminded me again of what had just happened. She had been given a sentient knife... a sentient, daemonic knife that had tried to kill my friends – Vincent and the mini-scouts – and ended up attracting followers of the Blood God in the mix as well.

We had survived – maybe only just – and managed to limp away without any lasting damage to Vincent nor myself... but as for the scouts...

I picked up a rag from a nearby bench – an old t-shirt I remember from when I was... what, eight? - and dusted myself off. Spaghetti and semi-dried sauce, flour and... blood. My blood. The cultist's blood. The blood of a Scout. I don't know who it belonged to... I didn't care from whom it had come from. Blood had been spilled, and the Cultist was to blame. We had lost over a third of the scouts that had been sent out to follow me. Their comrades, however, still reassured me that their souls were now at rest.

The Eldar mournfully carried the soul-carrying gems – little red teardrops to me – inside of a special pouch. There, they would rest, and find paradise. The Imperials saluted the passing of their comrades, some of them grimly thanking me for giving them the opportunity to fell a Titan-scale daemon. It was a better death than many of their past comrades had, they said. The Tau simply mentioned that their comrade had given her life for The Greater Good, and that they would honor her memory by continuing on with their tasks. I was thankful that the other Tau casualty – the one with the locked-up suit – had only been battered into unconsciousness. He would recover.

I managed to clear away some of the half-dried blood on my shoulder, and the pounding pain of it didn't help. I stumbled slightly on my feet as I turned around to the door.

Crossing to the other side of the garage as the pickup's engine sputtered and died, I opened the large door that connected the garage to my house. It opened up to the hallway, which had – since I had left this morning - become a staging area for my miniature army. They were also very noisy.

Space Marine Captain Eizak and the other Imperial leaders were by far the most vocal, with the Tau and Eldar close behind. At least they aren't ripping each other to smaller shreds. But then again things were a little loud in here, so when I tapped my knuckles on the doorframe, everyone whipped around with weapons drawn.

I blinked as soon as I saw the sheer volume of potential destructive power leveled at my face.

From the heavy weapons of the Imperial Guard and the Eldar to the massive railgun mounted on the Tau Hammerhead and the simply absurd Demolisher Cannon on the Space Marine Vindicator, and all the way down to the individual weapons – the automatic grenade launchers of the Space Marines, the Tau pulse weapons, the Eldar monomolecular shuriken launchers... all those weapons would have really hurt individually, not to mention as a group of several hundred assorted weapons.

I ducked.

Vincent – who had staggered out of the car and was now standing behind me - quietly swore to himself and held his hands up. "Wuih... kalian sinting, ya?" [Translation: Wow... you guys are crazy, aren't you?]

Silence reigned.

"Now... what in the Emperor's name were you doing, just barging in like that!" Canoness Samisha shouted up at me. I was vaguely aware of Vincent shuffling away at that point.

"Well, I'm kind of bleeding right now, and there's this great big hole in my shoulder!"

"Its only a stab wound, Michael!" Shouted Sergeant Vinters.

"Like hell it is!" I replied, but regretted it immediately as my shoulder began to protest. Some of the psykers in the crowd flinched.

"Look, for me its something serious! I mean, I just got stabbed! With a knife!" My shoulder was pounding with the exertion, and I was running short on breath...

Vincent gave a loud cough, the 'a-hem' that told me that he was either needing a cough drop or a lot of attention.

"Mike? Yeah... hate to interrupt you, but we kinda have something else to worry about." Vincent had managed to manhandle the girl out of the car, and was now standing with her in his arms. I gave the miniature warriors a 'wait here for a second' gesture and moved as quickly as my battered body could get itself over to Vincent and help with carrying the girl.

Between the two of us – although, with my shoulder it was more me steadying Vincent as he manhandled the cultist - we carried her limp form over to the couch. Normally, it acted as a 'truce zone' for the minis, where anyone could simply watch the various TV shows and sometimes movies that I put on.

Due to diverse interests and the willingness of the various forces to become violent to see the shows that many had become almost psychotically affectionate towards, I decided that they would have to book their shows, and in case of conflicts, I had to dumb down their conflict-resolution methods from 'last one to die' to 'paper scissors rock'... until I realized that Silverite and his constant request for Mythbusters would be fulfilled due to his psyker abilities to preempt the actions of his competitor. I then tried rolling dice, until Yoza's sudden upshot of wins told me telepathy was at hand here.

Finally, I had to settle that we were going to have to elect someone without any real allegiances nor addictions to TV. So that's when Shas'O Firestrike came into play...

Until he found out about Gundam and other Japanese mecha series, especially Appleseed.

Dammit.

"Hey, Mike! Mike, don't pass out on me now!"

Ten minutes, one psychic slap/jumpstart from the combined efforts of Yoza and Zara and a glass of ice cold water tipped on me later, I had managed to mumble the location of my medical supplies. Then I passed out for a little while longer, but now I was awake and being dressed in bandages as Vincent followed the instructions of the Imperial Guard medics.

"There, done." He tied off the bandage, to the approval of the medics, and left me alone.

I turned to watch the Cultist, her face screwed up into a frowning mask of someone having a very bad nightmare. Her unconscious form simply slipped into place, her arm falling down to hang off the couch. I quietly placed it across her chest, and found strands of her purple hair floating up into my face, rising from her escaping breath.

Again, I was reminded of what she was, despite the lives that she had just cost us already. She may have been a semi-crazed but still apologetic attacker, but she was still a very scared teenager, who had gotten in way beyond her depth. As she sucked in another breath, I could see how the Chaos Gods had lured her in. Remembering to before her summoning, she had looked rather plain compared to this girl before me. Her physical form was now that of a goddess. Her rich, tanned skin shone a dull bronze color. Dark purple tresses licked at her shoulder blades when down, and her heart-shaped face would have looked beautiful were it not for her expression. I also noted that she looked as if she had come from the middle east. I checked myself when I realized I was brushing hair from her face.

'Goddess of Temptation' came to mind here. Except that she kind of smelled like toast and burnt bacon.

Rising up reluctantly, I turned to see that most of the armies had followed us, their weapons held cautiously at their sides. Zara looked up at me, drifting up on her skimmer. It was a vehicle with a scoop shaped hull, and a platform on top, which she stood on. Her helmet was held at her side, and her face was set into a grim expression of barely checked emotion. Emotions of rage, confusion... I looked down to see her face.

"She is a spawn of Chaos, Mon-keigh." The Eldar Farseer stated.

I remained silent, but nodded mutely.

"You have invited a servant of the Ruinous Powers into our house." The tone was like that of 'You have just killed my sister'.

Anger boiled, and I felt my jaw muscles tighten as the psykers and the leaders closed in on me.

"... my house, Zara. My rules. You have said yourself that you would observe them."

"Irrelevant." She cut in. "You have brought in a Chaos worshiper into your own home. She is practically a beacon for all manner of Warp-beings."

Justicar Amadeus looked up at me as well. "Nothing good has come from attempting to 'rescue' a Chaos cultist. Best be to give her the Emperor's Mercy and be done with it."

I knelt down in front of them and snarled as I slammed a hand down on the coffee table. Eldar warrior and Space Marine alike teetered on their balance, fighting for footing.

"I'm not going to go around and just murder someone!"

Another voice cut into the conversation.

"Its not murder! She has been touched by Chaos, Michael! Its mercy for what she will become!" Commissar Tomas snapped. "I have seen far, far too many Chaos worshipers fall to their own dooms from such mercies. You have let her live too long!"

"Michael, listen to us! We have been dealing with the followers of Chaos for decades, if not centuries." Librarian Vasili joined in. "They sow nothing but destruction and insanity! You shall reap nothing but ruin and corruption if you let her be."

"Shut up! I'm not going to kill her!" I hissed back. "We haven't given her a chance!"

"She doesn't deserve yet another one, Michael!" Canoness Samisha cried out. "Her chance came and went when she opened herself for the Ruinous Powers!"

"We are now at war with forces too terrible for you to comprehend." Justicar Amadeus shouted. "We cannot afford such mercy for any of its victims too weak to take the correct course. That kind of mercy will destroy us; it weakens us and saps our resolve. Even now, we are divided." His broad gesture enveloped all those present. "Put aside all such thoughts, Michael!"

I turned to Vincent for help. He was now sitting on the kitchen stool, holding the looted pistol thoughtfully in his hand. He looked at me, and then glanced at the Cultist. I glared at him. Guiltily, he turned away and busied himself with hunting down what passed for medical supplies in my house.

Breath hissing quietly from my nostrils, I turned to everyone.

"But... how are we going to cover this up?" I turned to Commissar Tomas and the Imperials. "If an Imperial Citizen was found to have hidden a Chaos Cultist – even the dead body of one – would you investigate?"

"Of course. And that is your point in its entirety, isn't it, Michael?" Librarian Vasili mused, nodding his tentative understanding. "We cannot risk exposing this era to ourselves. However, we also face the dilemma of letting this Cultist live. If we do so, we risk even more than mere exposure."

"Unless you want to each be running for your lives. If the local authorities... you'd call them Arbites... things would go sour, faster. They'd take her in, they'd experiment, seeing as they'd probably never have seen anything like this before. What do you think would happen then, if someone gets it in his or her head to try and replicate the circumstances of her little 'ritual'?"

"But Michael, surely you can't just..." Commissar Tomas' quick glance at the basement betrayed the thought.

"What, feed her to the Orks! Would you do that to one of your own?"

The Commissar took a visible step back.

Vincent coughed violently. I shot him a glare, which he returned with a confused expression.

"So, Michael, if you have a goal then you must have a plan to achieve it, I presume?" Zara asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

Now it was my turn to be defensive.

"I... I don't know."

Feeling defeated, I looked at the assembled leaders, who were looking at me with tense expressions. They were used to seeing me more or less knowing what I was doing... I think.

"Maybe now, the Odro Malleus can be of use to you?"

Ordo Malleus Inquisitor Iosef Danilov strode up in his greatcoat, his two 'aides' flanking him. Both looked to be on par with most Space Marines, without all the armor.

I blinked a few times. Vaguely, I remembered him being the leader of the Sisters of Battle and the Grey Knights, but...

"When did you pop up?"

"From the very beginning, boy."

Oh. Right.

"You were the one who sicced that Leman Russ on me, weren't you?"

"..." Behind the Inquisitor, the female bodyguard politely put a hand over her mouth as her male counterpart grinned. The Inquisitor's cheeks visibly brightened.

"Never mind. Can you exorcise whatever daemons might be in her?"

"If she does have a daemon possessing her, we would already be dead. Artefacts of Chaos are what will cause her end, Michael. You must strip her of any such Icons, and from there we can work on for any... clingers."

"... you want me to strip her!"

Vincent found a convenient surface and applied his head to it, going at it steadily with a metronomic precision, he began to bash a small depression into my wall.

"... How about we just call Alice?"

In the end, time was of the essence, so it was decided that I would do this under the supervision of the Hospitalers squad – basically doctors and nurses – from the Sisters of Battle, some of the Eldar who had before been healers, and a few Guardsmen medics. Oh, and lets not forget that the Ordo Malleus – Grey Knights and Inquisitor's retinue - were standing by to purify any taint.

"Where first?"

"Michael, she has a necklace. Take it away." Dalia, Inquisitional attache, informed me. I had been given her to act as my instructor, so that I wouldn't have to listen to two dozen instructions at the same time from twice as many voices.

My fingers felt around the Cultist's smooth neck, and I finally found a clasp behind. Fiddling with it and fumbling it a few times, I managed to get the thing off.

"Good. Just toss it to the floor so Raquel may inspect it."

Nodding, I did so. Rahquel was a Repentant Witch, a former near-heretical psyker that had asked for forgiveness through atonement. She would be the first to touch any of the potential Chaos Artifacts, with a failsafe bomb in hand.

I would feel sorry for her, if not for her enthusiasm for the job.

"She's there. Next we have an earring, left ear... uh... I think we'll leave that for the Seraphim." A quick exchange over the vox sent a squad of winged Sisters closing in on the earring. "Moving on... try her left forearm over there, seems like a bracelet around her wrist."

My hands began to move that way, moving straight from neck to wrist. The prick of a chainsword made me stop just as I was about to reach a third of the way.

"Watch yourself, boy."

"... sure."

Lifting my hands over her chest, I quickly moved my hands away from the berserk buttons. Or mounds. You know what I mean, right?

"A little to your right, Michael."

I seized a wrist, and found the bangles that was being referred to. They slipped off easily enough, and I saw that they were simply a cheap plastic thing not really made for anything but decoration. Nonetheless, I tossed it to the ground.

"Hey!"

"Sorry, Rahq~"

The cultist's right hand slapped me across the cheek.

It was as if a thunderbolt had just struck me.

My head whipped around, with Dalia screaming into my ear as she clung desperately onto my collar. I managed to steady myself before she could fall off. By the time I got my attention to the other matter at hand, the air was filled with stern cries and the sound of turning turrets.

"NOBODY SHOOT! EVERYONE, STOP!"

All the assembled forces stopped, thank the Emperor and whatever deities are around to help me.

Surrounded by miniature soldiers and by one rather stretched looking man, I'm guessing that the girl would be rather freaked out right now.

"Hyuu..." She breathed in her whistling speech. Blood red eyes were dilated, almost like a person on a high. "Hwerr? Hwerr ish..." Her unfocused eyes snapped to me. She yelped, and jumped back – the Sisters and Banshees had long ago vacated that spot, so nobody was hurt. I again shouted everyone to keep from opening fire. The Cultist was now trying to make herself as small as possible, considering that she had a large number of guns pointed at her.

"Dem!" She screeched, pointing. "Dey isssh leetle mhonssters." Already, the girl was close to tears. I tensed, wondering what was going to happen.

"The only monster here is you, young one." Zara quipped from her skimmer.

I stood up from my half-crouch, ignoring the burning sensation on my cheek. I tried to reassure her.

"Hey, hey... calm down, we're not going to hurt you..."

"... unless you try something." Vincent finished for me, standing behind the kitchen counter, pouring a glass of water for himself.

"... hyuu... hyuu ahr... zat mahhn..." The girl had – for now – stopped trying to get away from me and was now sitting on the couch. Why did she know me?

"hween hy sahmonned kay-osss..." She whispered. "hyuu hwerr therrre..."

When she summoned Chaos. I was there. I remembered. My first out-of-body experience, peering through a tear in space and time. I had watched her, crying and weak, spill blood – her blood – on the Mark of Chaos, summoning the Ruinous Powers. Something I'll never forget.

"hannd... hrii-man sayd... hiff hy kheel hyuu... hy cuuld bhee fhreee... hannd... hee sahmonned thaat hnaif..."

And... hreeman? Who was that? Well, whoever he was, that guy had put a bounty on my head. The reward? Freedom. So now she had a lot of reasons to try and kill me, like she had with that knife. The sentient, daemonic knife that had cut into my shoulder and was now keeping my left arm below shoulder level.

I nodded, and stepped forward, but suddenly the girl yelped and tried to bat me away.

There was the sound of a pair of bolter shots, and there was a small explosion beside her. The Cultist yelped, and crashed back down into her seat. She was on the edge of panic, but it seemed like she had enough self control to not go screaming her head off.

Once more, I shouted for everyone to stop pointing their guns at the Cultist, however good an idea that was.

"Be thankful for him, child." Justicar Amadeus rumbled. "He is the only reason you still live. I think it fair to say that were Michael to meet his end, I would also assume that you will, too."

"The shiny mon-keigh is quite correct." Zara quipped. "The only thing standing between you and destruction is the naïve mercy that is the big mon-keigh."

"...hreely?"

"Yes, really." Vasili sighed.

"What is your name, little one?" I was surprised at Canoness Samisha's soft tone, compared to her usual harsh, drill-sergeant commands.

"Hy ahm... hy ahm..." She hiccuped, and then continued on. "Mhai neehm issh Bhathel."

I swear, everybody paused and blinked for a second there. Her mangled speech was hard to understand, sure, but this was nigh incomprehensible.

"Excuse me?" Croaked Vincent.

"Bhathel."

"..." More silence filled the room. I blinked a few times, wondering what the hell was she talking about.

"Bha - th - el."

" … … … … "

Vincent passed her a paper and pen. "... could you write that down for me?"

B-A-T-E-L

She passed it to me, and I read it out.

"Alright, thanks... Batel... am I saying it right?" I asked.

Mutely, she nodded her head.

He stepped back, to the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. Vincent looked up, and went to the window.

"Alice." He reported. Then blinked. "Wait... why is her hair all white?"

I frowned, jumping up out of my seat and walking over to the window. Indeed, Alice had cut her hair shorter and was now such a light color that it looked white.

And on her shoulders and peeking out of her bag were a dozen Sisters of Battle.


----------



## arturslv

wrenched the door open, to the sight of what could only be described as Sister Alice, Adepta Sororitas. White-gold hair framed her face in a pageboy cut. Her clothes consisted of a white blouse and an embroidered black waistcoat. Her black jeans hugged her legs closely as they tapered down to some sturdy black boots. Alice let me drink in the sight of her, bathed in the late-morning sun, and then giggled. She threw herself at me, catching my right shoulder and left waist – thankfully avoiding my left shoulder from getting battered more than necessary – and enfolded me in a hug.

"Uh... hello to you too."

Then it suddenly hit me that this was the first time I had ever hugged Alice since our first meeting a few years ago. Alice, who had always avoided direct contact with most other people. Alice, who only ever got close to the people she knew – that is, Vincent, Olivia, Mark, Miles, Sam, Alexa and myself – and never really letting anyone else closer than arm's reach and acquaintances.

Any other thoughts were dashed to pieces as her lips pressed against my cheek, and I felt the area wheres he kissed reddening as the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

"Always wanted to do that..." She blushed as she pulled me close in for a warm hug. "Thanks, Michael. For a lot of things."

Giggling, she sought to do the same with Vincent (who was already scrambling to his feet). Despite his head start, she crossed the room quickly, glomping him and kissing him on the cheek. The nerd who had just shot a man in the leg without so much as a 'wow' flushed red, and went into shock. He hit the ground hard as his feet lost their balance, and rolled once, scattering Chimera and Devilfish everywhere. I think he would have just given up and fainted if Alice didn't give him a 'revival flick' with her index finger.

I shot a look at the rest of the group.

Canoness Samisha was giving out body language that amounted to 'what the hell, Sister?' and Ishabeth had her head on a swivel, no doubt looking for Commissar Tomas... I saw him on the other side of a Chimera, quickly shifting himself to the open back hatch. A half hundred Imperial Guardsmen were staring on in shock and awe, as well as a good number of the Space Marines and Sisters of Battle. I'm guessing that Sisters kissing men was a rather rare event among the Imperium.

Looking at the xeno, I wasn't surprised to find that the Tau were pissing themselves laughing behind their featureless helmets, I'm sure. Sergeant Talon and various others were leaning on their friends, spasmodically twitching rather worryingly. One Broadside Battlesuit tipped over.

Eldar were more stoic, more controlled (except for a few) and far less entertaining. That is, until I caught Zara's expression, or lack thereof, and the fact that she was being attended to for splinters of one of the rune-stone in her hand.

Oh boy.

Lastly, I looked at the Cultist, Batel, as she stared on. 'Does this always happen?' was the question written all over her face.


"This is the first time it happened." I croaked.

"Uh..." Her eyes darted from exit to exit. "Shurrre..." She ventured, not quite believing me. "Duu hyuu hwanch huss choo gho?" An olive skinned hand gestured towards Alice, who was half-straddling Vincent as he tried to recover from her glomp. Suddenly, there were red stains on the wooden floor.

"Ehewh..."

"Mah douze!" Vincent cried out, clutching his face. I saw blood running between his fingertips.

"... Alice, Vincent's going to bleed out soon! Please, stop that!"

I hobbled over to Vincent, and sat down beside him.


Alice shifted herself off him, sitting on the floor beside me and looking on earnestly as I checked Vincent's nose. So far, I was just guessing that he had bashed his nose on the way down, but Alice had not tackled him that hard.

"... bhlond guurl skares husss..." Batel whispered, peeking over the edge of the couch

The adopted Sister of Battle tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to her. She pointed at the purple-haired cultist that was now nervously talking to a Grey Knight with a similar opinion.

"... err... who is she?"

"W-what? Do I look that different to you guys?"

Alice was teasing her hair. The long tresses had been cropped into a pageboy haircut with millimeter precision – something that made me think that a dozen Sisters of Battle with combat knives could easily achieve – and dyed into a pale off-white color. A white-blond warrior nun convert now sat on the stool set into the counter outside of my kitchen.

Vincent nodded solemnly, transfixed by Alice's new appearance. Her wardrobe had no doubt changed as well, now that she wore the colors of the Sisters of Battle.

"What happened there?" Vincent asked, his voice rather flat from the two chunks of tissue that had been pushed up his nose. He was looking at the two-dozen Sisters of Battle now appraising themselves of events that had happened between their departure and return.

"Stuff. I took some Sisters home with me." She answered. "What happened here would be a better question..." Alice turned worried eyes to fix them on my wounded shoulder. "Michael... did you have an accident?"

I instinctively winced as attention was brought around to my wounded shoulder. It looked alright, underneath a shirt and several layers of gauze and pads, but it still hurt like hell. I shook my head.

"Chaos-possessed knife stabbed me."

There was silence as Batel shifted in her seat. The Cultist was still seated at her couch, a dozen heavy weapons and almost a hundred personnel ready to unleash the most destructive weapons that could be found upon her at the slightest... no, at my signal. They had agreed to let me take the risk of her going back to her Chaotic side, or becoming the human girl that she had been.

"And the girl over there?" Alice asked, pointing at Batel.

"The one the knife possessed." I answered.

Alice stared far less lethal daggers at Batel, her gaze causing the olive-skinned (former) Cultist to flinch.

I sighed.

"No. We're done, she's innocent..." Half of the listening miniatures roared in unison. "... mostly. But I want to help her. She can be helped, she hasn't killed for Chaos... and I think that's the starting point."

Vincent nodded. "Too many have died already. Now we need to save who we can."

"My Sisters have told me many great sorrows have come from such ventures." Alice whispered, throwing another glance at the Cultist.

"Hy'll bee ghud." Batel promised. "Hy hwon't kheel hyuu hwin hyuu shlehp."

Vincent facepalmed. Well, fore-head palmed, the guy had glasses.

"Not reassuring us!" I snapped, to regret it instantly. Batel was shutting down as she cowered in the corner of the sofa, curling up into a little ball as she hugged her knees

"Look... we're all a little strained at the moment, aren't we?" I threw a glare at the others, who nodded faux-enthusiastically.

"... lets get some rest... how about we go make some lunch?"

"Which reminds me, mon-keigh... where are those supplies you promised us?"

Oh... whoops. I looked at Zara's death-glare. She had been wearing her helmet less and less these days, and her midnight black locks floated up as she gathered energy.

"H-hey! We were being attacked by a living knife! C'mon, you gotta give us some credit, okay! N-no, you put that shuriken pistol away right now! Whoa! I didn't mean it like that! ZARA, NOOOOOOOO!"

It was decided that I'd go out for another excursion in Vincent's pickup while he and Batel stayed at home with the majority of the heavy equipment. A lot of the guys around felt that this was a little too soon to be heading back out, but we needed food, and armies marched and fought on their stomachs. A reassuring point to many, though was the reason why I said majority of the heavy equipment. The Tau and the Eldar had given me jurisdiction over their heavier vehicles, which would hide inside of the pickup in case we ran into another... problem. With the Tau railgun's bombardment munitions comparable to a 'shotgun to the face' as Vincent put it, I figured that we would have more than enough protection... this time.

I slid into the driver's seat of Vincent's pickup, towel in hand, as I wiped down what blood there was around the car.

Especially in the glovebox. I felt my jaw clench as I daubed away a slick mixture of red and blue blood. Human, Eldar and Tau blood. Wiping away the marks of their suffering, I balled up the towel and chucked it over into a bin.

My shoulder throbbed. Still hurting.

"You really shouldn't drive, even if you've been improving." Alice worried, casting a glance at my shoulder.

She had changed the dressing while Vincent hunted around for more food, and we had both been rather shocked to see that the damage done was actually a lot less than what we had started with. Granted, the knife had gone in maybe an inch and a half, but now... the wound seemed to be repairing itself quickly enough, so there wasn't any need to panic over it. I could still feel my shoulder throbbing in protest, but moving around wasn't too much of a problem anymore.

"Can you drive a stick?"

Alice thought for it a bit. She drove around in a Pugeot 507 to get to work, transporting her gear around got her behind the wheels of a van, sometimes. Both were automatic transmission cars. Glancing at the gearshift, she nodded and slid over to the passenger's seat.

"... fair enough. We're headed for Henderson's, right?" She asked, naming the family owned store that I was thinking of going to. I nodded, and we pulled out of the driveway.

I chose a different place to shop this time. Further away, sure, but at least it wasn't crawling all over with police.

The supermarket I was headed for was a smallish little box of concrete and steel, set in the middle of the suburban strip mall (it was a small one) and surrounded by quaint little boutiques, it was a much more busy place than the early morning shopping that had been interrupted earlier on.

Managing to get a parking space (things were filling up), I slid out of the car in a bout of deja vu, and walked around to the back of the car.

"I still think that this is a bad idea, mon-keigh." Zara sighed, seated atop a crate of Vincent's tools. Her comrades-in-arms were sitting around her, the majority of the more free-thinking miniatures who were willing to work with 'xeno'; namely the Cadian's more unconventional warfighters, the majority of the Tau infantry cadre, the Grey Knights, a few of the Space Marines who had served with the 'Deathwatch', the Sisters of Battle were here mostly thanks to Alice, and last but not least a great number of the Eldar warhost.

"Don't worry... there's you guys, right? If you feel worried, all you need to do is mount up, and go for a high speed run across to the roof there." Pointed at the skylights that crisscrossed the rooftops. I then pointed out the metal vents. "Cut through into those vents, and you should be able to access most of the rooms in the entire complex."

The Space Marine leader – Sergeant Vinters - nodded, looking at the rests of the Scouts that weren't recuperating back at home.

"We'll get some battle plans read for any such instances."

"Alright. See you around, then."

The gruff Assault Marine smiled and nodded.

I nodded in return, and with that, Alice bid her goodbyes to the Sisters and the Tau, and together we headed off towards the Mall.

It was only a few steps away that I began to strike up conversation with the newly converted Sister of Battle... it was hard to think of her as anyone else other than a Sister now.

"So, Alice... how did you get Sisters with you?"

"I took some home with me... they're really interesting people, you know? All the things that they've done..." Alice smiled a little to herself, before looking up sheepishly at me. "You didn't mind, did you? Me taking all those Sisters?"

"Nah, its okay... I was wondering why a couple dozen were missing, but I couldn't think of such things while I was dealing with the Orks 'n all them..." I gestured vaguely downwards, as if sweeping a hand across the coffee table and scattering miniature soldiers all over the floor... maybe that was more a muscle memory/reflex than gesture. Those damned Orks were getting everywhere nowadays.

"Oh... busy life, then, with all those Orks?" Alice smiled. "I can see why you disappeared suddenly about a month ago." She giggled, and looked out at the fast approaching mall.

A month ago... had it really been that long? It felt longer... almost like it had been five months, actually. Each day had been a struggle, at first, for peace and quiet.

Now... things were going back to the shit with the Chaos boys entering the equation.

A busy soccer mom bumped my left elbow, sending my side screaming as it protested. Her little kids trailed along behind her. I bent over forward, sucking in a deep breath.

I was still squeezing my eyes shut as I looked back up.

A little girl, no more than ten, was staring at me and Alice.

I did my best impression of Vincent's 'there's nothing wrong here' smile and wave.

She smiled back, and walked away.

Inside the mall proper, Alice sure was turning a lot of heads. Her white-gold hair was unusual, to say the least. I walked/loped alongside her as she made her way down through the mall's hallways. With Alice smiling quietly to herself with a warm confidence, we passed by the many small stores as we hurried over to the mini-market. When we got there, I began digging around inside of my satchel, looking for the shopping list – again – and hoping I didn't scratch anything painful as I searched my left side pockets.

"Le'see..." I unfolded the crumpled paper. "Bread, rice, some of those instant meals... noodles... the usual, I guess." I looked up from my salvaged shopping list, and shrugged.

"Alright." Alice nodded, peering over my forearm to read the list herself. "Sounds good."

I yanked a trolley from the trolley park, and pushed it into the aisles of foodstuffs and miscellaneous items.

We were soon sweeping along the aisles and picking up whatever was on the shopping list. I found it rather odd, doing grocery shopping with just Alice. The feeling was much more different than when it was a group of us, like back when we were flatting together, or like the times with what portions of my family wanted to come along shopping with mom.

What was that feeling?

You'll only find its name once you have found it, mon-keigh. Zara's mind-shadow chuckled.

A sense of familiarity, do you feel. Shadow-Yoza rasped in his best Yoda-style speech patterns. A comrade-in-arms, this bond is similar to.

Well, I never really got the chance to think about it after that: A roll of tissue – still in its plastic wrapper – bounced off my head and into the trolley in front of me. Alice smirked as she hefted a second one, ticking another item off the list.

"If your wound hurts, you probably should be sitting down somewhere..." She murmured, staring at my shoulder. "I'll go finish the shopping, you just go and recuperate."

"I'll be fine, thanks."

"You sure?" The white-haired young woman tapped her chin thoughtfully, a worried expression creeping onto her face. I wasn't sure, but I was feeling like her stare was making things worse.

I nodded firmly, ending the conversation. "Sure."

Alice nodded as she placed the subject carefully to the side, and we began our shopping run. Things went quietly as we wandered through the aisles, grabbing the things I had missed the first time we tried to shop.

Cereal, rice, bread, coffee (lots of coffee)... y'know, the usual supplies.

A little scratching sound directly behind me, the scuffling of feet against floor, made me turn around in alarm. I didn't want to get attacked in another supermarket... especially with my current state of mind. Alice gasped as I crashed into the little girl that had been creeping up on us. She bounced off my right leg, tumbling backwards as she tripped over her own feet, struggling to stay upright.

I stumbled backward and almost fell, were it not for me grabbing onto the solid shelving behind me. The girl had recovered from the impact as well, and was now brushing herself down. Alice was already half-crouched down beside her, asking her if she was alright, to which the girl was fervently nodding.

"Ah... are you alright? I'm sorry about that..."

The girl dusted herself off, and looked up at me – she was just above my waist in height – and nodded.

"Its'kay." She half-whispered, in a quiet voice.

Hey... I peered at her closely. She was that girl that was smiling at me earlier, wasn't she?

I looked at her thoughtfully as she began peeking around the corners and suchlike, before turning to me.

She was frowning at me now. Her hair was a charcoal black, and her face a pastel pink. Bright aquamarine blue eyes fixed to mine as her round face fixed into the stare of childhood curiosity, the morbid fascination of a child looking at something new and unknown.

"You're bleeding."

Huh?

"You're bleeding. From your nose, mister." She pointed her finger to the center of my face, and I reached up to dab a line of blood running from my nose.

Alice swung her head around to face me. "What the?"

We began panicking.

I jammed my hand into my pockets, searching for a tissue as Alice dug into her bag for one.

Soon enough, a tissue was produced and my nose plugged in a way far too similar to Vincent in the aftermath of Alice's tackle-hugging.

"Uhm... Michael? Are you alright?"

"Fine, just fine..."

"Uh... well..." I looked at the girl. Her thick duster-style coat bespoke a high-class heritage.

"Are you lost?" I asked her.

"I'm trying to find someone." Was her answer.

Not a yes nor a no answer... odd. I tried to puzzle out what she meant by that. More information. That was what I needed. "... okay... what's your name?"

"Emma." She replied. "What's yours, mister?"

"Michael."

"Is she your girlfriend?"

Emma pointed a finger at Alice, and both of us flushed red.

"No. Just friends." Alice chuckled, tapping Emma's pointer finger. "And pointing at people is rude, don't do it again, okay?"

The girl smiled, and nodded. I sighed as I tried something to Bow in Frustration to.

"Why is Michael banging his head against the shelf?"

There was a pause.

"Why are you hitting yourself?"

Ten minutes later, we were headed for Miles. His uncle owned the place, and when he had finished his latest deployment the former vehicle crewman of the 1st Engineer Battalion worked here.

"... Oh, hey! Mickey!" Waving his arm, the 'off duty' Cpl. Miles Henderson was grinning broadly as I came along, trailing Alice and Emma behind me. His broad frame was wrapped in the simple shirt with the supermarket's logo printed on the back and in the breast-pocket.

"Heya, Miles." I returned the greeting, grinning with our usual volley of casual quips and curling up all but my middle and pointer finger, touching my temple in a quick mock-salute.

"Just this here?" He asked, pointing at the groceries. "Heya, Al- whoa, nice haircut."

Alice smiled and blushed, stepping sideways to put me in between Miles and herself. I humored her there, and just continued to unload the shopping.

"Oh, hey, you hear about the gun range next Saturday? Turns out, Mark's the kid-brother of one of the guys in the 75th Ranger Battalion. They're gonna be bringing in a ton of stuff down to the range for us to play with. Real SpecOps stuff... man, what I'd give to be there."

"Job day, huh?"

Miles sighed, and then tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Just need someone to fill in for me."

I went through a mental checklist of friends, but the majority of them – worryingly enough – would rather haul ass and see the 75th if they ever knew about the thought of meeting real Rangers.

"Try calling Alexa, or maybe Sam... they usually aren't working on Saturdays." I answered, as Miles passed each item through the scanner with an electronic boop.

"'lright, I'll see who I can get along, then." He sighed, placing the groceries into the shopping bags.

"Oh... and can you ask for the parents of Emma to come up to the front?"

Miles' face twisted into an expression of confusion. "Who'se Emma?"

"This girl right... wait..."

Emma had disappeared.

I sighed. "There's a girl running around, black hair, blue eyes, kind of tan-ish duster coat, probably lost. Alice and I picked her up just now, but she must have wandered off again."

Looking around, Miles nodded his understanding as he scanned for the missing girl.

"Okay then, I'll keep an eye out for her... well, see you around, Mickey."

I nodded, hefting the shopping bags. Two for me, two for Alice. Enough supplies for a small army... literally.

"See ya, Miles."

My grin was more than genuine. It was nice, you know... to have a normal time like this. Just shopping with friends...

"Now now, mon-keigh. No need to be hasty. I'm sure we turned left at that vent there, then right at the next intersection."

"I don't care where we've been, what I care about is how do we get out of here!"

There was a thump, which echoed throughout the air ducts. To their horror, Commissar Tomas and Farseer Zara found themselves face-to-grill-deformed-face with a security guard.

"Hey... hey, Jerry! I think there's something in them air-vents!"

There was a bright flash as a laspistol sparked into his eye.

"ARGH!"

The sounds of the predictable chaos when a three hundred pound mall-cop fell backwards off a ladder ensued.

"Run!"


----------



## arturslv

Scratching my head, I looked at the rather miffed Techpriest standing in front of me. He was of a rank that I couldn't bother remembering, but by the looks of it he was ranked pretty high up the ladder of hierarchy.

And he was pissed. Probably because in my other hand I was holding the plug that (usually) powered the rest of Michael's small computer suite.

"... in times like this, you guys can still just browse on the internet!"

"We are researching the true extent of the information leak we have discovered here, Vincent... it appears to be that information about many Imperial and xeno forces have been leaked out into this data hub that you call... 'The World Wide Web'... we have found many disturbingly accurate content of our universe in this place called... 'Lexicanum'... and more disturbing still is the files and information found on this information gathering place of... codenamed 'fat guys' and these... '****'." The techpriest paused for a moment.

"I do believe striking one's head against the wall is detrimental to efficiency, boy."

Gnashing teeth in constantly tested frustration, I marched out of Michael's study, and looked outside to see Alice and Michael bumping out the driveway and onto the road in my pickup truck.

A roughly trimmed fingernail scratched at my scalp as I looked on.

I don't remember giving Michael my car keys.

Then... why was he driving off in my car?

Ah, hell...

I sighed, and laid my head down on the kitchen counter top as an Eldar Falcon Grav-tank swept past. The captured pistol – a M1911 Colt .45 caliber semi-automatic – was placed on the bench, pointed at the bread-box. Michael had always hated that flower-patterned wooden box, so it wasn't like he would have minded it. Making sure the safety was on, as tempting as was to shoot the bright pink box, I left it there as I heard a car start up. Standing, I looked out the window as the car reversed out of the street.

My stare hauled its way over to the rapidly disappearing cloud of smoke that my pickup had left behind.

Well... good luck to them. I didn't know if there were any more cultists around – sure, we had at least one under lock and key (she was sitting on the couch, under the watchful senses of the miniature 40k 'siege experts') – but there were at least two or three more, wasn't there? I knew at least two were out of commission, having been shot by various weapons, but...

My mind jinked to the side of the question.

Sleep was sounding like a really attractive option right about now.

"Vincent?"

"Mhmgh...?" I muttered to the hardwood counter-top. Yeah, great conversation starter there, mate.

Poke.

My cheek curved inwards, then back out as I mumbled incoherently. Elsewhere, my glasses clattered as someone bumped into them. There was someone – a miniature - there. I didn't really care.

Things were... interesting out in Michael's house. An entire miniature army from almost every faction of the Warhammer 40k universe. Humans, Eldar, Tau, Orks... I hadn't really considered this actually happening... but still...

That's so freaking cool! I mean... Warhammer 40,000! IN. HIS. HOUSE!

My mind was getting rather sidetracked... hey, come back here, thoughts!

Meh. I flopped back down, my interest deflated.

Poke.

The tiny fists pressed against my cheek again, and I croaked out a grunt as they left.

"Is anyone alive in there?" The voice beside me asked. He was now tapping my head.

The Kasrkin Shock Trooper resorted to kicks. Okay, no more Nice Giant.

I picked up my arm, raising it high above my head, and brought it back down on the poor bastard that kicked me.

SLAM!

There was a little squirming and a lot of confused looks from bystanders as I looked down at my palm. It was raised off the ground, so that it wouldn't hurt the Cadian trapped underneath.

"Yes?"

"... can you please get off me?"

"Sure."

I lifted my palm off the table, to allow the Kasrkin – Sergeant Leon Cadiasson – to crawl out. I hadn't put that much pressure on his back – just enough to knock him down.

"What was that about? I only"

"I kind of looked dead?

The bald man thought about that for a second, scratching the stubble on his chin. He then nodded as he came to the affirmative answer.

"Yeah."

"Alrigh... wassamatter?"

"..."

Admittedly, I was hard to understand when I was tired. A lot of mumbling, a lot of muttering and a whole lot of half-thought out answers.

"What. Is. The. Matter?"

"Uhm... nothing. I just wanted to see who you were."

"..."

"You... you're Michael's friend, aren't ya?"

I nodded mutely, still rubbing my face. Reaching out, I pulled open a drawer, which contained Michael's cups and mugs, and opened his fridge. I found myself fumbling about inside the bright, cold room as I picked my way through the half-empty fridge, and found the jug of cold water that he kept inside.

Pouring myself a drink, I replaced the jug as the Kasrkin Sergeant sat down and pulled a durable-looking canteen from his hip. Things went... like something second-nature after that. My hand dove into the drawers, extracting a spoon. I poured some water into the spoon and the elite trooper dipped his vessel into the spoon.

We both drank in silence, and out of the corner of my eye I saw others were gathering about to join us.

Taking the opportunity to inspect the warrior, I looked down, drinking in every detail about this soldier of the future.

He was – as other Kasrkin were – dressed in heavy carapace armor, painted an olive drab green. The shapes were distorted, broken up by jagged red splashes, outlined in white. They would have vaguely reminded me of lightning bolts, if they weren't such a deep crimson color. Almost every surface was covered in the personal layout of pouches, control panels and what I presumed to be various kinds of grenades and smoke markers. The outline of the human warrior was further broken up by his massive backpack, which was half power source, half storage for more consumables.

His weapons were holstered, although I could see the power cables that connected the power sword and the... 'hell-pistol' at either hip, and seemed ready to leap out of their own accord if he were to sense danger. I saw his sly grin as he unholstered it.

Peering closely, I realized that this wasn't the typical pattern hell-pistol: There was – instead of a large cable with maybe one or two others – a series of different cables, all different in their markings. The body of the hellpistol itself was also much different: the boxy design had been extended upon, with a large sleeve around the barrel. On the side of the pistol was a port, I'm guessing for a las-pack of some sort, and mounted onto an optics railing was an optical scope.

"Cadian 'Sundering Lance' pattern hell-pistol, the best there is when it comes to personal las weaponry. The cogboys oil themselves whenever I ask them to maintain it."

I found myself smiling as he proudly displayed his overly large gun, and turned my attention to his sword.

The 'sword' itself was a fine weapon; straight edged, it looked like a chisel, if you looked at one from the side. Its coloring, however, was atypical of the usual blades that I had seen; instead of silvery metal, all polished and gleaming, this sword was of a black material, except for the straight silver edge of the weapon.

"Its was a piece of work done by a Magos." The Kasrkin explained. He took a breath, and let out a contented sigh. "Its not shiny, like the rest of the stuff the officers use. This is a working soldier's weapon."

I nodded, still transfixed by the quality of the weapons in his hands. "Cool."

The Kasrkin grinned. "Only until I start shooting." He chuckled.

Shaking my head with a matching grin, I turned to look at the rest of the miniature warriors in Michael's house. What a lucky guy... in some ways.

More of the Kasrkin's comrades – other Kasrkin as well as regular Guardsmen – trotted over, with worried expressions. There was a quick, whispered conversation from them. A few glanced over to their left.

I looked out, following their gaze from my seat in the kitchen, out to the gathering of techpriests around a Heavy Bolter team currently posted at the corner of the countertop, a nice roost to pound any enemies below.

"Something's wrong." One man quipped. Judging by his voxcaster and his heavy emphasis on optics, I was guessing he was a spotter of some kind.

Good pick. The guy knew how to state the obvious.

I walked over as quietly as I could, over to the Guardsmen and the Cogboys.

The red robes and cogwheel symbols emblazoned on the backs of the techpriests set them quite apart from the camouflaged Cadian Guardsmen, a three-man team of which was arguing with the half dozen cogboys. Around them were also the fireteam no doubt assigned to keep them

"You want to confiscate more of my shells!" The leader – I presumed he was a corporal or some similar rank – was gesturing broadly as he blocked the two servitors from taking a pair of drum-magazines which reminded me of the '30s era Tommy guns.

"1 4m 4f1241d 50, b01." [I am afraid so, boy.]

There was a pause as the Corporal tried to translate the letters and numbers jumbled around in his mind. He turned to his teammate. "What did he say?"

Trooper Sohm Vekt sighed, and checked a data-slate. " 'I am afraid so, boy.' " He translated.

Red robes were gilded with black and silver... I presumed this was the leader of the techpriests around here, nodded his head as he shot a withering glare with his organic eye to his junior comrade. C0gb01 wilted under his superior's stare.

The Corporal stepped forward, face furrowed in frustration.

"But this is critical to the functioning of my section! You can't just take them away!"

"We are running out of ammunition, and we're making sure everyone is as well supplied as possible... so that if one team is hit, we won't lose half of our remaining bolt shells."

"So you're going to make sure everyone has an even supply of bolt shells." I sighed, scratching that my five o'clock shadow. The others whirled around, too deep into conversation to notice a hundred meter tall human creeping up on them.

The Techpriest sagged as he nodded his head, his metal arms – I counted at least five – crossing across his chest as he readied himself for explanations.

"You are correct." He deadpanned, looking back up to meet my eyes.

I waved at him.

"Vincent. Friend of Michael."

"Techpriest Enginseer Karos 2938-19384."

"Okay... so... does this mean that we're gonna lose all capability for solid slug weapons?" I asked.

Hesitation. A shake of the head in disbelief, then a resigned nod.

"Many of our projectile weapons are running short in munitions." He finally admitted.

The pit of my stomach was already churning at the thought of such an event: the Ruinous Powers were practically at our doorstep, and fully two thirds of Imperial firepower – if I was right with my guess, anyway – was about to be cut off due to a lack of ammunition.

Fuck.

Michael needed to know about this, fast.

Plus, we needed to fix this problem. Faster.

"Why didn't you tell Michael about this?"

Their leader shrugged. "I mistaenly presumed Michael would be like any other Governor."

I sighed in frustration. "How can we solve this?"

"We require a blessed fabricator munitoria, Omnissiah bless its creator. A Mars pattern Primus, if possible." I was sure that was only for nerd-related values only a cogboy could understand. Like getting a hold of a top-of-the-line computer, I guessed. Karos continued on with his explanation.

"Some of the vehicles that were transported here, attached with which parts of the 1337th Logistics and our own Explorators, are thankfully fabricators... however we are still missing some types of ammunition..." He looked pointedly at the Heavy Bolter that the Cadians had returned to crewing.

"Like Heavy Bolter rounds." I finished for him.

"Exactly." The vox-unit exhaled, and it was a surprisingly human and despairing sigh that came out through the slit-like filters at his 'mouth'. "To compound this problem, the 938th has been issued equipment based around fighting the forces of Chaos... particularly the Traitor Marines..."

Sohm nodded gravely. "Therefore, we have a disproportionately higher number of bolt weapons and lascannon to deal with such a threat."

The techpriests and I both stared at him for a second.

"I translate the requisition forms to local dialects." Sohm shrugged, and returned to his crew.

We all nodded in understanding, and returned to the discussion at hand.

"The lascannon and other las weapons can continue functioning until the las-packs wear out... statistically, with current combat intensity, we will not need to worry about that for another month or so."

"Right. So the Heavy Bolters are going to run dry soon... What about the tanks?"

"They thankfully have not expended nearly as much ammunition as the infantry, although they do have their own bolt weapons, we estimate that one major engagement is enough to expend the last of their remaining munitions."

"... damn."

The techpriest silenced my next thought with a gesture, sending his five 'arms' in several directions. One popped off. Cursing quietly, he turned around to retrieve it as his acolytes rushed to his aid. I could hear snatches of both conversation and condescending

"But!" He called out, still twisting around like a dog chasing his tail. "The 1337th specializes in consumables, (Everything in its place! Red wire to red!)... which includes the ability to produce some of the blessed munitions of the (Grr... damnation! Leave no plug unplugged, silly boy!) holy Omnissiah's beneficent (Cut off that oil leak!) design."

"One of which produces tank shells?" I asked, hopefully.

"Leman Russ and Baneblade Battle Cannon have no fear of running short in munitions." The Techpriest answered, his arm problem fixed. "However, we are fast running out of the raw materials needed to produce the shells."

"..." Its a good thing Games Workshop never really made logistics a part of these battles...

"Alright... when Michael gets home, we'll load up your techpriests and a salvage crew. I'll take you to a place with lots of raw materials."

The techpriest looked up at me, and gave a short bow.

"May the Omnissiah bless you and guide your hand, Vincent."

Manners asserted themselves, and I found myself bowing in return.

The Cadian Kasrkin looked up at me, waving his grox-vox. It was basically a bullhorn, evidenced when he let rip with the decibels.

Grim and powerful, the voice of Inquisitor Danilov sounded over the vox.

"Vincent? We require your assistance. The Cultist wishes to repent, and we are preparing for the rituals."

- - - - - Half an hour later...

I stopped as the rest of the local Imperials and even some of the alien factions paused in silence, looking on with baited breath and loaded guns, all directed at the figure at the center of the cleared out room. Batel sat at the center of a pentagram, which had been marked out carefully by candles - I think we were chewing into Michael's blackout supplies there – and connected by white strings running from candle to candle.

Sitting at the center of the room and at the center of everyone's attention (and Imperial gunsights) was the former cultist, now the penitent witch. Her tattered clothes had been replaced by a white robe – Michael's bathrobe, if I didn't miss my guess – and most of her wounds had been patched up, more or less. It was a ritual that Raquel and the other Inquisitional lackeys had insisted on, a sign that she was repentant and would turn away from Chaos.

Standing atop a side-table, Inquisitor Danilov strode up to her, flanked on either side by Sanctioned Psyker Ishabeth and the Penitent Witch Raquel, the psychic aide to the Inquisitor. Behind them strode the powerful figures of Justicar Amadeus, Father Jeremiah and Canoness Samisha. They moved in a triangular formation, their steps carefully measured.

The six leaders of the ritual stopped, and Raquel alone stepped forward, whispered something to Batel, and stepped back as the penitent witch nodded quietly.

"Let us begin." Raquel's fragile voice intoned. "Repeat after me, penitent one."

Batel nodded weakly, and the smaller witch began to recite the litany;

"Immortal Emperor, at your feet I lay my soul."

"Ihmohtaal Ehmprah..." Her voice broke. Tears sprang to her eyes. Raquel and Ishabeth's hands reached out, and the two female psykers touched fingers. Batel seemed to regain her strength as their eyes met. "Aht hyoor feeat hy... hy rhehsht hmi sho-hol."

"A stained soul, heretic am I, faithless am I."

"Ha.. ha shtehn'd sho-hol, haerrichic haim hy... fhaeth-hess haim hy..." A small, but noticeable sob escaped her lips. There was something else going on, something in the background... I shook my head. I wasn't a psyker, but I knew a few: Librarian Vasili was crouched down now, palm to his crackling forehead and muttering something under his breath. Other Grey Knights were doing the same. The Eldar were chanting softly in the background of the ritual.

"A witch penitent, a sinner redemptive."

"Ah weetch pen-ee-tehnt." Fingers clamped tightly as Batel gripped the hem of her robe with a white-knuckle grip. "Ah sihnnher reh-dehm-chive." A smile faintly crossed Raquel's hopeful face.

"So I ask you for your beneficent grace."

"So... I hask yoo foar hyoor." She choked on her tears, forcing them back down as she focused on the words being framed by Raquel's lips, urging her to finish the litany. "ben-eff-ish-ient ghrace."

Batel took a deep breath, her dark purple hair shimmering as she furiously nodded her head down.

"And a chance for your forgiveness."

"Ahnd a chansh for hyour forgivenessss."

Danilov strode forwards.

"So ends the Litany of the Witch Repentant." He boomed, needing no aid to carry his voice across to even myself.

The room seemed to brighten up as she finished the litany without being shot, with many of the miniatures who could appreciate what she had just been through nodding solemnly in quiet approval, others reciting their own prayers and litanies for her safe recovery from the taint of Chaos.

Raquel looked over to Inquisitor Danilov, who nodded once.

"Penitent witch! Once a servant of the Ruinous Powers!" Everyone turned to the sudden surge of angry shouts. "Know this: the path to redemption is littered with traps! Even failing once will end your life, and damn your soul to eternal fire! Do you wish for this!"

Batel paused, shocked by the sudden outburst, but nodded nonetheless.

"Then good luck to you." Danilov sighed. The powerful figure of the Inquisitor strode forward. "And I shall be there to end your suffering if you do. Cast away your hope, young one. Replace it with vigilance and faith in the Emperor. Or resign yourself to a fate worse than oblivion itself."

Father Jeremiah bowed his head, and began to recite his own prayer.

"Penitentiaria venefica, purgabas vester dedeci et petabo redemptonem."

[Penitent witch, purge yourself of sin and find redemption.]

The other Imperials nodded in agreement, their faces set into grim determination. Batel probably didn't understand, because now she smiled faintly, as if dizzy. I stepped forward as she began to tilt backwards.

"Easy there, Batel..."

She sank into my arms, no doubt exhausted from the psychic aspect of the exorcism. Batel sagged as she let out a long pent up breath, and fell asleep with her head on my shoulder.

"Uh... hello? Hey..."

Cleaning up after the ritual wasn't too hard, with myself and the rest of the psykers as help, but the difficult part was to listen to the senior psykers as they meditated. Zara and her retinue had deemed it a worthy cause to join and review the girl's tentative steps to reclaiming herself from Chaos.

"The girl has willpower." Vasili noted, sipping on a bowl of ritual wines. "I've never seen so much of the taint excised in the first ritual."

I poked my head into the conversation as I rolled up the anointed string, and tucked it into my pocket. I moved on to pick up the candles.

"You mean that it wasn't all?"

The others looked at me, a confused expression on faces which did not have a helmet over it.

"Of course not, Vincent." Justicar Amadeus called out. "Certainly, we have begun to exorcise her inner daemons, so to speak, but the entire process may take a few days... of course, if we push her any further we might end up doing more harm than good... the Ordo Malleus has learned that such cases need a more... delicate approach than other problems the Inquisition meets."

"Like bombing an individual from orbit?" I asked, knowing full well that fluff-wise, the Inquisition's more pro-active members weren't quite the most... efficient of judges.

Inquisitor Danilov's face went puce. "Orbital bombing has proven more than effective sometimes." He sniffed, harumphing in indignity.

"But your analogy is valid, Vincent. Yes, we do have some rather... messy..." There were a few snorts from the surrounding veterans. "...methods of neutralizing threats to the Imperium, but do give the Inquisition some credit where its due." Danilov – who I put at maybe his late fifties - was staring down Space Marines with centuries of experience as they smiled quietly to themselves. "We do not blunder into problems like a grox laden with contact explosives in a ceramics emporium."

I nodded in understanding, and after I tucked the candles away in the kitchen, I found myself a pair of cups. Filling them with water, I walked out of the kitchen and returned to Batel's side, pressing the cold surface of the cup of water against her cheek.

She awoke with a yelp, but I had already removed the cup. Now I handed it to her with my best guilty smile.

"Sorry."

"Sh'ohkay." She mumbled, reaching out with both hands, taking a small sip of the cool liquid. Her face brightened. I knew the refreshing feeling that you get from quenching one's thirst, and this one looked like she had been going without water for a while. Batel kept chipping away at the water, eventually draining the last mouthful with a sigh of contentment that could only be described as a purr.

"Feel good?" I inquired, taking another mouthful from my own cup.

"Hai've bheen worsh." Batel lisped, sniffing a little. "Halthoo hai've shmealt bhettar."

I've been worse... although I've smelt better. My instant reaction to this was a snort of derisive laughter. Batel's cheeks reddened. The lopsided grin I had plastered to my face turned into a hung head of apology.

"Uh... sorry about that..."

Any other thoughts stopped as a car screeched to a halt outside. Michael and Alice must have returned.

Then, out at the front of the house, the various soldiers on picket duty began screaming in alarm, sending the whole house up on alert.

A loud voice – I recognized it as Sergeant Leon – roared over the network of vox-hailers.

"Attention all forces! Unidentified vehicle is up the driveway! Everyone head for cover!"

Machines roared and vehicles fishtailed as they turned corners, gunning for the hallways, nooks and crannies to hide in.

For a single heartbeat, I could feel everyone was silent: The car's guttural engine had simply died away, and the miniatures had all fled to carefully prepared hiding places.

At the front door, a powerful fist crashed into the door.

"Hon-nee!" The voice was vaguely male, probably someone just out of his mid-life crisis. It was laced with malice and mockery as it bellowed out. "I'm heere tah take ya ho-ome!"

What. The. Hell. Was the guy drunk or something?

I turned to Batel, who was already scrambling for cover.

"Who was that!"

Her wide eyed, panic stricken face told me everything, with her answer only confirming my fears.

"Raihan... he'sh mhai shtepp-fahderr."

The door's lock burst in, trailing purple flames as it was melted by the eldritch energies, writhing on the ground as if the tortured metal could feel pain.

A large, stocky man stepped in, whatever flesh wasn't covered in the remains of his clothes or in the many dirty bandages that wrapped around his arms were an off-parchment brown. His face looked like he was on a drug high, his pupils little pin-pricks as he looked down on us, face twisted into a grotesque grin. There was a Wheel of Chaos carved onto his forehead, the circle with eight spokes that spilled outside of their boundary, and all across his body I could see the twisted sigils of Chaos.

To my horror, from between his feet streamed in a carpet of miniature cultists, all servants of the Ruinous Powers, whooping and cackling praise to their dark gods. From Cultists to Marines, the Legions of Chaos streamed in.

We had assumed it was all some normal guy who had wandered in; everyone had high-tailed it for cover, and nobody had been left to watch exactly who was outside. Now we were paying for it, big time. Scattered throughout the house, we'd be lucky if they didn't just swarm anyone breaking cover and trying to regroup...

I looked at the gathering forces as they gathered around the legs of their own living Titan.

It wasn't until now, however, that I noticed that there was a figure perched on the man's shoulder. He was – quite obviously – a Chaos Sorcerer, his arms still wrapped in the warp-fire that had burst the door handle in. Purple lightning, malevolent and seemingly alive, danced over his body.

"Surrender the Key to me, mortals, and I shall make your death swift!" He roared.

I palmed my face. "Aw hell no."

Miles Henderson looked up as Alice and Michael left the store. He smiled to himself as he found himself a magazine and began to flick through it.

Boy, they'd both changed a lo~

The hand seized him, whipping the man around on his seat.

"Hurk!"

"I require your assistance."

His eyes widened as he saw his assailant.

"You! You're~!"


----------



## arturslv

- - - - - Little witch, you certainly seem in need of help. I can do so.

This is bad. Vincent gulped. Really, really bad.

His back to a corner, which was currently occupied by Batel. Vincent looked around; the couch had a small force of mixed units hiding behind and slightly underneath, and his eyes flickered over Michael's fire extinguisher, which sat just behind the couch – only slightly out of reach.

Standing atop the daemonhost's shoulder, the Sorcerer's voice boomed across the room.

"The Key, mortal! Surrender her now, or I shall feed your soul to the Warp!"

Ryan sneered at the cowering young woman.

"C'mon, honey, don't you want to go home? Your dear mother is waiting for you, don't you know?"

The hollow words of the man's voice dripped with such mockery and malice that Batel simply curled into a tighter ball, as if trying to hide from the lecherous grin that the man was giving her.

Facing them, the bespectacled steward of Michael's home frowned. The voice wasn't quite... human. It sounded like a human, it even belonged to a human shaped figure. But... there was a lack of something, the uncanny feeling that it was synthetic.

Vincent thought quickly. He nodded, then knelt before the flesh-puppet and its master. The Sorcerer laughed. There were shocked cries from the Imperials. The kneeling nerd reached behind the couch, unnoticed by the triumphant Sorcerer, and then stood.

"Psych." He muttered. Vincent pulled the pin, wrapped his hand around the open beak, and squeezed.

BIG RED #XI was suddenly spewing its payload of powdered fire suppressant, covering the forces of Chaos in white chemical snow. Batel's former step-father coughed and sputtered as he breathed in the white powder, and Vincent stepped close, his arms drawing back the crimson tube.

The Chaos Sorcerer managed to gulp down one last breath before he saw the Big Red Cylinder of Doom swinging around. It passed over both the shoulder and the swing was short enough to miss the daemonhost's face, but it struck the Warp-wielding Chaos Marine squarely, and with a sharp ting as steel struck ceramite-encased sorcerer, BIG RED #XI easily propelled him back and smashed him against the wall with enough force to make him ludicrously gibby when he finished splattering.

That stain wasn't going to be easy to clean.

Going around and keeping up his momentum, Vincent pirouetted on the spot and sent another swing into the stunned face of the former step-father, who managed to claw the powder off his face in time to see the bright stars that popped into his eyeballs as Vincent completed his one-two K-Os.

A roar of defiance rose up from the Imperial lines, and for a moment, the Chaos forces cowered.

Then a man stood up from their midst, chuckling. As soon as the nerd caught sight of him, he knew that he had just made one hell of a mistake: He had assumed that the grand-standing Sorcerer had been the leader.

The one now crackling with warp-fire was the real Sorcerer. The one who was coordinating this attack. The one had he had just sent on a home run was only a fake, an apprentice at best.

With a gesture, the Sorcerer unleashed his forces.

A quick blast of the powder sent the front row reeling, and covered the rest in the white chemical.

But still, the legion of Chaos kept on firing.

Vincent screamed as their return fire tore at his legs, the tiny lasguns pricking his skin and cauterizing the wounds. Thankfully the vehicle crews and the heavy weapons teams were still working furiously to clear their powder-packed weapons and sensor arrays to not contribute to felling a flesh-titan. Vincent glanced fleetingly at the kitchen and his pistol, laying on the counter-top, and would have made for them if he knew that there was no time. The boom of a Vindicator's siege cannon caused him to duck instinctively, and the window behind him shattered.

Already hurting, he tucked the fire extinguisher under his arm, like an oversized football, and threw himself over the couch and into cover. As he hit the ground – thankfully missing the others sheltered there – he got a mini's eye view of the action.

Batel looked on, her eyes wide with fear.

- - - - - Why don't you just accept the inevitable? We can finish this now...

The Daemonhost was taking anti-tank fire of his own, the lances of lascannon and the steady thump-thump-thump of the autocannon stitching scars all over his legs and stomach. The Imperial vehicles played a deadly game of tag as they popped out of cover, took a shot, and then ducked back into the safety of the furniture's shadow.

Just by the nerd's grounded face, Justicar Amadeus calmly picked off the cultists charging at them from underneath the couch, the unconscious form of Raquel at his feet.

"Canoness! The small witch!"

Samisha nodded, breaking into a sprint. Another cry alerted her to the ravening hordes of the Damned charging up behind her. She went into what would have been a base-stealing slide as Justicar Amadeus dropped a pair of bolts into the Chaos Marine at her heels. She stopped beside Raquel, and scooped the limp witch up.

She barked at her retinue, indicating the rushing cultists that were almost upon them. "Meliya! Cultists!"

"Right!" Trotting up with the flamer, Meliya braced herself, her thumb selecting the highest pressure setting, and then depressed the valve release. A thin jet of flame squeezed out of the projector, and she swept it left and right, covering the advancing Chaos cultists in the burning promethium. With their tattered clothes and the volatile cocktail of combat drugs coursing through their veins, the Cultists seemed to spontaneously ignite as the temperatures around them soared. A few even exploded as their drugged-up blood itself combusted.

A Chaos Terminator stood among those ruins, growling as he and his two squad-brothers advanced, their combi-bolters chattering high-explosive death. Meliya cried out in alarm as the Sister of Battle beside her – a noble veteran named Cordila – was gutted by the single bolt round that penetrated her breastplate. She fell to her knees, clutching at the shredded remains of her internal organs and pitched forward, dead. Canoness Samisha cried out, a bolter shell glancing off her pauldron. Some were as lucky, the bolter shells defeated by their armor. However, others were not so lucky, falling from the precise combi-bolter fire from the veteran Chaos warriors.

Vincent brought down the fire extinguisher, crushing the Terminators before they could claim any more lives. When he removed the cylinder, they began firing again – but were quickly taken apart by the recovered Imperials, especially the concentrated fire from the Land Raider.

"FOREWARD! ENEMIES OF THE IMPERIUM, COWER BEFORE OUR WRATH!"

Justicar Amadeus was in a battle-fury now as he and his brothers hurled themselves into battle, his Force Halberd spinning and cutting, dancing among the Cultists as if a scythe through grain.

The sudden loss of the Terminators and the charge of the Grey Knights broke their morale, and the Cultists quickly retreated to the sheet of firepower being sent their way. Still lying down, the Indonesian nerd coughed and sucked in a long overdue breath.

Around him, the miniature commanders quickly began to locate their forces, to try and co-ordinate a purging counter-offensive. Vincent crawled over to the others.

"Alright, we need to counter-attack. Abandon the living room, but deny these guys access to the rest of the house. Get in touch with the rest of the guys upstairs and in the bedrooms, and get the Orks out of the basement... try to get them out into the lawn and charging in through the front door. I'm going for the gun. Anyone got anything to add?"

"The Orks only listen to their Boss, and that's Michael." Quipped Inquisitor Danilov, his hell-pistol neatly decapitating a Cultist as he placed carefully aimed shots at exposed skin. The bolt pistol on his other hand coughed a series of high explosive shells, which neatly decapitated a Chaos Marine.

Vox-jockey Amira Sulein chipped in, lowering her voxcaster for a moment. "There are heavy weapons teams deployed up on the kitchen table, they're taking fire. We'll need to reinforce them to keep the Chaos forces from getting through Fridge Pass."

Vincent blinked for a second. "Fridge Pass?"

"The space between the kitchen cupboards and the fridge, Vincent."

"Ah. Send the Tau. Get their Broadsides and Hammerheads up there, shoot anything with an eight-pointed cross."

Confused looks passed over their faces, and even the battle-suited Shas'El Firestrike seemed confused for a moment. It seemed as if Michael had never really used the Tau's designations for their vehicles before. Vincent shrugged. "Hey, I play the games."

He popped his head above the couch, scaring the piss out of some Chaos cultists that were planning on dropping explosives down on the Imperials below. A quick sweep of his hand sent them tumbling to their dooms.

"'kay, then, that's the plan. Get a move on!"

Nods came in abundance, and Vincent rose, his voice straining to make itself heard over the roar of battle.

"FIGHTING MEN AND WOMEN OF MICHAEL'S HOUSE! HOLD. THEM. BACK!"

Behind him, Batel shivered.


----------



## arturslv

- - - - Submit, girl, and you can save these lives!

Sergeant Deunan's clipped tone crackled over the comm-beads.

"Contact, thirty degrees left. Down low, the cultist platoon with the Traitor Marine. Five rounds apiece, spread your rounds out."

The Heavy Bolter teams responded immediately, Trooper Vekt adjusting the elevation as Trooper Vorrens swung the massive weapon around. Trooper Kase sat close by, his lasgun in one hand and another resting on top of their last box of bolt shells. Stroking the trigger, the machine spirit of the Heavy Bolter barked out five high explosive shells, sending them into the massed platoon taking cover by one of Michael's discarded shoes.

Concentrated fire from the three Heavy Bolters in the support section ripped the panicking Cultists apart, and the cogboy that had been left to see to the heavy weapon's maintenance after they had been stripped of ammunition clapped in an unusual gesture of appreciation.

"Seventy three percent casualties in the first burst. Well done, Troopers."

Sohm grinned as Sergeant Deunan continued to pick out targets with his amplivisor, calmly passing out instructions like an announcement servitor.

"Chaos Marine warband, focus on the flamer. Three rounds, rapid fire."

The Guardsmen shredded a Marine wielding a flamer as heavy bolter shells struck his armor, leaving the path clear for the last one to slam into the thing's flesh, gutting the Marine as the high explosive shell detonated inside his power armor. Another struck the promethium tank that had been rigged up to his arm, and that too exploded, spraying his allies with the burning fuel. Of course, with the armor of the Space Marines, it wasn't a lethal burn as their tassels and ornaments melted, but certainly distracting as the flames covered their eyepieces and cooked off their munitions.

In an even battlefield this would have been a Pyrrhic victory for the Guardsmen, at best. But with superior elevation and their heavy bolters, the plunging fire they were directing at the Marines geared for close combat was proving to make this what Valhallans - and one particular Commissar attached to their regiments - called a 'traki shoot'.

With the majority of their platoon re-deployed on the other side of the kitchen in their rush for cover, they had left the heavy weapons platoons to pack up and occupy the bread-bin. Right now, everyone was double-timing it back to firing positions. It wouldn't be for another minute or so, but the veterans didn't like it; that was all the time in the world an enemy would needed to kill you.

The Sergeant bellowed a warning as he spotted the imminent counter-attack. "Incoming! Sit this burst out, then get back up and give them the Emperor's wrath!"

Return fire was sporadic at best, the heavy bolter team half-hidden by the lip of the kitchen counter-top, and everyone was sandbagged anyway, so as the ten man platoon ducked under their makeshift cover to shelter from the bright red lances of lasguns and the projectiles of the solid weapons.

However, this also blinded them to the streaking columns of smoke of the nine Chaos Raptors that angled up into the sky, and dived to land amongst the Guardsmen. Most were using primitive and daemonically corrupted assault packs, while others took to the sky on massive, bat-like wings.

Their bolt-pistols were already snarling as they sent a barrage of return fire, cutting down team two's gunner and loader in a hail of explosive shells. Their overwatch guardsman tried to flee, but was crushed under the talons of the lead Raptor.

Sohm dived under cover, and drew his las-pistol as Kase took a bolt to the leg, instantly severing the limb as the round detonated. A second bolt cut off his scream of pain as it detonated in his throat.

"Raptors, up high! Return fire! RETURN FIRE!" Sergeant Deunan screamed, drawing his own weapon at the enemy, firing his bolt pistol to meet theirs, crouched behind a sand bag barrier. He managed to bounce a few shells off the lead Raptor as it arced through the sky, intent to land in their half of the bunkers, before a bolt shell slipped through the intake grille and crippled his booster pack, sending the Chaos Marine crashing into the ground.

The Sergeant roared in triumph, but it was short lived: Another Marine dispatched the brave Guardsman as he passed, contemptuously decapitating the Sergeant with his chainsword as he ran to rejoin the fray.

By now, Sohm had managed to bring the Heavy Bolter around, and as the Raptors fell upon Team One, he quickly breathed a prayer to the Machines as Vorrens poured full-auto lasgun fire onto them.

The effect of four shells, mixed in with the other sixteen that Sohm had launched, were unexpectedly effective.

First, the Raptor leader's daemonic sword screeched as it was struck by the lead shell, and burst in an explosion of warp-fire. This sent Raptors to the ground, the psychic energy of the weapon's destruction eating away at their minds, completely ignoring the armor that encased them.

Shell number two struck the ammunition that had remained in the sandbag bunker, and the resulting explosion was an appropriate funeral pyre for Team One, taking with them another three or four Raptors.

The third shell reinforced the reason why helmets were issued, as it neatly dropped down the throat of the Raptor screaming with berserk rage and madly chopping at the dead body of Trooper Nankaro. He coughed, and his head turned into a fountain of blood as the bolt shell's explosion was channeled by his power armor.

This covered another Raptor's eyepieces, making him a gratifyingly easy target for the fourth shell, which struck him in the chest and threw him back a step.

Off balance from the explosion, he staggered back. Sohm found himself screaming as he pressed down on the firing stud again and again, peppering the Raptor's armor with explosions, and finally the last shell penetrated the thick breastplate, shattering the ancient ceramite. The explosion that resulted knocked him off the kitchen tabletop.

There was a cold chuckle as the remaining Raptor watched the demise of his brothers. Sohm whirled around, and saw that Vorren's body was still twitching, run through by the Raptor's chainsword like a grox on a spit.

"Impressive, little whelp." The snarling chainsword blurred as it cut itself out of Vorren's cadaver, arced up in a gory rainbow of human remains, down towards Sohm – who was trying to draw his las-pistol - and then across, the flat of the blade striking the last Guardsman to the ground. The back swing came a heartbeat later and Sohm howled in pain as the spinning teeth cut across his chest, just barely penetrating his flak vest and scoring a deep cut from right shoulder to his left side.

The cogboy lay a few feet away, clutching his leg as it bled black oil. His mechadendrites were jerking spasmodically as the Engine-seer fought for balance.

Chuckling, the Raptor turned off his bloodstained chainsword. "I shall enjoy avenging my brothers, boy. Your screams shall ease their pas~"

He never finished, as a ball of sunlight smacked into his helmeted head, melting the armor as if it were butter under a blowtorch, and passing on through to splash molten metal across the pauldrons. The cauterized stump that was left behind was wholly insufficient to sustain both coherent thought nor life, and as the rest of his body decided this, the armored Marine fell backwards and expired.

Sohm spat on the Chaos Marine's body, and collapsed.

The Traitor was ten thousand years overdue, anyway.

Sputtering and wheezing, the Techpriest used his extensive mechadendrites to crawl over to Sohm.

The trooper had already propped himself against the sand bag walls, laspistol in one hand as he dug through his medical kit with the other. Morphia, bandages. That would have to do. Sohm struggled to inject the vial of painkillers, but a snake-like mechadendrites pushed the plunger down. He sagged in relief.

"Thanks, cogboy."

"Hah... you... ain't a... rusty." Was the cryptic response. The Cogboy dragged himself over to sit beside Sohm, and pulled out a vox.

"Want to call some help?"

Looking over the sandbags, Sohm shook his head as the Tau Fire Warriors dispatched the remaining Raptors with carefully controlled bursts of pulse-rifle fire. Shas'El Firestrike called over Imperial medicae to attend to the two survivors, waving his still-smoking plasma rifle.

"Nah... they're here already."

He turned his gaze out to the titanic humans, and the witch. She was shaking visibly, even to the half-blurred and rapidly tunneling vision of Trooper Sohm Vekt.

- - - - - See how they fall? How they die! You could have prevented that! You could end this!

Vincent skidded into the kitchen, grabbing the pistol from its place in front of the bread-box. He looked out into the battlefield below, and saw a Chaos Defiler. A single bullet was enough to tear its rear armor to pieces, killing the tortured operator inside.

His hand flicked up, one hand firmly wrapped around the pistol, the other cupping it from below.

On cue, the Colt barked again as another bullet was unleashed.

The bullet hit the corrupted flesh of Ryan's chest with a wet smack as Vincent steadied himself into a parody of a firing rhythm, desperately trying to aim for center of mass, his best bet at hitting it. He stroked the trigger a third time, and another red hole ripped itself into the man's chest as the Daemonhost took another step forward. Five shots left. A small voice in his mind whispered. Make them count!

Another one would have smacked into face, were it not for the sudden jerk of the head that put a hole in Michael's painting of the tree in the back yard.

The dry and cracked skin of its lips stretched as Ryan grinned. It was now only a meter or two away.

"Take the little bitch from me, will ya? Well, I'll show you smartasses what happens to people when they take something from Rhyan Owen-ens!" Its voice was distorted now, like an audio file copied over too many times.

Panicking now, Vincent was dodging as fast as he could from the sudden grabs that followed, having worked himself into a berserk rage as it smelt spat and swore at him.

"Come here, y-y-you! Lem-m-me rip y-y-a a new one, f-f-fuckin' fancy p-pa-pants with that lit-t-t-tle pea shooter-er-er, huh!"

His voice slid up and down the range of possible human vocalizations, going as high as a soprano one moment, a low baritone the next. Add to that the erratic rhythm of his voice – which disturbingly reminded Vincent of a broken vinyl record – and he was seriously getting disturbed.

Vincent tried to shoot him in the face again, only to see that it had only passed through his cheek, leaving a wet puckered hole. The man now made a whistling sound as he breathed.

Door, head for the door! The nerd's mind screamed, knowing full well that getting into an open space was his best chance for survival. Leaping over a line of advancing Chimera and Rhino APCs, Vincent was already half out of breath by the time he was hit by the charging Daemonhost. It was pinning him against the wall before he knew it, ignoring any feeble attempts at the miniatures shooting it with the thick clothes that it wore, no doubt also reinforced by whatever warp-sorcery that it could call up. The heavier guns had already exhausted their munitions on Chaos vehicles, which would have wreaked havoc on the miniature armies, but at what cost?

Gagging, he gasped for breath as a set of absurdly strong fingers closed around his neck. He spotted Batel, and tried to call for help.

She only sobbed, her mind racked with confusion.

- - - - - The boy will die. He will die painfully, and knowing that you could have stopped this.

"KILL! MAIM! B~"

"BURN!" Eizak eagerly finished the screaming Chaos Marine's chant with a blast from his combi-melta. The eye-scorchingly hot beam of energy simply passed through the heathen super-soldier, the movement of Eizak's thermal weapon melting his torso and throat into a molten goo, and Eizak closed in to finish the stunned traitor's life with a precisely placed blow from his Thunder Hammer. The Traitor's helmet still glowed as it lodged itself in the Chaos Marine's bowels.

His backswing struck down a Cultist, and the bolt shell that followed burst a second's head, sending brain and skull matter arcing over the battlefield.

"Forward, brothers!"

"FOR TERRA! FOR THE EMPEROR!"

A hundred voices; Marines, Guardsmen, Sisters, Eldar and Tau all shouted their many and colorful battlecries in the faces of the five-hundred strong Traitors. They poured out of the hallways, having rallied under the banner of Order to face the forces of Chaos.

Near the back rows, another voice cried out.

"Take to the skies, Brothers! DEATH FROM ABOVE!"

Seven dozen knees bent, and almost a hundred thrusters yawned as they vented propellant, sending the elite fast attack units into the air. Assault Marines flared their jump packs as they hurtled through the sky alongside glittering flights of Swooping Hawks, with a trio of Tau Battlesuits boosting into battle with ammunition packs hanging off their backs.

They all had – in a curious but overall beneficial twist of relationships – somehow grown into one massive pack of flying hunters, their elite status amongst their respective armies giving them reason to seek each other out and compete; for many of these jumping warriors, they saw the kindred spirits as bastard siblings. In a way, but got along with each other nonetheless, an unspoken bond forming between the soldiers of the sky.

The expanded squadron of jet packs, boosters and rockets now flared as they took to the sky.

Brother-Sergeant Vinters locked his eyes onto a cultist, and he carefully angled his trajectory to suit.

A thousand years ago, it was standard practice for Assault Marines to land in front of their enemy and charge the final stretch to engage them with their close combat weapons. But it was Brother Ventorez, the Raven Guard veteran whose geneseed which now sat in his torso, who discovered – to the unexpected satisfaction of both Ventorez and every Space Marine with a Jump Pack – that a ton of nearly supersonic Marine falling out of the sky was a weapon in itself.

Today, however, they had refined the practice of dropping out of the air onto one's enemies into something of an art form. The first Cultist to find this out suddenly found his mouth and face filled with the boots of an Assault Marine, and then suddenly that wasn't important as his head was crushed against the ground. The floor itself shook as the Marines pounded into carefully chosen targets, kneeling in some places where the gore had gotten a bit too slick, and before anyone could start screaming the Marines became whirling tornadoes of chain-bladed destruction in the densely packed formation of Cultists.

Seraphim danced in the space above this hurricane of blood and chainswords, weaving through the hail of fire the Tau were raining down from above taking the opportunity to blaze away with their pair of bolt pistols issued to each one, dropping high explosive death to those below, occasionally grabbing onto a hovering Tau Battlesuit to propel themselves into the air, rejoining the flock of humming blue figures that were the Swooping Hawks, which were liberally sowing their high explosive seeds throughout the fertile fields of heretics below. Battlesuits lumbered through the sky like a barge through water, and their armor, shielding systems and the sacrificial drones themselves were soaking up much of the damage which would have otherwise felled a Seraphim or Swooping Hawk.

Their plasma rifles and burst cannon, however, were quick to cut down heavy weapons carefully marked out by the markerlights painted onto them by the Tau stealthsuits, which were mixed in amongst the enemy, destroying a vehicle here and a heavy weapon there in a sudden burst of plasma fire.

However, all did not go well for the assault troopers. Every now and again, a psyker or heavy weapon would rear their yawning mouths, and strike a warrior from the sky. Many died quickly, but a few were unfortunate enough to land in the mass of cultists below, and be torn apart by the crazed traitor legion.

Sergeant Vinters saw a Seraphim clipped of her wings as a Chaos Raptor passed by her, a quick slash across her jump-pack sending the Sister of Battle tumbling to the ground.

He sent a few bolts the Raptor's way, but his chances of hitting an ally were far greater than his chances of landing a hit on the Raptor. Instead, he began to tear his way through the tides of cultists, his chainsword cutting bright red arcs with their buzzing teeth. He reached the downed Sister soon enough; all he had to do was listen to the sound of two bolt pistols firing in perfect harmony, a duet of destruction. Already, the Cultists were tearing at her armor, sacrificing three or four of their number to simply remove a panel of the black plates. A knife was already stuck into her bared right side, and she was wrestling with a Cultist trying to rip off her helmet.

Vinters and his two flanking Assault Marines set about clearing the cultists from around her, an expertly placed bolt shell and an equally precise flick of a chainsword severing the man's entangling arms from the Seraphim.

"Brother Sergeant Vinters, at your service, Sister... would you like an escort from the battlefield?"

"Gladly, Brother..." She staggered, and quickly emptied the remaining shells of her pistol into a gaggle of cultists approaching them. The high explosive shredder bolts quickly reduced them to fist sized chunks of gore.

More were streaming in, like vultures they surrounded the downed Seraphim and Vinter's squad.

"This is Brother Vinters. We are being overrun! Break through at this location!"

He armed a Melta Bomb, and hurtled into the sky as his assault pack lifted him above the battleground. Seeing a group of Chaos Marines and a Terminator trudging through the Cultists, he angled himself down at them and emptied the remainder of his Bolt Pistol's ammunition into one's face. Jumping off, he landed on a Chaos Terminator, slapped the Melta Bomb on, and launched himself into the sky as the final few moments ticked off on the timer. He could feel his feet heat up as the bomb's detonation licked at his boots. Bolt- and las-fire swirled around him as avenging Chaos Marines fired up at him with the help of their cultist cannon fodder.

An autocannon round cut his victorious ascent short, the lance of steel piercing his pauldron and exiting through his back. Brother Vinters tumbled down to the ground, barely in control of his armor's wounded machine spirit, grimly arming all his melta bombs and tossing them at every clump of cultists that he could reach.

- - - - - You're WEAK! WEAK and USELESS! ACCEPT! SUBMIT! SAVE THEM!

Ryan – Daemonhost of Chaos – howled in pain. Vincent's nostrils filled with the stench of cordite as he tried to work the slide. The casing had not ejected properly, again stovepiping. That was expected of a weapon squeezed between his stomach and the man's thigh. No room to eject the shell.

"'lu ngak akan ada anak, brengsek!" [Ya ain't gonna have kids, bastard!]

He howled as a second bullet entered its thigh via some very sensitive and already traumatized anatomy, and Vincent raised his legs to try and kick away, but a fast swipe sent him sprawling to the ground.

"Y-y-you!" There was a sudden rush of putrid miasma as something shifted; the light in Ryan's eyes died, and there was a sudden wave of sickening nausea that overtook everyone's mind. Vincent fought the urge to hurl, although Batel was more than happy to void her stomach.

The Daemon now surged forward. "FEEL MY WRATH, MORTAL!"

Vincent blinked once, then was picked up by one arm.

Well, shit. Vincent stared into blood red eyes, narrow and slanted like a snake's, filled with hate and unkempt fury.

By now, it seemed, whatever had been Ryan Owens was now dead and gone. Vincent struggled against the grip of iron.

Batel flailed at the man, grabbing his arm. A sudden whirl of his arms sent her crashing into the ground.

Another kick sent him rolling, fortunately through a crowd of Cultists rather than Imperials. Gasping for breath, Vincent managed to get his feet underneath himself. This guy was most certainly one hell of a bastard. Shuffling through his knowledge of such things... he looked up at the man's face, twisted into an unpalatable mask of fury.

"C'mon, lets take this outside." Vincent rasped, his mask taking on a fake and desperate bravado, grinning as he chuckled, rising back to his feet. He could barely stand, but that dramatic flair was all he needed to get the man into even more of a rage – and less of a thinking fighter. Br'er Bear and Br'er Rabbit an' all that.

Strong arms picked him up, and suddenly bright sunlight was dazzling him as he crashed out into the front lawn.

- - - - - Ah, things may be going well this battle, but they will fight again, lose more of their number...

"Full throttle, Marines!"

The White Scars chapter were experts of mounted warfare, and their skill at the handlebars of their heavy assault bikes were testament of that. Blazing into battle, the white lightning bolts simply drove over the cultists as if they were a particularly bumpy road, their wicked combat blades slicing and severing some very important anatomical features off the cultists as they passed by. Heads and arms, legs and large tracts of internal organs were cast aside in their wake.

With them were the heavier weapons platforms belonging to the other Chapters and factions; the Land Speeders with their buzzing assault cannon and the corkscrewing missiles streaking from their side-mounted launchers.

An Eldar Falcon provided the centerpiece of their assault, its Bright Lance stabbing out to lash at the Traitor Marines that were counter-attacking in their wake.

Around them, a storm of monomolecular disks cut through a Marine as he finished swinging his sword through a Swooping Hawk's shattered wings, his arm and torso turning into a fine red mist as the shuriken slipped between the atoms that composed the Marine. The jet-bikes of Ulthwe zipped overhead, discarding behind them a gift of hand grenades given by the Imperials. The following series of thudding concussions hurled cultists into the air, and the nimble bikes quickly turned to make another pass.

"High speed, low drag." Muttered one as he pumped a Chaos Marine full of monomolecular disks

A wild swing from a spear severed the Eldar jetbike's control canard, and as the bullet-shaped vehicle spun out of control, the Marine wielding the spear gave a throaty laugh of triumph.

Suddenly, a bright lance of focused laser-light speared through the Traitor Marine in the middle of his exultation, and then five more fell as they suddenly found their faces spiked by the lances of the Shining Spears aspect warriors. A moment later, and they were gone, leaving curiously clean wounds on the dead bodies in their wake.

Sergeant Vinters awoke, and instinctively realized something was wrong. He was being dragged. A hand immediately went for the arms that somehow managed to easily pull along a one ton Marine in his power armor.

"Do not worry, Brother Sergeant." It was Brother Belarius, one of the younger Assault Marines. "You are out of danger now."

He coughed, and looked past his feet. Around him, two Crisis Battlesuits pumped a steady stream of burst cannon fire into the surrounding cultists. Swooping Hawks hovered overhead, their grenades falling in amongst advancing cultists. Belarius stopped, and began firing his bolt pistol. Vinters looked to his side. The Seraphim, knife still jammed into her shoulder, was on the ground beside him.

However, she was alert and still fighting, firing her single bolt pistol – one with an extended barrel and scope – into the enemy that surrounded them. The body of a cultist bounced off the ground beside his head, before it was used as an impromptu brace as Vinters got up onto his knees. The Marine froze as he turned to see the sight that was gathering behind him.

Brother Belarus shouted out in joy. "Sister Meryl! Brother Sergeant Vinters! Look!"

Guardsmen, Sisters of Battle, Space Marines. Tau, Eldar and even Orks, all arranged in one battle-line (although there were a few Orks impatiently gunning their engines).

They were arrayed before the legions of Chaos, their troops spread throughout the many transports that they used; Orks atop their ramshackle Trukks welcomed the Tau Fire Warriors (without butchering them), and Guardsmen helped the graceful Eldar as they boarded the boxy Chimera. Tau Battlesuits and Space Marine Terminators jockeyed for the prime seats in their heavy Land Raider, the centerpiece of the assault along with the Falcons. Pathfinders quickly showed Sisters of Battle the switches on the Devilfish's hatch doors as the Orks piled into Wave Serpents.

And they all cried out, for their Emperor, for their homeworld, for their Greater Good, for their victory.

But above all, one battlecry eclipsed all others by typical Ork brute force, lung capacity and volume.

"WAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

Fully a third of the Chaos legions voided their bowels as others took up the cry.

Vinters grinned, and punched the quick release for his damaged backpack. The assault pack fell to the ground, and he moved more freely now as he stood, the battlecry of the Orks ringing in his ears.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

- - - - - Quick Omake: For the Greater WAAAAGH!

"waaagh."

Madork Gunna gave a sigh of frustration. He whacked the Tau Fire Warrior over his head.

"No no no, ya grey-skin git! You'ze gots ta cap-it-tah-lies da WAAAGH! Uvverwize dere ain't no WAAAGH!"

"Waaagh!" Cried out the witless Shas'la.

The greenskin palmed his face and then swatted the Fire Warrior with his non-Klaw hand.

"You'ze messin' wif me, greyskin? Well, you'ze betta tuffin' up! Alrigh', lemme showz ya again!"

He drew in a breath, and bellowed at the top of his voice. Which was sufficient to knock the Fire Warrior onto his arse simply from the amount of saliva projected.

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

The Ork began to stomp on the spot, howling into the sky as he punctuated the battle-cry with his shoota. His single flesh and blood eye focused on the Sash'la.

"DATZ HOW YAZ DO DA WAAAGH! SEEZ? YOU CAP-IT-AH-LOIZ! AN' IF YA'S 'ARD ENUFF an' a roight proppa Orky boy, but dat don' matta fer ya, YOU'ZE GETS TA BAWLD'AN EY-TAL-ICKS DA WAAAAGH! too!"

He waggled a finger at the bewildered Fire Warrior.

"But! Only da best o' da Orkiest boyz can do this:"

Quickly, the Shas'la clapped his hands over his ears, and shut down his audio recorders.

Even through an inch of Earth-caste polyceramic armor-weave, the battle-cry shook his eardrums.

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

The Ork crossed his arms and gave himself a self satisfied nod as he finished his lecture.

"See? Underloinin' an' 'xtra eksklamatin' bitz."

A fair distance away, Sergeant Talon facepalmed.

"Dear Ethereals, he's screwing with the formatting!"


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Heheheheheh...


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## arturslv

Thought for the Day:
"WAAAAAAAAGH!"


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The Orks were here.

Of course. 

Vinters shook his head with a barely checked grin as he turned to face the oncoming green horde as Ork Rokkit Boyz slammed into the ground around him, joining their flying comrades in their eager rush for battle.

With the assorted armies rampaging around upstairs and the Orks below, any attempts at holding the green tide back inside of their basement would have been useless and inefficient, considering the problems that were currently demolishing their coffee table.

However, orders had been distributed throughout the lines. Let them pass.

The greenskins were pouring in – literally – from the basement, crashing into whatever forces they could find.

Because of that, the Imperials, Eldar and Tau steered well clear, or otherwise told the WAAAAGH! happy orks that there was a 'bigga scrap dat way' and eagerly transported the Orks to the battlefield. More bodies on the line meant less casualties for them, right?

It was an odd sight, to see a Tau Fire Warrior running alongside an Ork.

Madork Gunna was chortling as he roared loud enough to make his neighbors flinch.

"WAAAAGH! Dat'z moar loik it! Green! Bloo! Peenk! Whoight! All of us iz Big Boss Mikkey's boyz!"

The Orkish horde echoed the sentiment, shaking the bristles of the carpet they stood on with their roaring throats.

An Ork hefted his choppa. "Le's ge' us sum spoikey boyz!"

The rumbling ground heralded their approach, and Vinters watched as the entire battle shifted before him, with the green tide merged with the coalition, crashing onto the Chaos rabble.

Chaos Marines, vehicles, traitors and cultists all were reduced to a panicking rout as a mixed company of Orks, Humans and Eldar advanced under covering fire from Tau lines.

Maybe for the first time in history, Orks and Imperials fought side by side as they rushed the Chaos lines, some even competing against each other for the largest number of kills at the end. A Shoota Boy and his Deff Gun challenged and a Space Marine Terminator with his Assault Cannon, seeing who could first deafen the other with their dakka.

Force Commander Eizak smashed his way through a Chaos Marine, only to be met by a heretical Terminator.

The heavy, millenia old warrior was sent sailing as both Eizak and Madork Gunna both punted him high into the air, riddling the traitor with bolter and shoota rounds on his upwards journey. He fell down in a rain of ceramite and gore.

More Cultists swarmed around them. One screaming heretic was cut down by a stream of plasme fire.

"I shall cover you, Gue'la! Advance!"

Commander Firestrike let rip with his burst cannon, showering the human fodder and their Chaos Marine masters around him with a stream of plasma fire, his expert aim keeping them cropped up and bracketed in as the two commanders charged.

Madork Gunna and his Nobs surged forwards with their usual blood-lust, wading into the fray of suppressed Chaos worshipers and liberally applying his quad barreled auto-shotgun and shoota into faces and chests, cackling wildly all the way. The hurricane of metal bits both large and small was enough to completely shred the band of Cultists. There wouldn't be much more than a red pockmarked smear on the ground after the first out-burst of dakka.

A quick backhand of his powa klaw sent a cultist flying, and his nobs eagerly played skeet with it, although with the usual Ork standards of accuracy, this meant that they were instead just wasting time and munitions.

Kasrkin Sergeant Leon quickly snapped up his hellpistol, and fired one sundering lance of light. The Cultist exploded as he flew over his comrades, showering them with internal organs. His black blade then flickered and neatly cut a cultist from right shoulder to left hip, the two slabs of meat sliding off each other as Leon passed by.

The Orks chuckled, and then bellowed with laughter, congratulating the Guardsman with heavy slaps to the back and shoulders.

Leon returned the favor by punching one in the gob, an action which only drew out more encouragement as the two warriors focused on inflicting as much collateral damage around each other as possible. Soon, there were a dozen or so Cultists - it wasn't quite easy to count up the sum of the body parts – lying around them.

"You'ze 'ard enuff." The Nob chuckled as he retrieved one of the three choppas he carried around with him.

"How much did you get?"

The Ork Nob shrugged as he pulled ot number two. "Err... lots? 'old on..." He looked at a Cultist that had obviously been felled by his third axe. "One, two... yeah, nevva mind. Lots. Wot abouts you, oomie?"

An amused huff came from behind the faceplate of Sergeant Cadiasson as he shrugged. "Twenty seve-"

There was the sudden intake of air as Leon raised his Hell-pistol and blasted a hole in a twitching Chaos Cultist, right under the Nob's boot.

"Twenty eight." He muttered.

"Oi, wazzat fer!" The Nob growled, baring his tusks. " 'e woz righ' an' proppa ded, ya zoggin' git!"

"He was twitching." Leon retorted, pointing at the Cultist.

"COZ OF MAH BUZZY CHOPPA IN HIS SPINE, OOMIE!" The Nob demonstrated by grabbing his third choppa and wrenching the power axe back and forth, the residual electrical charge spasming out-of-control muscles. The parts of the body that still remained began to dance on cue.

Madork Gunna stomped on another twitching Cultist, a wide grin on his face. He turned to the two competitors.

"Dat'z more like it! No more runnin', jus' keep foightin'! You'ze grey-skins an' oomies arn't all dat bad, roight, boyz!" He slapped the nearest nob who didn't cry out in agreement quickly enough.

"Roight, Boss!" The unfortunate individual immediately replied, another dent forming on his metal skull. Its powa klaw whipped across, snapped shut and neatly parted a cultist's head, sending the hairy ball rolling across the floor.

There were a few more laughs from the Nobs.

"An' we'ze gonna haz a lotz of 'eads for da Big Boss' pointy stick, aren't we?" He chuckled.

"I do believe that he will ask you to dispose of them first." Chaplain Morteus quipped as he jogged past, hurrying to join the battle, his holy mace neatly decapitating a cultist's head as he passed by.

The Orks just shrugged, and then charged into the fray again.



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As the pitched battle soon became a rout for the Chaos forces, the Orks took over in their orgy of destruction, the rout gave way to farce.

Grey Knight Silverite was chuckling madly as he emptied both his silver-plated bolters into the mass of cultists, and soon he and an Ork – it seemed to be of the 'tankbusta' flavor - grabbed a few of the hapless traitor within their reach and began playing 'Heretic in the middle', then later 'Toss the explosive laden Heretic as far as you can', and finally, after Silverite found some percussion detonators, 'shoot the grenade laden Heretic in mid-air after you throw him as far as you can'.

Canoness Samisha stood beside Justicar Amadeus as he palmed his faceplate, comforting him with a gentle punch to the man's massive pauldrons of gleaming ceramite.

Amadeus' blurring arm clouted a passing cultist, knocking it to the ground. Samisha stomped on its throat with her armored boots, and Amadeus drove his Force Halberd into its chest. Their eyes never left each other as they debated the actions of the rogue Grey Knight.

"Don't worry, at least he's using heretics this time... right?"

An Ork 'Choppa Boy', laughing as he brandished his namesake axe, flew through the air to land on a cultist. Canoness Samisha sighed. Amadeus walked over to a disabled Rhino and began to apply his head to the charred armor.

Silverite was already swinging the next one by the ankles in a classic hammer-throw routine.

"At least they're xeno?" She asked, hopefully.

"Hey, Silverite!" One of the other Grey Knights shouted, his Nemisis force halberd inscribing glowing arcs through the air. "Me next! Me next!"

"..."

… okay, that was unexpected. But what of the boy, little witch? WILL YOU SAVE HIM!


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## arturslv

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"TREMBLE BEFORE ME, WRETCH!"

Vincent ducked under the grab, and managed to get an elbow in the way as the long-winded kick smashed into him. He rolled backwards, bruised and battered, as the daemon strode up to him.

Coughing, his hand found their grip on a long-ago discarded piece of wood. Michael had – in the past – tried to build a fence out front. Now it was mostly rotting wood and chipping paint as he piled up the flat panels in a corner of the garden.

His wandering hands found a pair.

Bringing them around, the nerd broke the first mold-ridden slat over its head.

The two combatants stared at each other for a moment, and then the daemonhost grinned.

A sigh escaped the bespectacled Asian as he realized how deep he was in it right then.

Slat number two came up in a rising slash.

That whipped the thing's head around, and shattered the rotten wood on its jaw.

Again, the twisted face grinned, albeit with a slightly discolored jaw. Vincent stared along in disbelief. It was fast healing, however, confirming Vincent's fears of the daemon possessing this body having given regenerative abilities to its new shell.

In quick succession, Vincent broke another three slats on the daemon's face, nose and forehead (in that order).

The daemonhost was still grinning as Vincent assessed the damage he had dealt. The hopeful look on his face changed to accommodate a crestfallen sigh as he inspected the damage he had just dealt.

"You use botox much?"

Growling with anger, the Daemon's return consisted of one surgically precise jab, knocking Vincent's glasses off his face and smashing him into the ground.

"NOW, HUMAN WHELP, YOU SHALL D~"

The sudden burst of purple lightning seared both his retina and Ryan's back, the whip of bright light snapping around to lash him onto his knees as the tendons at the back of his knees were shredded. Vincent tore his eyes away from the sight, through the halo of light that surrounded...

"Wh- Batel!"

The penitent witch teetered on unsteady feet. "Hy haff chohzen..." [I have chosen...]

She was in shock, Vincent realized; shaking limbs, uncontrolled outbursts... "Hyoo hefferhy dhay... hyoo chortoored huss..." [You... every day. You tortured us.] Batel brought the whip up and then back down. Snap. The length of warp-fire broke Ryan's shin as it turned solid an instant before it touched his leg.

"Mahter... mhy mahter! Hyuu... hyuu bhrok hher! Hyuu... mauhnshtar!" [Mother... my mother! You! You broke her! You... monster!]

Batel, you have no idea how accurate that last word was.

She sobbed again, lashing her whip across the daemon's body. Vincent gasped as he scrambled for his glasses, the whip of pure psychic power – the essence of Batel's tortured soul – passed inches from his shoulder. Even from that distance, the heat was intense.

"Hy hwash hoonhly ahnovher chuul. Ah shiink choo kheap mahter khwaiat." [I was only another tool. A thing to keep mother quiet.]

Batel let out another ragged breath, her eyes pulsing into a deep purple as she lashed out again. This time, its right hand simply disappeared, leaving only a blackened stump. Her hands moved to cover herself, wrapping around her body to shield herself from the man.

"Han' ahnaffa tchoy choo prreay hwiff. Tuu shikk bhashturd!" [And another toy to play with. You sick bastard!]

Her arm went up, ready to strike... no, smite the daemon for her step-father's sins.

The thing, however, was still grinning.

An icy hand squeezed his gut.

It wanted her to do this... to kill, and fall back to Chaos.

"NO!" Vincent tackled her as she brought the whip down again, wincing as the warp-fire brushed against his arm; it burned through his jacket instantly, searing the limb and quickly dragging a pained scream as his flesh sizzled.

Batel let out a strangled cry as she fell to her knees, the warp whip gutting the lawn as it fell to the ground and then disappeared. She was bleeding from the mouth, the nose and ears. Her tears were starting to become pink as well. Vincent comforted her as best he could – he wasn't used to giving out hugs – his arms cradling her head as she sobbed uncontrollably, soaking his jacket's collar as her tears and blood flowed freely.

"I need some help, here!" He shouted to the psykers.

The Daemonhost's anguished face slackened, the mask of anger untwisting as it tipped over backwards, falling tot he ground with a sickening crunch: The Chaos Rhino had simply been crushed under the weight.

See? You have saved your friends... and you are mine again. But be warned, child... I cannot help you all the time.



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"Psychic overload." Yoza commented, inspecting Batel from his skimmer. They were gathered around in a quieter corner of the garden, leaving the former step-father by the curb on the other corner.

The Seer council around him nodded in agreement. His green-tinged witchblade waved left and right as he inspected her.

All pretenses of his comedic grammar-defilement was gone now as he looked on with a grim face.

"This... girl. She has power... a lot of it. But she must learn how to control it. The pressures made by the Warp and those who wield it can translate to physical pressure all too easily..."

Vincent nodded. Batel's heart-breaking sobs were slowly easing themselves into sniffles as she calmed down, and he found himself enfolding her in his arms. Looking around in confusion, he saw Yoza lowering his arm. A grim chill ate at his stomach. Yoza had made him do that with a simple gesture; what else could this Eldar Warlock do?

But his worry-streaked face told him that – for now – he would be safe from the tiny psykser's control.

"She seeks comfort, Vincent... stay, and keep her safe. The Chaos forces broke when their Sorcerer fled..." He looked out, to where a gaggle of Space Marines were throwing the bodies of cultists and dead Chaos Marines out into the garden. "That brute of a mon-keigh... Eizak, was he not? He was most impressive. Two more steps and the Sorcerer would have been ended."

The nerd nodded again, and Yoza smiled in return.

"Keep her safe... I have a feeling that this girl has more secrets to her than she may think she has."

The warlock looked up as the sounds of fighting intensified.

"Oh... and it appears the Daemon is recovering... its proximity to their cultists may have... oh dear."

Vincent stood quickly to the snarls and gnashing teeth of the daemon.

It was rising from the circle of cultists that had hastily begun a ritual around him. The daemon had regenerated its mangled flesh, but... it had also mutated. Wildly. Shattered limbs were stitched together with some kind of living glue, which screeched and howled with a mind of its own. Vincent peered closer, his nose twitching from the smell of burnt flesh. He realized, with a shudder, that the newly replaced flesh was made up of sacrificed cultists. The hand that had been removed by Batel's psychic rage had now been replaced by a clawed one. Torn and burnt skin was traded for a blue, scaly hide.

The Sorcerer – the real one – was howling with fury as he broadcast his rage. "YOU DARE! YOU DARE DEFY ME!"

Vincent blinked a few times."Yeah, I do."

Immediately, the air vibrated from the shriek of unholy frustration. Vincent checked himself. The nerves were really getting to him now; he was shooting his mouth off. No doubt, this would be funny to everyone else if they weren't already in this fight.

"I AM BELAVICH THE SHADOW-CALLER! FEAR ME!"

The Asian nerd flipped him the bird. "I don't, little man."

But he did. Very, very much so. That was a naked lie if he ever said one.

Yoza, however, was laughing with just as much sincerity as Vincent, while in the distance the Sorcerer spat froth from his mouth.

"I SHALL REND THE FLESH FROM YOUR BONES! I SHALL FEED YOUR SOUL TO THE WARP! I SHALL GRIND YOUR MIND TO DUST! I SHA~"

"Are you done yet, tiny one?"

"FFFF-"

Even the Daemon itself clapped its hands over its ears as the Socerer threatened and swore. Vincent took the opportunity to talk with Yoza, seek his advice.

"What now?"

"Well done, mon-keigh. I do believe you have gotten him angry. We will need to find help... we cannot bring down this daemon-titan alone."

The vox-jockey, Amira Sulein, was broadcasting over a Chimera's vox. "Titanicus Vincent! A vox from Michael!"

Michael's familiar voice had a buzzing edge to it, as expected of someone talking over a vox.

"Vinny! We're comin'! Just hold out for another two minutes!"

Vincent tried to swallo, but found his throat totally dry. He closed his stinging eyes, and calmed his ragged breath. He coughed a few times, and looked at the minis all looking up at him.

Bravado, a faux confidence... Vincent knew he needed to keep up an idealized image of himself, even if he was close to collapsing.

"Sure. Just get here fast, Mickey. I'm gonna need someone to help me clean up." His voice was loud enough to carry over, and the Daemonhost screamed out his fury as it stomped past the line of battle-tanks, scattering them as if toys.

Again, the armies of Chaos were milling about his legs. The two sides were gearing up for round two, it seemed; reinforcements were streaming in from both the Chaos van – Vincent was surprised that they were smart enough to keep reserves – and from Michael's house.

He hefted another half-rotten stick, and stood in front of Batel's unconscious form.

"Oh no you don't!" Another slat was brought around, nearly pinning the puppet master atop his toy's shoulder. The stinging slap made the Daemonhost stagger, fighting to keep control of the off-balance body.

The Sorcerer snarled.

"I SHALL FEAST ON THY HEART, MORTAL!"

His opponent snorted in false humor. "Its thine, ya stupid bastard!"

The Sorcerer's finger-sized bolt of warp-fire struck him on the shoulder, and Vincent could feel his very mind scream in pain, even as his own throat declared his agony.

Damn...

Dropping to one knee, he hoped the sagging rod would not snap as he tried to support himself, patting at the warp-fire to try and put out the flames.

Around him, the battle raged.


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## arturslv

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"C'mon, c'mon!" Michael swerved around the corner, Alice squealing as she was thrown against the window. His left shoulder felt like it was on fire, no doubt from the strain of him twisting and throttling the wheel.

All of the warriors gritted their teeth as they heard the rapid-fire reports coming in through the vox. General Faust was down, in critical condition. A tank commander was cut off lost as his Vanquisher was obliterated. Tau were forming up at Fridge Pass – where the hell was that? - and holding back the Chaos forces.

The Colonel of the logistics division had just been evicted from the former DVD cabinet as suicide bombers overran their position.

All along the frequencies Orks were having a hell of a fun time as they butchered the Cultists gathered near the TV. This got the few Orks that came along for the ride a lot less happy, and they began shouting for Michael to hurry up.

More reports streamed in: The cogboys were getting pretty beat up as they rushed to the aid of the disabled vehicles, Eldar were making advances as they cleared out the dining room, the Inquisitional forces were ordering people clear them a path out so they could engage the Daemon.

The blond driver did a double-take. "Wait, Daemon!"

Michael stepped on the gas, and the car lurched forward as he shifted gears.

Commissar Tomas Sturm swore as he was thrown onto his ass by the sudden acceleration, but still managing to hang on as he tumbled past a strapped-down Chimera.

Zara was screaming at the top of her lungs, warning Michael to drive carefully, as were a half-dozen other voices.

The Ork contingent, however, was hooting with glee.


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Staggering back at the half-daemon half-human mongrel, Vincent looked around for some kind of help as it leaped forward, undisturbed by the anti-tank fire being shot at it from the Imperial tanks.

The first blow he was able to duck simply by letting his knees give out, and crossed arms managed to absorb the blow from the sweeping kick that followed. Vincent was rolled backwards, but was fast enough to get up in time to slap a punch so that it passed over his shoulder.

A missile – from the Tau Sky-Ray, it seemed – streaked between the two of them and landed somewhere in the middle of the street.

Two more attempts at bear hugs were foiled by Vincent simply falling down onto his knees and scrambling back, and the stomps that followed by him had him rolling to the side. He staggered to his feet as the two sides clashed along the bushes that had been planted on either side of Michael's foot-path, using them as cover and concealment. It was trench warfare all over the garden.

"ONE MINUTE!" Broadcast Vox-operator Amira, her voice echoing up and down the street. A dog started barking.

A punch smashed into the Asian youth's chest, sending him up off the ground and throwing the nerd bodily over the bushes. He was treated to the sight of empty driveways before he crashed back to the lawn.

Damn it... it was maybe just before noon, Tuesday. Everyone was out at their workplace or school. No help from the neighbors.

Picking up a Chaos Vindicator, Vincent hurled it at the Daemon, who slapped it out of the air and into the ground. It burst into flames shortly after. A Chimera was thrown in return, which Vincent caught as it smacked into his chest. The crew were cursing and swearing, bruised but otherwise okay. Setting it on the ground, he looked up in time to jump back from a back-hand swing.

He and the daemon were now on the street, and now he looked around for a weapon of some kind, trying to think over the sounds of battle; the boom of cannon, the chatter of machinegun and bolter fire, the dakka-dakka-dakka of Ork shootas and the sound of accelerating vehicles.

Vincent did a double take as he looked down the road.

The daemon quickly turned to follow his gaze, hissing at... nothing.

The Asian nerd grinned to himself as he threw himself backwards.

If he had any more breath, he wanted – so very badly – to shout out 'Psych!'.

Accelerating past the fifty miles per hour mark, the pickup driven by Michael slammed into the daemon's back as he mounted the curb.

The daemonhost was thrown through the air, and landed with a sickening crunch as it hit the stack of slats.


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"Take that, ya warp-spawned mongrel!" Grinned Commissar Tomas, who was already organizing the expedition forces to redeploy from the truck and form into a battle line, while one of his lieutenants shouted out direction and range, the twin Leman Russ battle-tanks tracking around to open fire at the exposed rear armor of the Chaos vehicles. A Tau Hammerhead cleanly bisected a captured Chimera with its rail-gun, and the Eldar Falcon was pumping lance after lance of bright energy into a corrupted Leman Russ battle-tank.

"Battle team Aquila! Re-group with the Imperial battle-line, and reinforce any weak sections! I want tanks in the middle and on the flanks, infantry and support weapons in between them!"

He quickly dashed onto a Tau Devilfish, climbing into the deceptively spacious troop transport, and pulling his vox-jockey in with him. Tomas gave a quick nod to the Eldar and Tau warriors inside.

"Pilot!" He shouted, tapping the Tau pilot on the shoulder.

"How may I help you, Gue'la?" She asked him.

"We need reinforcements out in the Living Room! Can you take us there?"

"Alright! But strap in, Gue'la!"

Tomas nodded, and hurried to do so.



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Alice was busily unloading the troop transports, picking them up off the flatbed and placing them on the ground as Michael placed the Space Marine Land Raider on the pavement. He trotted over to Vincent, who was more bruised than... well, a noodle-shaped nerd who went toe-to-toe with a pro heavyweight boxer.

Vincent limped over to the back corner of his pickup truck, ripped open his toolbox and pulled out the crowbar that he kept in there, hefting the familiar tool, now weapon as he handed it to Michael.

"Think fast."

Michael's hand caught the lobbed crowbar and gave him a 'what the hell are you doing with that thing?' look.

"I know. Too much Half-Life. Want me to grab the wrench instead?"

He hefted a heavy Stillson wrench, spray painted a dark red color, in his right hand. There was a short period of appreciation for the weapon as he swung it down onto his waiting palm, testing the weight and feel of the weapon.

Michael palmed his face. "... seriously, where do you get those things?"

"Ryan and Son. Y'know that shop just off Fountain street?"

The two simply stared at each other, and then looked at the twisted puppet and its fuming master as it was halted with a withering barrage of lascannon fire. They were keeping it hamstrung, it seemed, the lances of red light piercing his kneecap once more. More cultists died as they were sacrificed in an attempt to keep the daemon mobile.

"Vincent! We can't keep it down much longer! Capacitors for the lascannon are overheating! HURRY!"

Alice tapped the panicking nerd on the shoulder.

He turned to see her hand outstretched, her empty palm facing up. "I need a weapon."


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## arturslv

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Commissar Tomas swung around, his power fist knocking down the cultist as it charged him and the coalition squad that he had attached himself to. The Eldar 'Dire Avenger' behind him emptied a burst of shuriken fire into the cultist as she dove behind an Ork for cover.

Finding himself in a temporary lull in the battle as a series of Tau missiles peppered the cultists around him, Tomas switched on the comm-bead. Closing his eyes, he recalled the mental map of Michael's house. Tomas' mind began working, snatching a near-nonsensical babble over the comms and translating it to actions and reactions in that map, collating reports as they streamed through the command channel.

Chaos forces are retreating from Fridge Pass as Guardsmen were reinforced by the Adepta Sororitas. They were beating them back and using the high elevation to site their observers and heavy weapons.

A screaming rocket barrage landed all around the coalition squad. Eldar, Tau and Human alike were thrown to the ground as mixed small-arms fire zipped overhead.

Eldar Aspect Warriors were making small advances from the dining room; the table, chairs and space underneath was now a forward operating base and general rallying point for the forces in that area.

Red lines of Imperial lasguns blinked through the air as balls of Tau plasma fire shot forward to strike down the line of advancing traitors. An Eldar Ranger hefted his long-rifle, his artificial arm rock-steady as he sighted through the scope. One, two, three cultists fell with metronomic precision as they were picked apart by precisely placed shots.

Behind him, the Tau were arrayed in a firing line, their pulse rifles flaring as they sent a series of plasma balls into the massing horde. Each fired independently but in the direction of the orange-helmeted sergeant, who was lobbing 'photon' grenades from the launcher of his carbine, each flaring in a supernova of light and sound. The assault was cut off sharply as the Tau were joined by a pair of Guard squads, their plasma guns coming to bear and cutting down the Chaos Marine champions.

Tau and Imperial artillery and massed sniper fire were keeping the traitors that were trying to rally and attack the forces pinned on Coffee Plateau. The Air Assault group was recovering their wounded there and the elite airborne warriors were quickly being overwhelmed.

Tomas watched in awe as, in the distance, a Crisis battlesuit stood back-to-back with a Space Marine Dreadnought and an Eldar Wraithlord construct. The small ring of the elite armored warriors were surrounded, an eye in the storm of Chaotic warriors. And they were winning. Cultists and Marines alike were shrinking back from the hurricane of firepower that the trio were pumping into their surroundings, the crushing arms of the Dreadnought and the whirlwind fast sword in the hands of the Wraithlord were shredding the heretics

An Ork-Marine mashup company would be reinforced by the Grey Knights and a detachment of Sororitas to form a sufficient force to counter-attack with, streaming out of Fridge Pass in concert with another advance from the dining hall to relieve the defenders trapped on Coffee Plateau.

Wading through heretics and cultists, his power fist and hell pistol whirling around him as he parried and counterattacked, Tomas was near the front of their group's advance; he was preceded only by the eight Howling Banshees, their bone-white armor and fire-red tassels blurring as the speedy warrior women brandished their mirror-bladed power swords.

It was like watching a dance, seeing them move. Graceful and swift, the Banshees quickly reduced the first wave of cultists into red gore, screeching a song that tore at the mind.

A second wave of cultists crashed into them. Uncaring for their casualties, like so many times before, the cultists grabbed onto limbs and bodies, using their weight in both numbers and mass to bring down the Banshees.

Tomas had his hell-pistol up and firing. Behind him were a squad of Guardsmen; assault specialists armed with shotguns. He waved his power fist at them, before pointing at the Banshees.

"Help them! FORWARD! FOR THE EMPEROR!"

Falling in, the Guardsmen piled in with their shotguns, blasting apart cultists as they tried to rip off the wraithbone armor of the Howling Banshees. Tomas found one, her helmet having been ripped off and exposing her civilian persona to the horrors of war. He brought his armored fist around, punching the lightly armed cultist's torso into a fine mist.

Hauling the pink-haired Eldar warrior woman to her feet with his free hand, Tomas began firing into a group of cultists as more Banshees – both dead and alive – were pulled from the heap of dead cultists. Guardsmen around him formed up into a firing line as he shouted orders up and down the improvised line of defense. Tau Fire Warriors and Eldar Guardians flowed in, spraying fire in all directions as they joined the human Guardsmen.

Tomas hurried to join them, but found himself looking at one Howling Banshee had been literally ripped limb from limb, and he carefully pulled the glowing red orb of her soul-stone from its place at her throat. Walking over to another, he hauled the shaking warrior to her feet and placed the blood red crystal in her palm. It seemed to calm the Banshee down, and soon he was helping her snap the locks of her mask back onto her face and following her into battle.

He found himself wondering about his duties.

The Commissar shook his head. His duty was to make sure that the warriors that were placed under his care were fit for battle. He had simply been going through the motions of his profession with a more exotic warrior than was intended.

Another report filtered into his still-active comm-bead.

Heavy psyker activity outside! All Ordo Malleus and psykers to head there immediately!

Tomas looked up, at the advancing line of cultists as they surged towards the front door.

He pointed with his Power Fist, a sudden rage giving him previously unknown vitality.

"Squad! Face left! Advance! I WANT TO BE ABLE TO TOUCH THEM WITH MY FUCKING FINGER!"



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Space Marine Force Commander Eizak Aruleius charged forward, his retinue now a mixture of Orks and Marines. As much as it grated against his every instinct to simply leave his back open to these Orks, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered thus: These Orks will not turn upon you. Why, he could understand: They Orks now saw the Marines as – if anything – foes to take on later. The Chaos 'boys' were only here for a limited amount of time, so they would fight them first, then everyone else later. As for the survivors of that, they would be able to focus on seeing who was the new Warboss.

A pack of cultists approached them. They seemed... familiar. Eizak shuffled through half a millenia's worth of battles. They were using Cadian pattern equipment. That would mean that they were one of many, many worlds that monkeyed the best Guardsmen humanity could offer. Their flak vests were desecrated, the holy aquila of the Emperor replaced by foul symbols that nauseated the mind to simply glance upon them.

The pack – for that was what they were: 'squad' or 'team' would indicate something resembling discipline and coherence – suddenly stopped and stood their ground, which made Eizak hesitate for the moment. From a rabble of crazed cultists, they were now... organized.

A figure moved around behind them, seemingly a massive parody of a Space Marine, holding an unique weapon in his hands – an assault cannon, or a copy of one. Eizak blinked. He had encountered them before, near the Maelstrom. It was a smaller caliber version of the rotary bolter, used mainly against swarms of enemies and didn't fire bolt shells in favor of solid slug projectiles like that of an autogun. But it could spin up and fire a lot faster than the heavier Asssault Cannon... they were called... minicannon, wasn't it?

There was a whining sound, keening and scratchy as the many barrels of the miniaturized assault cannon spooled up, and then the buzzing came.

Swarms of munitions – a mix of high explosive and armor piercing pellets, it seemed – scythed through the ranks of unarmored Orks and surprised Marines. The single cultist that was wielding the weapon cackled as he saw two Orks go down, shredded by the stream of projectiles that chipped them apart, piece by piece.

Around him, his pack-mates had hefted heavy shields from their rearguard, protecting the minicannon from return fire. Three cultists to one shield. Bolter shells bounced off harmlessly, while a plasma gun's miniaturized sun simply splashed off.

Eizak clenched his jaw. That was the same kind of armor used by Titans... just how did they...

The heavy weapon cultist was roaring with laughter as his minicannon poured weapons-fire over Brother Melavich, forcing him down onto his knees from the sheer weight of fire, the bullets cutting through hydraulic lines to force the full weight of his quarter-ton suit down onto its user. Surprised, there was a crunching sound as a round slipped between his armor plates and detonated inside of his elbow. His sharp cry of pain was cut off as his helmet was smashed apart by sustained fire.

Eizak charged forward, roaring a challenge as he advanced. Inside his helmet, warning lights began to flash through his vision as his right pauldron was breached. Hissing and clacking as his artificer armor protested. The minicannon was concentrating solely on him now, but Eizak ignored it for the moment as he knew his Iron Halo and master-crafted power suit sufficient to shrug off the majority of the weapons fire directed at him.

Both shield bearer teams advanced, crouching close to each other as another weapon was brought up... a single missile streaked out from their mobile redoubt.

Eizak roared. "EMPEROR GUIDE MY HAND!"

He hefted his Thunder Hammer now, and swung it around in a rising swing.

As the missile streaked past, the power field neatly crushed the space between the warhead and the rocket motor, destroying the guided explosive with the unlikely combination of brute force and grace that was a Space Marine.

Eizak didn't stop there, as he began to swing his hammer around again, charging to meet the pack of cultists. They backed away, closing ranks as they did.

They were deceptively disciplined, for Chaos worshipers.

Both shields closed up, and small arms fire began pouring out of the firing slits.

Eizak charged up as the two shields locked down into one, the minicannon occupying the slit in the middle, pouring its river of steel into the single figure that was advancing upon it. Even the Orks had stayed back, watching the Space Marine commander charge forward with mild interest.

He reached the joined shields, and smashed into it, his hands clutching both edges of the massive battle-plate. The minicannon was now pouring point-blank into his face, and Eizak felt his helmet disintegrating around him. Sensor relays and communicators were smashed. His fingers flexed, and then locked down onto the massive shield. Purity seals and decorations were mangled and pockmarked beyond recognition. His feet shifted apart, shoulder width, and his legs braced. An eyepiece caved in, the bullet slashing a line parallel to his right eyebrow like a hot blade. Eizak gritted his teeth as he steeled his arms.

The minicannon ran dry.

Eizak grinned. 

"My turn."


----------



## arturslv

Lifting up the shield and its six bearers, Eizak flexed backwards, holding the panicking cultists in the air for a moment, and then downwards, bringing down the shield on the pack of Chaos dogs behind it.

At least half a dozen were simply crushed under the weight of the shield, and whatever had survived that now had to deal with Eizak jumping on top. He was blind, now. His helmet had been utterly destroyed, simply a hunk of metal wrapped around his head. The feeling of his armor, now incomplete... it was as if he had lost his fingers... again. Hissing as they popped their seals, the commander pulled off his shattered helmet. How he hated having to discard it... Eizak felt, for the first time in many decades, vulnerable.

A cultist roared as it clambered out of the wreckage.

"Khorne is pleased! Blood has flown!" He laughed, blood running from every orifice on his face. From behind him, he drew a knife, a crudely fashioned, jagged piece of metal.

The cultist charged, roaring a battle-chant.

"Slice! DICE! KILL! CRUSH!"

Eizak stood his ground, waiting. As they closed in with each other, his hands blurred. The blue-armored left hand slapped the knife coming at his face, and then he smashed his opponent's head in with a backhand blow, using the helmet in his right hand.

The cultist's neck snapped as the helmet whipped his head around, and whatever doubts the Space Marine had about the berserker getting back up were dashed to pieces along with its skull as Eizak brought the helmet back down onto its forehead.

There was a chuckling from behind him. A large claw slapped his back.

"Now dat woz ah good foight, beakie!"


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Stay back! Stay back!"

The front doorstep was scorched black as the purple light flashed across it.

Lightning danced from her fingertips as Ishabeth desperately whirled around in a spin, her staff tracing jagged arcs as she leaped back from the crackling lance that snarled from the hands of the Chaos witch. Creating a twist in the fabric of the Immaterium, she managed to disrupt the weaponized lightning.

Ishabeth breathed in a sigh. Her parchment-brown robes were charred and tattered from the series of both mental and physical blows that they had exchanged.

Both psykers again squared off in the middle of the raging battlefield, which was now becoming more and more desperate as the psychic essence fueling their combat began to run dry.

The Sanctioned Psyker is breathless, her chest heaving under the heavy flak-vest material that made up her battle-robes. Her left arm is burned, charred by warp-fire. It is only by virtue of the elastic chord she keeps around her wrist that the las-pistol is still in her hand. The staff, imbedded with psychic wards and channeling lines of blessed metals, is held loosely beside her. Ishabeth breathes out a long held breath, and focuses her senses on her opponent.

The witch is a twisted parody of her Imperial counterpart. Her only garments are a pair of sashes nearly identical to the one around Ishabeth's waist – presumably taken from murdered Imperial Psykers, and then defaced by Chaos sigils – that are wrapped around her chest and hips, the latter of which as a tabard. Piercings and tattoos, ritual scars and burns adorned the rest of her body, which was beginning to lose its pinkish coloring for a blue hue.

"So young... I do wonder if you know the pleasures of surrendering yourself to the Warp, sister."

Re-engaging, the two clashed yet again with both psychic attacks and physical blows. The spear slipped between the plates of armor on Ishabeth's left shoulder, but the Sanctionite pulled back and away before it could do any real harm.

Smiling, the Chaos witch purred as she stood up straight and proud, her fingers crackling with purple lightning.

"So fast! So fast! I do wonder... is it because you have something to lose? The others I've..." There was a poisonously sweet giggle as the witch ran a hand along the two desecrated sashes. "... met were rather sorry affairs."

She cackled as the two sobbing souls of the psykers faded into view, twisted and horrible shells of their former selves.

"Alone, afraid and at my mercy... such exquisite agony." The witch whimpered from the memories. "Are you convincing yourself that you aren't alone, sister? That there's someone here to care about you? Don't you know, that your false Emperor is dead? DO YOU STILL BELIEVE YOURESELF TO HAVE COMPANIONS!"

Ishabeth tried to pull herself to her feet, to prepare herself for battle.

The Chaos witch heard another voice, ragged and breathless.

"She does."

Behind her, Tomas fired at point blank range, two quick shots in quick succession into the back of the witch's head. The foul wards that had so deftly deflected las-bolts and psychic attacks shattered, and the follow-up punch from the power fist was simply for making sure that – unlike the cockroaches – the heretical psyker stayed down and stayed dead.

Ishabeth picked chunks of the witch's skull from her garments as Tomas rushed for her, firing off a few shots at whatever targets he could find. He had gore stained all over his long coat.

"Messy." She observed, as she dove into the Commissar's waiting arms, his embrace restoring the warmth that had been gone for so long. Ishabeth shivered as the cold metal of his power fist brushed against the back of her neck, the armored finger caressing her skin.

Around them, coalition forces swarmed the Chaos psykers, brute physical force overwhelming them where psychic attacks had failed.

There was a change in the Warp, like the ripple in a still pond...

No, not like that. Ishabeth pulled away from Tomas, as her mind's eye Saw through the darkness.

It was more like a sudden calm before a storm.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I SHALL FEED YOUR SOULS TO THE DARK GODS!"

"Then allow me."

Captain Eizak reached out and palmed the snarling Chaos Marine's faceplate, lifting him up clear off his feet and then slamming him head-first into the ground. He stood, his Thunder Hammer arcing up and then down, the holy metal and powerful force-field that wreathed it simply crushed the traitor with its righteous weight.

Around him, his loyalist retinue poured bolter fire onto their traitorous brothers, or closed into hand-to-hand combat with their chainswords and combat daggers – 'daggers' being a relative term for a blade the length of a sword – and again a common scene of the Horus Heresy was re-enacted; the best of the Emperor's troops and the heretics of ten thousand years closed in upon one another, their weapons clashing as the veteran Space Marines danced their deadly art of strike and counter-strike, feint and slash.

They were advancing now, slowly but surely, towards the coalition forces – the airborne warriors – that were now trapped around the giant plateau known as the Coffee Table. Eizak and his mixed horde of Orks and Marines were moving as quickly as they could towards it.

A Havoc opened fire on Eizak and his squad, his autocannon giving off the familiar thump-thump-thump as its heavy rounds discharged in concert with a cultist charge. Casualties began to mount as heavy weapons were brought to bear. For any one of the loyalist Marines or Orks that were felled, there was his Chaotic counterpart that was also struck down by the overwhelming firepower. Cultists poured over them, obscuring their vision even as the heavy anti-tank shells tore through them.

Eizak ignored the armor-piercing shells that glanced off his artificer armor, and charged forwards as his Iron Halo flared and sputtered from the series of shells that slowly drained its protective charge. Gritting his teeth, he holstered his gun in favor of getting a good double-handed grip on his Thunder Hammer. More autocannon and some bolter shells splashed off his already taxed armor. The heraldry adorning his left shoulder pad was sheared off as a lascannon's beam splashed over the rounded pauldron.

The Space Marine Force Commander and the five man squad of Chaos Havocs met.

The first he caught in a sideways swing, the rusted and poorly maintained armor creaking as it tried to keep up with the speed of the well-oiled Artificer Armor. Eizak's Thunder Hammer claimed the first Havoc as it was knocked to the side, sent tumbling across a few meters of empty carpeting before smashing into a throng of cultists.

Havoc number two was quicker on the uptake, quickly drawing a bolt pistol and joining the point-blank barrage of his brothers, sending two of the bolts into Eizak as their autocannon and heavy bolters hammered his armor. The Marine felt his right lung collapsing as an explosive bolt detonated inside of his chest.

He closed the gap between them, throwing the Thunder Hammer into the air. Hands shooting out, Eizak seized the Havoc by the neck, his fingers wrenching the helmet up, exposing the soft neck-seal. Thumbs struggled into position, and squeezed. The Marine choked as the two digits punctured arteries and his windpipe, and as Eizak's fingers clamped down, he tore his hands away, taking large chunks of armor, flesh and muscle with him. Spinning around, the blue-armored boot came around and knocked down the black-armored traitor Astartes.

The Thunder Hammer hit the ground beside him, and he picked it back up, ready to engage the rest of the Havocs.

As one, the heavy weapons specialists began pumping heavy bolter shells and autocannon rounds into the commander.

His left arm was simply ripped off as a high-speed pencil of metal passed through his shoulder, the dead arm dropping to the ground. Eizak roared, and charged forward. His right hip and the majority of the internal organs surrounding the lower right side of his torso were liquefied as another autocannon round punched through the double-layering of armor inside. He continued to close the distance between the Havocs and himself. Behind him, Brother Lekoras leveled his plasma gun and fired off a fist-sized sun, which simply melted through the right arm of a Havoc. Eizak finished him off with a back-hand.

A heavy bolter round detonated inside of his chest, and through the dull agony that was sawing away at his senses, he could feel his lung collapse and the fused ribcage on his chest shatter.

The fourth Havoc went down as he grabbed onto him, and brought their heads together. His Iron Halo gave him the slight extra advantage needed for him to crack the traitor's skull with his own.

Finally, the last Havoc.

Eizak swung back with his Thunder Hammer, almost too weak to lift it. A series of shots from Eldar Warp Spiders had entangled the heretic.

He brought his hammer down, the discharge of destructive energies simply crushing the Chaos Havoc as Eizak emptied the power reserves built into the gold and silver weapon.

Falling to his knees, Eizak collapsed a labored heartbeat later.

"Apocetharion!" Shouted a Marine. The Force Commander quickly riffled through the names of the Marines in his group. Nikolas. He was – relatively speaking – a newcomer to the Space Marines, newly inducted as a student to study the ways of a Space Marine under him. Eizak felt a flush of pride as his student displayed clear-minded thinking in the middle of combat.

Fighting was easy to do, but thinking...

The sound of creaking power armor made the Marines look up.

"Death or healing, of which do you seek?" Apocetharion Eyugeen Rho was amidst them, white and red armor dulled by the smoke and grime and blood of combat.

He knelt beside a fallen Space Marine, and carefully examined him. Even in the deafening hurricane around him, Eizak could hear the soft click as the Apocetharion placed the geneseed extractor to his neck. Eyugeen gasped as the bloodied gauntlet of his fallen commander seized his arm.

Behind the expressionless helmet, there was a rasping croak. The medic moved quickly, manipulating interface plugs and panels, and then eased the helmet off the commander's head.

"... hhhow..."

"The battle goes well. We have turned the tides. Our brothers of the air are relieved"

Eizak's mouth twitched into a smile.

"And so I shall move on, to the Emperor's side."

As his eyes closed, Rho shook his head.

"Sleep the sleep of the dead, commander, and may The Bell of Lost Souls ring loud and clear for you."



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Michael and Vincent both hit the ground, both their improvised weapons and bravado scattered out of their reach or from any hope or recovery. Grinning, the daemonhost snarled almost playfully as it looked at them, helpless prey, its master cackling wildly as he stood atop the crazed thing's head.

The overweight body of Ryan now crouched down, almost on all fours, as it gnashed its teeth and snapped his still growing canines at them.

The Sorcerer laughed.

"Oh, how stupid you mortals are! Thinking you could defeat me!"

Alice whimpered as she writhed on the ground, pinned by her neck, struggling under his grip. The clawed hands had traced a trio of parallel lines from the back of her neck in blood, and as the newly inducted Sororitas flailed about, Ryan's body chuckled.

"FOOOOOLS!" He roared. "You believed that the three of you would be enough?"

They were overconfident. Too eager to rush into the fray against a wounded daemonhost. Sure, they had managed to bruise the steel-tough skin, but... Michael flinched. He wasn't

The daemonhost joined in the Sorcerer's laughter as the white-haired girl struggled uselessly. Michael wiped the blood from the cut that traced a neat arc from his neck to ear. Vincent was down for the count, barely moving as he struggled to put as much distance between him and the Daemonhost, his wrench discarded a few feet away.

"Oh, how shall I feed you to the Dark Gods, I wonder? Of course, Khorne will be more than happy to receive the souls of you two... how many lives have you claimed? A few dozen? A hundred between you two?" His gaze and attention shifted down to the white haired girl in his grip.

"As for her." The Sorcerer chuckled, and waved his hand.

Alice gasped as the scaly hand tightened around her neck, and another clawed at her clothes. She squirmed uselessly as Ryan's husk strangled her.

"I think we shall draw their sacrifice out much longer." The Sorcerer mused. "Nurgle or Slaneesh... either of those two would be more than happy for us to... experiment on them. I do wonder if the Prince of Excess will respond to her screams... you see, poor little Ryan here has been most patient in waiting for his... heheh... satisfaction."

Both servants of the Chaos Gods began to snort and chuckle, their laughter clawing at Michael's senses.

The snarling cacophony was cut short suddenly as something smacked into the daemonhost, knocking it down and punching three messy red craters into his chest. A split second later, three overlapping cracks of a rifle firing split the air.

Michael turned around, to see Miles halfway down the street. He was crouched down, a compact rifle in his hands. It was made of the same grey plastics and had the same hallmark characteristics of a M4 carbine. He was still shooting as he walked forwards, picking off Chaos tanks and vehicles with single shots.

Vincent, probably dizzy from blood loss, began to laugh hysterically.

Beside him was Emma.

She played with lines of light that wove around her fingers. Her eyes shone bright blue as the strings sprung forth, wrapping around the wounded daemonhost. It screeched in pain, its flesh burning as the strings caressed the daemonic skin.

Librarian Vasili's jaw dropped.

Every other psyker within the vicinity began screaming in both agony and joy. Once, many centuries ago, he had been able to genuflect within half a kilometer from the Golden Throne. As he bowed his head, the Emperor's grace had touched him. All beings in the universe left a unique wake in the Immaterium.

Sometimes it could be disguised or toned down, but never changed. The Emperor was no exception.

Falling to his knees, he felt his hands shaking in pure fear or unrestrained glee.

Since his birth, the Holy Emperor had watched over mankind. In its shadows, far below his rightful place at the head of its glory, the Immortal Guardian of Humankind had taken up many names and many shapes over the years.

A carpenter in Nazareth, one that healed the sick and fed the hungry.

A soldier-saint of Silene, slayer of dragons and bringer of faith.

A peasant woman of France, liberator of her country and people.

A brash leader of men in Britain, unrelenting in his quest for freedom.

A little girl, standing in Belmont Street, weaving strands of light with her fingertips.

Watching from a distance, he saw Emma reach back, a spear of light forming at her fingertips.

The remaining two thirds of the Chaos forces voided their bowels.


----------



## arturslv

TRAITORS 
We all know that Chaos Marines can conquer planets and bring entire systems under the grip of the Ruinous Powers... but how can they deal with the pressures of modern life? That's what "Traitors", everyone's favourite sit-com is for! Enjoy! 

*The Traitor's apartment. Fabius Bile is sprawled on the couch, flesh-crafting with a rat he caught. Ahriman whistles tunelessly and happily as he busies himself around the kitchen. Suddenly Abaddon bursts in from his bedroom. His Terminator armour seems far too small and his hair is not in it's usual topknot, instead being draped messily around his head* 
ABADDON- Look at this! What do you call this, Ahriman? 
AHRIMAN- Whaddya talkin' about? 
ABADDON- You goof, you shrunk my blessed Terminator armour in the wash! It's cutting off the circulation to my limbs! And now I'm gonna be late for work, and I haven't got time to style my hair, and it's all Kharn's fault! 
FABIUS- Why, what's he done? 
ABADDON- Oh, he's only acting like he OWNS the shower, that's all! Oh, my hair's a mess... 
AHRIMAN- Chill Abaddon. You're just having a bad millennia, that's all. 
ABADDON- Suppose so... oh, I'm gonna be so late! 
*Abaddon dashes over to the door, flustered* 
FABIUS- Hey, don't forget Drach N'Yen... AGAIN! 
ABADDON- Shut up! We talked, and it forgave me- admittedly in a way that resulted me losing two pints of blood, but that's not the point! Damn, I haven't even had time to wash up yet... 
AHRIMAN- Okay, okay, I'll go get Kharn out of the bathroom so you can wash up quickly. 
*Ahriman goes over to the bathroom door and taps on it gently* 
AHRIMAN- Kharn, can you just come out for a sec so that Abaddon can just wash up? 
KHARN- *inside* I CAN'T HEEEEEAR YOU!!! 
AHRIMAN- I didn't want to have to do this... *strange, hypnotic voice, his Mark of Tzeentch glows* You will exit the bathroom... I command it... you are my unwilling pawn... 
KHARN- *inside* I... am... your... unwilling... pawn... 
*The bathroom door opens and Kharn, wearing a towel around his waist, though he still has his helmet on, steps out, dripping water onto the floor* 
AHRIMAN- All yours Abaddon. 
ABADDON- Thanks Ahriman! 
*Abaddon runs into the bathroom, and the sound of taps and splashing can be heard. Abaddon suddenly screams and runs out, his face plastered with blood* 
FABIUS- So, Kharn... looks like you replaced the water pipe with a supply of fresh human blood that runs all the way from the donor ward... again. 
*Canned laughter, Kharn turns to the camera and offers an open-handed shrug. Cut to theme song*


----------



## arturslv

So no-one told you the Black Crusade was gonna be this way, 
Your Raptors are jokes, Pred's broke, your Possessed are DOA, 
It's like you're always stuck in second gear, 
And when you haven't been able to kill, or maim, or burn 
For millennia, doesn't really matter, 'cos... 

I'll be there for you, killing the Emperor's minions, 
I'll be there for you, worshipping the Dark Gods, 
I'll be there for you, 'cos you haven't managed to kill me yet... 
(repeat) 

*Back in the apartment. Kharn is building a house of cards, whilst Ahriman and Fabius are playing table football* 
KHARN- You think Abaddon was peeved with me? 
FABIUS- You mean apart from when he tried to remove both your hearts with the Talon of Horus? 
KHARN- Yeah. 
FABIUS- Nah. He was just screwed 'cos he was late for work. 
KHARN- Good thing he actually missed with the Talon of Horus... 
FABIUS- Yeah, you would've expected something like that to be master-crafted... 
AHRIMAN- Shall we go down and see him later? 
FABIUS- Yeah, maybe. *He scores a goal and gloats at Ahriman's expense* In your face, Thousand Chump! Manflayer; ten! The guy who practically destroyed his entire Legion; a big, fat nothing! 
AHRIMAN- *hypnotic voice, Mark of Tzeentch and eyes glowing* But Fabius, I am winning. 
FABIUS- *mesmerised* Yes, my master... you are winning... and I shall also give you... all my money... 
AHRIMAN- Gooood boy...


----------



## arturslv

*Meanwhile, across the hall in the second apartment...* 
TZAPHIEL- Argrath, this is the last time I'm gonna tell you! 
ARGRATH- *downcast* M'sorry sir... 
TZAPHIEL- If you're gonna go down to the Chaos Arms and come back with your blood being 50 per cent alcohol, do your Stream of Corruption in the toilet, not all over the floor... and me... and all my stuff. 
ARGRATH- I can promise nothing! Muahahahaahaha... 
TZAPHIEL- Watch it. 
ARGRATH- Sorry. 
*Gabriel and Dasleah enter* 
GABRIEL- Yo, Tzaph man. 
DASLEAH- What's shakin' Argy? 
ARGRATH- My titanic bloated gut of course! 
*Canned laughter* 
TZAPHIEL- Hey, let's head down to Central Eye and get some strong Chaotic ale. 
DASLEAH- Yeah, perhaps that loser Abaddon is there today. 
GABRIEL- I hope so. I can't wait to openly mock him and invite his wrath upon me. 
*Awkward silence. To break the silence, Argrath farts and sniggers. Everyone else collapses, unconscious. Argrath then pokes their prone bodies with his plague scythe* 

*Later, at Central Eye, the local coffee shop. Kharn, Fabius and Ahriman are all splashed out on a couch made out of flayed skin with screaming faces. Abaddon walks up, his hair still messy and not in its usual topknot* 
ABADDON- Hey guys. Whaddya want? 
AHRIMAN- Ah, the usual, y'know. 
ABADDON- *scribbling on notepad* Okay, so that's a mug of raw bubbling warp essence and a cranberry muffin for you... Fabius? 
*Fabius is busily liquidising an armchair into stimulants* 
ABADDON- Fabius! 
FABIUS- What? 
AHRIMAN- And a cranberry muffin. 
ABADDON- What? 
AHRIMAN- Raw bubbling warp essence... and a cranberry muffin. The usual. 
ABADDON- I wrote down your usual... raw bubbling warp essence... and a cranberry muffin. 
AHRIMAN- Did you? 
ABADDON- Yep. 
AHRIMAN- Honestly? 
ABADDON- Yes! 
AHRIMAN- I didn't see you... 
FABIUS- Dude, you're second only to Tzeentch in terms of psychic might. You can alter time, twist fate, shake the ley-lines of the Universe and clean us out every time we play Tzany Tzeentch. Why DIDN'T you see him? 
AHRIMAN- Geez, I know I can do all that stuff, but it's not like I do it twenty-four-seven, only when it's useful. Anyway, I don't need to use psychic powers when we play Tzany Tzeentch. You guys suck Nurgle's pustules at that game. 
ABADDON- Truth be told Ahriman... 
*canned laughter at the very idea of Ahriman actually telling the truth* 
ABADDON- Truth be told Ahriman, you DID make up that game. And you seem to change the rules every time. 
AHRIMAN- For the last time, Kings are worth three, Jacks are worth eight, apart from red Jacks which are worth their base value... the six of clubs is a wild card, but I'll get to that in a moment. You play in concentric order, and the winner is the man with twenty tricks out of eight rounds- 
KHARN- Excuse me... BUT SOME PEOPLE WOULD LIKE TO ORDER TODAY!!! 
ABADDON- Sorry Kharn. Whaddya want? Blood for the Blood God? 
KHARN- I'm fed up with you guys making assumptions about me all the time! You all look at me and think "Oh look, it's Kharn the Predictable, probably wanting Blood for the Blood God." Have you never stopped to consider that I, as a follower of the fickle force that governs us all, might possibly make changes in my life, changes that you have never dreamed of before!? Bah, chaos... order... these are names we give to things we cannot truly understand but take comfort in believing that we do. No one can truly understand such complicated forces that are part of and indeed beyond this corporeal expanse of space and time, which we foolishly dub the Universe, thinking it to be everything when truly it is nothing! 
ABADDON- Kharn... what do you want? 
KHARN- *long silence, then in a quiet mumble* Blood for the Blood God. 
ABADDON- Right, that's raw bubbling warp essence, a cranberry muffin, Blood for the Blood God and... Fabius? 
FABIUS- Oh, I'm okay with this armchair which I'm dissolving into stimulants. I think I might have stored some herbal tea in my Xyclos Needler as well... 
ABADDON- *scribbling the order down* Right, I'll be back in a sec'... 
*A chair is suddenly thrown across the room and hits Abaddon square in the back of the head* 
ABADDON- *collapsing in immense pain* AAAAARGH!!! 
*Raucous laughter from a table the other side of the room, where Tzaphiel, Argrath, Gabriel and Dasleah all sit* 
GABRIEL- Hey, Abaddon, get a hair-cut! 
DASLEAH- You suck! 
TZAPHIEL- You couldn't break wind, let alone people's bones! 
ARGRATH- Warmaster of Chaos my filth-encrusted ass! 
*Abaddon gets up shakily* 
AHRIMAN- Just ignore them Abaddon. They're only trying to provoke you. 
FABIUS- You think!? 
ABADDON- Yeah, they're below my notice. I'll just ignore them. 
AHRIMAN- Oh, no-one cares. Hurry up with my muffin, coffee-monkey! 
*Another thrown chair knocks Abaddon senseless* 
AHRIMAN- How am I going to get my muffin at this rate? Kharn, sort 'em out. 
KHARN- *gets up and unlimbers Gorechild* Just keep about two inches away from me. I don't want to have one of my attacks allocated against you. 
AHRIMAN- Kharn, that's so friendly and thoughtful! 
KHARN- You must be joking! You owe me money and I want the pleasure of taking it from you when you're still alive and able to scream and bleed. 
*Kharn charges towards the four various Chaos lords; two Word Bearers and two Death Guard* 
KHARN- Who wants some of me, eh? 
*Argrath changes from the Corruptor to the Baneful, pestilent robes blowing around his colossal skeletal body, plague scythe in one hand, flail in the other. Tzaphiel becomes the Angel of Chaos, sprouting massive black angel wings and hefting the Daemon Falchion Zeal. Gabriel brings out a Brazier of Sinful Flame and chants the Hymns of Pandemonium. Dasleah Calin Desai metamorposises into his monstrous skeletal form (remember 41st Millennium RPG, Das'? Caleb vs. Dasleah!- ed). They all glower at Kharn* 
ARGRATH- Bring on the noise. 
TZAPHIEL- Some serious thwack is gonna get thrown down... 
GABRIEL- And Kharn's gonna go home in a bodybag, says Gabriel 3.16 
DASLEAH- Can the speeches, it's ass-whoopin' time! 
KHARN- Ah monkey-trumpets... 
*cue very messy, very prolonged beating of Kharn. Fabius and Ahriman watch* 
FABIUS- Wow, Kharn has a lot of blood... 
AHRIMAN- Yeah, except it was circulating through his body a couple of minutes ago... and now it most decidedly is not... 
*more beating, screams of help from Kharn* 
FABIUS- Yep, it's almost as if they're going out of their way to beat the sweet bajeezus out of him in the most time-consuming and agonising method possible... 
AHRIMAN- If the worst comes to the worst, I get his windchime! 
FABIUS- Damn, guess I'll have to make do with his lava-lamp...


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## arturslv

Don't miss the next exciting episode of "Traitors", including the following outrageous scenes! 

ABADDON- Kharn, sometimes I think you have more respect for your Blood God than me... 
KHARN- 'Baddy, that's not true! 
ABADDON- It seems like it... sometimes, I don't who you love more... 

And... 

FABIUS- *in true South Park style* Oh my god, Ahriman manipulated the time-stream! 
ALL- You #######! 

And... 

AHRIMAN- Guys, I got tickets to the Noise Marine dedication concert! 
FABIUS- Wow, which band are they dedicating the concert to? 
AHRIMAN- Korn. 
KHARN- Noise of Marines of Slaanesh... in league with Khorne!? Mama mia! 

Stay tuned!


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## arturslv

Welcome back to part two! When we last left the gang... 

ARGRATH- *beating the snot out of Kharn* Come on guys, only a coupla more pints of blood left in him! 
*Mass kicking and punching. Argrath elbow-drops Kharn, Dasleah bends his leg the wrong way, Tzaphiel kicks him in the ribs and Gabe gives him the noogie* 
KHARN- P-please... s-stop... the... ugh... paaaain... 
TZAPHIEL- WHY AREN'T YOU DEAD YET!!? 
KHARN- Well technically, I DID die at the Siege of the Emperor's Palace, and Khorne breathed life back into me. 
GABRIEL- OH MY GOD!!! HE'S A ZOOOOOOOMBIE!!! 
*Argrath, Dasleah, Tzaphiel and Gabriel recoil in sudden fear* 
DASLEAH- Don't hurt us Mr. Zombie! 
ARGRATH- You leave our brains alone, you brain eating... *thinks* brain eater! 
TZAPHIEL- Don't annoy him! He'll stumble towards us slowly and groan! IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT!? DO YOU WANT TO KILL US ALL!!? 
ARGRATH- Gotcha *to Kharn* I'm very sorry, Mr. Zombie. In fact, I respect your kind. Hell, some of my followers ARE zombies. And that scent of rotting flesh just can't be beaten! 
GABRIEL- *murmurs to Argrath* Good going Argrath. Any more lies to keep him happy? 
ARGRATH- I wasn't lying. 
GABRIEL- .....oh. 
KHARN- Let me get this straight. You guys think I'm scarier when I'm a brain-dead zombie instead of a blood-soaked, nigh-invulnerable Arch-Berserker of the Chaos God of blood and war? 
DASLEAH- *sarcastically* Well, yeah! 
KHARN- Hmm... not sure whether to take that as an insult or a compliment... 
TZAPHIEL- Don't hurt us! Please! We love zombies! 
ARGRATH- Yeah, we're all anti-Resident Evil! Honestly! 
GABRIEL- Hell with that! I LOVE Resident Evil! Shooting zombies with an enhanced shotgun... golly, that's fun. And Nemesis? What a pushover! Yep, it just doesn't get better than blowing apart zombies in a variety of brutal ways, yessirree... 
*Long silence* 
TZAPHIEL- *slapping forehead, murmuring* Gabriel, you dumbass... 
GABRIEL- What? What did I say? 
DASLEAH- Now he's mad! Mad I say! Mad as chestnuts soaked in vinegar! 
KHARN- You want zombie, eh? I'll give you zombie... ahem... *groans* braaaaains... 
TZAPH, DAS, GABE, ARGY- AAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!! 
*They run off with screams of "mad zombie"* 
KHARN- Hmm. That was easy. Guess I've been doing it wrong all these years after all... *light bulb appears over his head* Hey! I got a great idea!


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## arturslv

*Meanwhile, outside Central Eye, Fabius and Ahriman are talking to Doomrider* 
AHRIMAN- Look, Doomy, you're not really that great... 
DOOMRIDER- B-but... wheels of fire! *he points pathetically at his bike* A-and... throbbing Daemon sword... *gestures weakly* 
FABIUS- Oh lordy... look, Doomy. Your bike is basically a jump pack. That throbbing Daemon sword is a bog-standard power weapon. And don't get me started on the pulsating gun of gushing plasma... 
DOOMRIDER- Wh-what about it? 
FABIUS- It's a plasma gun. Plain and simple. And what's all this "He Comes He Goes" poo, eh? Care to offer some sort of explanation for this!? 
DOOMRIDER- Shut up! It's not my fault I don't have any damn fluff! 
AHRIMAN- That's right, it's Jervis' fault. 
*Fabius, Ahriman and Doomrider all turn to face the camera, absolutely serious and deadpan* 
AHRIMAN- Damn you. 
FABIUS- Damn you Jervis. 
DOOMRIDER- Damn you. 
*They all stare at the camera for a while, before turning back to the script and conversation* 
FABIUS- Okay Doomy, prove you aren't a waste of... *flips through Pamphlet: Chaos Space Marines*... half a page. Woo. 
AHRIMAN- Hey, I'm the top half of that page! Let me think, how many pages were dedicated to me in the 2nd ed Codex? Hmm... oh, wait, let me think... hmmm... oh yeah... FOUR!!! Four pages of me! Two and a half for background, the other one and a half for my grossly overpowerful rules. 
DOOMRIDER- *Ignoring the rambling Thousand Son Chief Librarian* You want proof? Fine, name anything, and I'll do it! ANYTHING. I am a follower of Slaanesh you know... *he puts a hand on Fabius's knee* 
FABIUS- Don't touch me, biker-boy. 
DOOMRIDER- *removing his hand* M'sorry. 
AHRIMAN- How about a game of chicken? 
DOOMRIDER- Sure! What against? A kiddy's tricycle? A Skoda? Some sort of wheelbarrow? 
AHRIMAN- I was thinking something a little more challenging... Abaddon! 
*There is a sudden hoot and the ground shakes. Around the corner comes an 18-wheeler truck, driven by Abaddon, who is smiling and waving cheerfully* 
DOOMRIDER- Hmmm... I see... er... right... 
FABIUS- Okay you guys- opposite ends of the street and start revving. 
DOOMRIDER- I... er... can't... do this... 
AHRIMAN- Why's that? 
*long pause* 
DOOMRIDER- I COME, I GO! *he rolls a D6. It lands on a 4. He turns it to a 1 and starts to vanish* See ya suckers! 
AHRIMAN- Damn it. 
ABADDON- No, damn Jervis. 
FABIUS- Yes. Yes we should. 
*They all turn to face the camera, again absolutely serious and deadpan* 
AHRIMAN, ABADDON, FABIUS- Damn you Jervis. Damn you. 

*Back at the Traitor's apartment. Ahriman, Fabius and Abaddon are all sitting on the couch* 
ABADDON- I wonder where Kharn is. 
FABIUS- He said he'd be back in a little while. 
AHRIMAN- So, where is he? 
FABIUS- What do I look like, his keeper? 
ABADDON- He has got that Collar of Khorne for a reason, y'know. 
FABIUS- Look, for the last time, I didn't lose the leash! 
AHRIMAN- Well, someone did! 
*Kharn enters. Instead of his normal power armour, he is wearing filthy rags, though he still has his helmet on* 
KHARN- Yo, goo-monkeys. 
ABADDON- Don't call me a goo-monkey Kharn, or I WILL actually be forced to take some sort of long iron pole and insert it into you. Nothing personal you understand, but... y'know. 
KHARN- Gotcha. 
*Kharn flops down on the sofa* 
AHRIMAN- Kharn... where's your power armour? And Gorechild? And all your other wargear? 
KHARN- I pawned it all and got these blood and filth-encrusted rags! Whaddya think? 
FABIUS- Riiiiight... *deep breath* Okay, I think I'm braced enough for the momentous and outright stupidity that's going to precede my question. Oh... wait... *deep breath* Okay, definitely braced enough. Now... why, pray tell, did you pawn all your wargear and buy some blood and filth-encrusted rags? 
KHARN- Duh, to fit in with my new scary zombie image! 
FABIUS- Hmmm... yeah, I didn't think I was braced anough... *Fabius blacks out and collapses, banging his head on the coffee table as he falls to the floor* 
ABADDON- Your WHAT image? 
KHARN- My scary zombie image! Our arch rivals who live across the hall said I was scarier as a filthy brain-eating zombie than a mighty, raging Chosen One Of The Great Hound Of War, so I sold all my Chaos stuff and got some really groovy zombie threads? Whaddya think? *He does a little twirl* 
AHRIMAN- No offence, but it looks like you've just robbed a corpse. 
KHARN- Funny you should mention that... you wouldn't believe how easy it is to break into a morgue nowadays... 
ABADDON- So, you actually believed our arch rivals and sold all your wargear, then you robbed a corpse of it's clothing... where's the money though? 
KHARN- Oh, I gave that to our arch rivals. 
AHRIMAN- Why? 
*Kharn shrugs* 
ABADDON- *muttering* I am going to stab you in the face SO much... 
AHRIMAN- Kharn, you're such a fool! You've sold all your cool Khorne *spit* stuff, and then you go and give the money to our arch rivals! WHY!? 
KHARN- They said they'd pay me back! Why would they lie to me? 
AHRIMAN- *to Abaddon* Shall we just not bother stating the blatantly obvious? 
ABADDON- Good idea. 
KHARN- I trusted our arch rivals 'cos they told me to. 
AHRIMAN- Kharn! 
KHARN- What? 
AHRIMAN- *hands him a fistful of cash* Here's some cash, go and buy your stuff back. And hurry! 
KHARN- Well, here's the thing... 
ABADDON- *groans* Sweet Phraz-Etar on a pogo-stick, there's more... 
KHARN- I kinda sold all my stuff to our arch rivals... and then they persuaded me to give them back the money they'd used to buy my stuff... and then they sold my stuff to someone else for double the price they'd paid me for... 
AHRIMAN- So, you basically GAVE AWAY your stuff and our rivals made a massive profit in the process. 
KHARN- Well, in a purely philosophical sense, no. 
AHRIMAN- You failed Philosophy, didn't you? 
ABADDON- *to Kharn* God, I hate you. 

*Back in the arch-rivals' apartment* 
ARGRATH- Well, we made a nice profit out of Kharn's power armour and Gorechild. 
TZAPHIEL- Yep, now we just gotta decide what we're gonna do with the money... 
DASLEAH- Hmmm... maybe we should invest it and spend it wisely, so that in the future we're financially secure and there's no risk of us getting into problems with debt or mortages. 
*Long silence. They all suddenly burst into fits of laughter* 
GABRIEL- *between spasms of mirth* Good one Das'! 
TZAPHIEL- *nearly sick from laughing* Invest it! Good lord, someone shoot me before my blood vessels burst! 
ARGRATH- *rolling on the floor* It's like my own personal Fate of Bjuna! 
*They all eventually calm down* 
DASLEAH- Thank you, thank you... I'm here 'til Thursday. 
GABRIEL- *wiping away a tear, sniggering* Ahhh... what do you think we should do with the cash, Tzaph? 
TZAPHIEL- I've got three ideas I'd like to run past you. Firstly, we use the cash to build a colossal basalt cathedral, dedicated to the eternal glory of Chaos Undivided and the undeniable holiness of mighty Lorgar, where thousands will flock and embrace the freedom of Chaos! 
ARGRATH- Sorry Mr. Word "Beardy", but no dice. 
GABRIEL- *producing a sack of D6s* Several, actually. 
*Cheesy canned laughter* 
TZAPHIEL- Okay, so that's a no-no. Secondly, we use the cash to bribe the GW staff into accepting my Codex. We use the remainder of the cash to hire some sort of Vindicare Assassin to pop off Chambers, Johnso, Haines, Thorpe and Sawyer and replace them with ourselves. 
DASLEAH- Like we need cash to do that. That's what bolters are there for! 
TZAPHIEL- Well, that just leaves the third option. 
ARGRATH- Which is? 
TZAPHIEL- We blow it all on an elaborate two-month long holiday, somewhere nice, hot and sunny. 
GABRIEL- Yay! The Bolter and Chainsword boys are going to Paraguay! 
*Long silence* 
DASLEAH- Maybe not. How about New Zealand? New Zealand is awesome. It's probably the best place in the world. Actually, I'd have to say New Zealand is the best place in the Universe. Yep, I'm pretty sure New Zealand is actually God's finest work on this world, if not in the entire Universe. Ever. 
TZAPHIEL- *arms folded across chest* A little biased, aren't we Dasleah? 
DASLEAH- *mumbles* Yes. 
ARGRATH- Maybe we shouldn't go somewhere hot and sunny. I'll fester and attract flies, and that's just plain inconvenient. 
GABRIEL- Coughcough PARAGUAY coughcough... 
TZAPHIEL, DASLEAH, ARGRATH- WE'RE NOT GOING TO PARAGUAY!!! 
GABRIEL- *muttering* Hate you all so much... spoiling my life-long dream... 
DASLEAH- Hmmm... where could we go which isn't too hot and sunny, but is generally nice and has a lot to offer young, handsome and extremely gullible tourists who also happen to be dark, psychopathic followers of the Ruinous Powers? 
GABRIEL- *shrugs* London? 
ARGRATH- What sort of show would this be if we had a special episode set in London? 
TZAPHIEL- Yeah, and we all know that if we went to London for a special episode that is set in London, two of us would only end up sleeping with each other and eventually end up sharing an apartment and sparking off an on-screen love that would create obsession in thousands of gormless viewers. 
DASLEAH- Coughcough RIPOFF coughcough OF FRIENDS coughcough... 
ARGRATH- Did you say something Das'? 
DASLEAH- Yes. Yes I did. 
ARGRATH- Care to tell me? 
DASLEAH- Not particulary. 
TZAPHIEL- Okay, it's settled! The Bolter and Chainsword boys are going to- 
GABRIEL- *interrupting* JERUSALEM! 
*Tzaphiel screams with frustration and chases Gabriel around the apartment, trying to beat him to death with a courgette* 
DASLEAH- So, Argy... you're a Brit... what's London like? 
ARGRATH- Don't ask. Just... DON'T.


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## arturslv

Will the Rivals enjoy London? Will the Traitors follow them? Will Kharn ever get his stuff back? Will Fabius ever regain consciousness? Will Tzaphiel kill something? Find out in the next episode of "Traitors"! 


Part three's FINALLY here, with mayhem galore! 
When we last left our anti-heroes, the Rivals were planning to spend the vast amount of money that they had gained (thanks to Kharn's utterly grotesque stupidity) on a two-week holiday in Merrye Olde Londone! But they are not alone... 

*Gatwick airport. The plane has just landed, and, bleary-eyed, the Rivals stumble through Arrivals* 
ARGRATH- Urgh, that flight was terrible. 
GABRIEL- Indeed it was. Especially since that airline food mutated into Chaos Spawn. 
TZAPHIEL- No. It didn't. It just looks that way all the time. 
GABRIEL- That would explain a great deal. 
ARGRATH- *looking around* Hey, where's Dasleah? 
TZAPHIEL- *shrugs* I dunno. I think he just... faded away... 
GABRIEL- You kicked him out of the plane! 
TZAPHIEL- Now is not the time for accusations Gabe. Now is the time for bloody mayhem as we try and retrieve our luggage. Besides, Dasleah left on his own accord. 
ARGRATH- At least, that's what we have to assume, as someone had mysteriously drugged him... 
TZAPHIEL- Yessirree, a really dilly of a pickle of a mystery that. What dastardly cad could have drugged Dasleah and then kicked him out a plane? 
*Long pause* 
GABRIEL- No idea. 
ARGRATH- Nope. 
TZAPHIEL- Heh heh... suckers... 
GABRIEL- Did you say something? 
TZAPHIEL- I don't know, did you? 
GABRIEL- What!? 
TZAPHIEL- Ah-hah, denying it now, are we? 
GABRIEL- What are you talking about!? 
TZAPHIEL- You tell me! 
ARGRATH- Oh for Mortarion's sake... *he vomits over the two Word Bearers and a dozen travellers. Ignoring the agonised screams of dying Japanese businessmen, Argrath wheels the trolley off, muttering about how soon the whole world shall burn in his evil* 

*Meanwhile, following the Rivals, the Traitors appear, wearing dark glasses and fake moustaches.* 
ABADDON- Ah-hah! These disguises are so cunning, our rivals have not spotted us! 
AHRIMAN- One of my better cunning plans, I believe. 
KHARN- I think there's a scorpion in this fake 'tache... 
ABADDON- Silence Kharn! And don't mess up my spare armour! 
*Kharn, after selling his Chaos armour to the Rivals, is now wearing Abaddon's spare suit of Terminator armour; it is matt-black and peeling in areas* 
KHARN- How can I mess it up? This thing's got a black basecoat! That's it! 
ABADDON- It's my spare. That's why I don't need to have it painted, shaded, highlighted and drybrushed, you silly goose. 
*Long pause* 
FABIUS- Did you just say "silly goose"? 
ABADDON- O-of course not! Wh-what makes you say that? Only "those types" say silly goose... 
AHRIMAN- We believe you, fruity. 
ABADDON- Hey, take that back! 
FABIUS- Oh, now you're just being catty. 
ABADDON- Shut up and hurry up. I don't want to lose sight of our rivals. 
FABIUS- Rooow, hiss, hiss! 
*They run off in pursuit of the Rivals* 

*Customs* 
CUSTOMS OFFICER- Anything to declare, sirs? 
TZAPHIEL- Only my utter devotion to Chaos Undivided and the exalted glory of Lorgar. 
GABRIEL- Ditto. 
ARGRATH- Honestly, would you want to search me even I declared I was carrying some sort of illegal substances? 
*The customs officer pales and fails* 
TZAPHIEL- Let's mosey, homies. 
GABRIEL- Don't speak like that. It sickens me. 
ARGRATH- That's what you said when I decided to make a name for myself in the fragrance industry. 
GABRIEL- Precisely my point. 
TZAPHIEL- Besides, you couldn't make a profit with a perfume that's also a potential bio-hazard. 
ARGRATH- There's nothing "potential" about it! 
GABRIEL- That's what all those buyers would say... if their vocal cords hadn't bubbled away upon inhaling the stuff. 
ARGRATH- And don't forget about the jaundice! 
TZAPHIEL- *walking off* Oh, Eye forbid if we forget about your precious jaundice... 
ARGRATH- Are you being sarcastic? 
TZAPHIEL- *heavily sarcastic and elongated* Noooo! 
*Rivals leave, Traitors sneak in. Customs officer has recovered* 
CUSTOMS OFFICER- Anything to declare, sirs? 
AHRIMAN- Nope. 
FABIUS- Nothing. 
ABADDON- Nadda. 
KHARN- We're all psychopathic followers of the Ruinous Powers, cunningly disguised so that we may slip past your feeble defences and be destruction and the apocalypse incarnate upon thy land. 
*Long pause, Ahriman, Abaddon and Fabius all stare at Kharn* 
AHRIMAN- What part of "don't speak and only breath enough to maintain consciousness" didn't you understand? 
FABIUS- Knowing Kharn, I'd say all of it. 
ABADDON- I'll have to go with Mr. Gene-Splice McSplicely on this one. 
KHARN- Silly! Everyone knows that all true followers of honourable Khorne ALWAYS tell the truth! 
AHRIMAN- Kharn, are you familiar with the term "justifiable homicide"? 
KHARN- Refresh my memory. 
ABADDON- We'd be happy to. 
*Ahriman, Kharn and Abaddon all produce weapons and surround Kharn* 
KHARN- I'm sensing some negativity here... 
*Back to the Rivals, walking to collect luggage* 
TZAPHIEL- It's down here to collect the luggage, right? 
ARGRATH- Yep. 
GABRIEL- Cool. 
KHARN- *off-scene* OH SWEET KHORNE!!! AAARGH!!! I COULDN'T BE IN MORE PAIN!!! 
ARGRATH- Did you guys hear something? 
KHARN- *off-scene* NO!!! NO!!! NOT DRACH N'YEN!!! NOT THERE!!! AAAAAAARGH!!! 
TZAPHIEL- Not really. 
KHARN- *off-scene* AAAARGH!!! WHY ISN'T ANYONE HELPING ME!!? I'M IN SO MUCH UNBELIEVABLE AGONY!!! 
GABRIEL- *unlimbering accursed crozius* Right, who's ready for the luggage press? 
ARGRATH- *readying plague scythe* Count me in! 
TZAPHIEL- *unsheathing power sword* I wish it didn't always have to end in slaughtering civilians just to retrieve our suitcases... but, meh, whaddya gonna do? 
*They walk off* 
KHARN- *off-scene, quiet* Ribs... crushed... lungs... squashed... spleen... burst... self-narration... becoming annoying... 
*The Rivals emerge from airport exit, drenched in blood* 
ARGRATH- That was a rather successful luggage press, I feel. 
GABRIEL- Do you think that, one of these days, slaughtering innocent civilians is gonna get boring? 
*Long silence* 
ALL- Nah! 
TZAPHIEL- Well, our taxi should be here soon... 
*There is a toot to their left. They all turn to see a customised drag-Rhino, painted in Word Bearer crimson* 
TZAPHIEL- Ah, here we are... 
GABRIEL- The Eulogy is our taxi? Who's driving? 
*Berial leans out of the window* 
BERIAL- Where to, guv'? 
*Tzaphiel and Gabriel load their luggage and get in. Argrath follows slowly, muttering* 
ARGRATH- Great, ANOTHER Word Bearer for me to attempt to kill... wherefore art thou, Dasleah and Kenshin? 
TZAPHIEL- Argy, quit your belly-aching and get in! 
ARGRATH- Are there any air-fresheners in there? 
GABRIEL- Nope. Just good ol' fashioned Chaos incense burners. 
ARGRATH- ... Very well then. 
*He climbs in and the Eulogy pulls out. The Traitors emerge, dragging Kharn behind them* 
FABIUS- They're getting away! 
AHRIMAN- Curses! 
ABADDON- Looks like we're well and truly nutmegged. 
*Fabius and Ahriman turn to look at Abaddon. Long silence.* 
ABADDON- What? Is there something on my face...? 
FABIUS- "Nutmegged"? 
AHRIMAN- Forget it you two. We have to catch up with them! 
ABADDON- Why? 
FABIUS- How else are we gonna keep this story going otherwise? 
ABADDON- Point. But how are we gonna catch up? We haven't got a car! 
FABIUS- Wait, lemme try... *he sticks a big foam thumb-up hand on the end of the Chirurgeon's arms and attempts to hitch-hike* Taxi! 
ABADDON- It's not working. 
AHRIMAN- Don't worry lads. I got an idea... 
*The Italian Job's soundtrack spontaneously starts and then stops* 
FABIUS- And what pray tell, would that be? 
AHRIMAN- Just a little something I like to call... *he grabs Kharn and throws him into the road* A SPEED BUMP! 
KHARN- Aw hell... 
*Kharn lands in the middle of the road and lies there groaning. A taxi stops just before hitting him.* 
ABADDON- *charging forward* Follow that drag-Rhino! 
TAXI DRIVER- Righto guv'. 
*Before getting into the taxi, Fabius turns to Ahriman* 
FABIUS- That was a great plan Ahriman, using Kharn to stop this taxi! 
AHRIMAN- Thanks... though it's better when it works, aka, when he becomes road-kill. 
KHARN- *staggering to his feet, bleeding profusely from several locations* Excuse me, but I'm in desperate need of medical attention here... 
AHRIMAN- Oh bitch, bitch, bitch. Get in, moany. 
*Ahriman bundles Kharn into the boot before the taxi drives off in pursuit of the Eulogy.* 

*The Eulogy tears down the road, the taxi in close pursuit* 
BERIAL- *checking wing-mirror* We got company, lads. 
ARGRATH- It undoubtedly our rivals! 
GABRIEL- Don't you mean Traitors? Cos... y'know... WE'RE the Rivals... 
ARGRATH- Must you contradict everything I say? 
GABRIEL- I don't contradict everything you say! 
ARGRATH- You just did it again! 
GABRIEL- No I didn't! 
BERIAL- Can I just say that having a blazing row isn't gonna help us get our pursuers off our asses? 
GABRIEL- *Cunning* Or will it? 
*Long pause* 
ARGRATH- No. What do we do, Tzaphiel? 
*He looks over to Tzaphiel, who is sitting listening to music with earphones in* 
ARGRATH- Tzaph? 
TZAPHIEL- *Singing* Show me how you want it to be, tell me baby, 'cos I need to know now, because... 
ARGRATH- Tzaph... 
TZAPHIEL- *Still singing* My loneliness, is killin' me... and I... I must confess, I still believe, when I'm not with you, I lose my mind... give me a sign... 
ARGRATH- Tzaph! 
TZAPHIEL- HIT ME BABY, ONE MORE TIME! 
ARGRATH- As you ask... *smacks Tzaph in the face* 
TZAPHIEL- *staggering* Ah dammit! 
ARGRATH- It was for your own good. Obviously, some sort of malign warp entity had possessed you. 
TZAPHIEL- *sideways glance* Errr... yeah... obviously... a, er... warp, er, thingy. Of course... ha-ha... not Britney Spears... sweet Lorgar, of course not... 
GABRIEL- *sitting back, utterly deadpan* Every time we think he's hit rock bottom, someone's always thrown him a shovel. 
BERIAL- Tzaph, the Traitors are chasing us. 
TZAPHIEL- Oh, they are now, are they? *Withdraws plasma pistol* I'll teach them a lesson! 
*Tzaphiel leans out of the window* 
TZAPHIEL- EAT PLASMA, YOU CADS!!! 
*He throws the plasma pistol at the taxi* 
BERIAL- You THREW your plasma pistol? 
GABRIEL- That was our only gun! 
TZAPHIEL- Well then, what's this then, eh? *producing something from his holster* 
ARGRATH- That's a box of aspirin. 
TZAPHIEL- ..... Well, drat. 

*Meanwhile, back in the taxi* 
FABIUS- Drive faster, accursed flesh-thing! 
TAXI DRIVER- So as I was sayin', that's when I 'ad me bunions removed. Course, it were painful an' all, seein' as I 'ad it done wiv yer common garden rake... 
AHRIMAN- Ah, I can almost smell victory! Muahahahahahahaha!!! 
TAXI DRIVER- Beg yer pudden mate, but that ain't yer precious victory, just me ol' gut workin' me lunch through... well, bugger me, chicken always gives me gas... *offensive flatulent sound* Cor lumme, watch yerselves, that un's a proper guffer an' no mistake... 
ABADDON- *praying* Look, I'm sorry about all those Black Crusades. Just get me out of this and I promise I won't launch any more unholy crusades into the False Imperium anymore... 
TAXI DRIVER- *craning forward* 'Ere, what's that nutter doin'? 
FABIUS- Looks like he's leaning out of the window... and throwing something! 
AHRIMAN- Sweet Tzeentch, look out! 
*Tzaphiel's plasma pistol smashes through the windscreen and lands in Abaddon's lap* 
ABADDON- Well, this is certainly an awkward position... 
*The plasma pistols start to spasm and fires on full-auto, spraying the inside of the cab with plasma fire* 
AHRIMAN- Aaaaah!!! It's mighty AP of 2 cuts through my pitiful 3+ Save! Aaaargh!!! 
FABIUS- Aaaaargh!!! 4+ Invulnerable Save... provided by Chirurgeon... ineffective... ARGH!!! 
ABADDON- Sweet jeebus, it hurts! 
KHARN- *muffled voice from boot* When in Rome... ARRRGH!!! The pain! The incredibly painful... err... PAIN!!! AAAARGH!!! 
TAXI DRIVER- *spinning the wheel* If it's alright wiv you gents, I was goin' to frow the car into a rather cinematic spin, before the 'ole blummy fing tips over an' rolls to a stop as a nightmare tangle of twisted metal an' fire. 
FABIUS- That would be fine. 
AHRIMAN- Yep. Go for it. 
ABADDON- Could we have the engine exploding for no particular reason as well? 
TAXI DRIVER- Don't see why not. Right, steady yerselves gents. An' if I was you, I'd scream an' yell randomly as well. It 'elps. 
*The Traitors all agree.* 
KHARN- *muffled from the boot* What's going on? Guys? Guys...? 

*Back in the Eulogy* 
ARGRATH- Look, Tzaphiel's "plan", and I use that term in it's loosest sense, seems to have done something! 
GABRIEL- Wow, look at all that random plasma fire punching through the car. 
ARGRATH- Hey, that was a nice cinematic spin there. 
GABRIEL- And look, the thing seems to have tipped over and rolled to a stop as a nightmare tangle of twisted metal and fire! 
ARGRATH- And that's some nice random screaming and yelling there as well. 
GABRIEL- Yeah, it helps. 
ARGRATH- Whoa, looks like the engine's exploded for no particular reason as well! 
TZAPHIEL- All according to plan! Hah-hah! Now Berial! Drive! Drive I say! 
BERIAL- I'm not even half a metre away from you... you don't have to shout... 
TZAPHIEL- YES I DO!!! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!! 
*The Eulogy drives off towards London* 

*Back with the crashed taxi. Fabius, Ahriman, Abaddon and the Driver are all standing looking at the wreck* 
ABADDON- I have to admit, that WAS nice cinematic spin. 
AHRIMAN- And it was pretty cool when the car tipped over and rolled to a stop as a nightmare tangle of twisted metal and fire. 
FABIUS- Yeah, and all that random screaming and yelling really helped. 
ABADDON- And look, the engine exploded for no particular reason after all! 
TAXI DRIVER- Well, that was me crash fer a long time! Nice doin' business wiv you gents. Oh, an' if you want to catch up wiv yer Rivals, yer'd better start 'oofin' it, sharpish. 
AHRIMAN- Right guys, let's go. 
*They walk off.* 
TAXI DRIVER- What a nice bunch of gents. 
*He walks off in the opposite direction.* 
KHARN- *muffled from within the wreck* Hello? Hello!? Is anyone there? I'm in an ungodly amount of pain... I think, I think... yes, yes, there is a metre-long metal bar through my leg... hello? Hello? Could someone please call an ambulance, because I can't emphasise how much pain I'm in... okay... I'll try and claw my way out... *snap of bone* Aaargh! My hand has bent the wrong way, so I'll try with the other hand... *snap of bone* Aaaargh! Okay, now both my hands are broken and bleeding... the blood is tinged with green... I don't think that's a good sign. Hello? I really could use some medical aid here... hello? Someone? I don't mean to rush, but I can feel my consciousness fading here... anyone?


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## arturslv

Part Four people! 

*The Eulogy is parked outside a hotel. Inside, the Rivals are taking breakfast. Berial has tagged along for no real reason* 
WAITER- What can I get for you sirs? 
ARGRATH- Coffee, flesh-blister. And hurry! I am in desperate need of caffeine... 
TZAPHIEL- Why? 
ARGRATH- When you get to my ripe old age, you simply NEED it. 
BERIAL- Not us though! 
ARGRATH- Curse your youth... 
WAITER- How would you like it sir? 
ARGRATH- *exasperated sigh* So black that I have to chew before swallowing. Okay? 
WAITER- Errr... okay sir, I think we can manage that... *turns to Gabriel* And sir? 
GABRIEL- Strong monkish ale. With added zeal, if possible. I likes me mah zeal. 
*Waiter scribbles down on notepad.* 
WAITER- Righto. And you two? 
BERIAL- Got any foul, raw bubbling warp essence? 
WAITER- *shrugs* I believe we have some Bovril in the back. 
BERIAL- That'll do. 
TZAPHIEL- O.J. 
WAITER- He's currently staying at the Ritz sir, not here. Anything- 
TZAPHIEL- Orange... juice... 
WAITER- Ah, gotcha. Okay gents, I'll be right back. 
*Waiter leaves* 
GABRIEL- Well, here we are, in Merrye Olde Englande! Lande ofe endinge everye worde withe ane ee! 
ARGRATH- Yay, whoopy, never been there before. Only live here, s'all. 
TZAPHIEL- Ditto. 
BERIAL- Same here. 
GABRIEL- Well, I'm looking forward to it! 
TZAPHIEL- In the name of all the Hells, why!? 
ARGRATH- If you say it's because you want to see the Queen, we'll redefine your world as living PAIN... 
GABRIEL- In all honesty, I want to go to the Tower of London. 
TZAPHIEL- To destroy the Crown Jewels? 
BERIAL- Drop the destructive urge or your fixin' to get YOUR Crown Jewels destroyed. 
TZAPHIEL- You and what army of arch-fiends, chump boy? 
*Berial and Tzaphiel growl pathetically at each other. Argrath sighs and seperates them with a sweep of his massive decaying arm* 
ARGRATH- Sure, why not? Tower of London sounds okay for a day out. 
TZAPHIEL- And Westminster Abbey? How about there too? 
ARGRATH- Do you promise not to summon Daemons while in there? 
GABRIEL- Yeah, like when we went to Notre Dame. I mean, I've seen some pretty messy carnage in my infernal life, but sheesh... 
TZAPHIEL- What exactly is wrong with Daemonettes cavorting with each other in hedonistic lust-rituals in... in the... the... *he trails off as pleasant mental images come to mind* 
GABRIEL- Tzaph? 
*Tzaphiel burbles incoherently for at least a quarter of an hour, to silent and worried stares. There are occassional audible snatches of sentences including nipples, tongues and the interesting alternative uses for chocolate fudge sauce* 
BERIAL- *eventually* Tzaph! 
TZAPHIEL- Oh, sorry. *pause* We were talking about Daemonettes? 
ARGRATH- That was ten minutes ago! 
TZAPHIEL- My bad. So, can we? Can we go to Westminster, pleeeeeeeease? 
GABRIEL- Will denying you result in you doing those damned Chaos Hound eyes? 
TZAPHIEL- Oh, most definitely. 
ARGRATH- Fine, we'll go to the Tower of London AND Westminster. Fetid tapdancing Nurgle, this is why I don't hang out with you damn Undivided peons... 
BERIAL- We'll probably need to use the Ancient Labyrinth Caverns of Eternal Depressing Gloom and Nauseous Stench. 
TZAPHIEL- The London Underground? 
BERIAL- Bingo. 
GABRIEL- Well, let's eat and then move. 
ARGRATH- Sounds good. 
*Argrath inhales several plates of food. The three Word Bearers do likewise* 

*Meanwhile, a couple of tables away, the Traitors sit, eating breakfast and crouching low in their seats in an attempt to remain unseen* 
FABIUS- *through a mouthful of toast* Do you think they've seen us? 
AHRIMAN- *buttering a coissant* Do not be foolish! My spell of invisibility has us cloaked, veiled in an impenetrable shroud of shadows and illusion! *munches, with his mouth full* They could not detect us even if we were a metre away from them! 

*Back with the Rivals* 
GABRIEL- *without looking up from the menu* Guys, the Traitors are over there. 
TZAPHIEL, ARGRATH, BERIAL- *in unison, without looking up* We know. 

*Back with the Traitors! Whoo-hah! Crazy scene changes abundant I say!* 
ABADDON- I think I heard where they're planning to go! 
KHARN- Really? Where? 
ABADDON- I think they're going to go to the Tower of London, and Westminster Abbey. 
AHRIMAN- But which one first? 
ABADDON- I dunno. We should split into teams. Ahriman, you're with me. Fabius... 
FABIUS- Aw poo. 
ABADDON- Aw poo indeed. You're with Kharn. 
KHARN- *in a full bodycast after his misfortune with the taxi* Oh, goody! 
FABIUS- Oh, god. 
ABADDON- Don't worry guys, I'll give a couple of friends a ring... *he produces a Chaos mobile phone, complete with spikes and poly-daemonic ringtone* Hehehe... hahahaha... muahaha... BWAHAHAHAHAHA!!! 
*Fabius and Ahriman shift back slightly* 
AHRIMAN- Is he okay? 
FABIUS- I don't really wanna know. 
ABADDON- OH YES, THE POWER!!! IT MAKES ME FEEL ALIIIVE!!! 

*The Rivals are outside the hotel, planning what to do* 
ARGRATH- Well, I want to go to the Tower first. 
TZAPHIEL- But I wanna go to Westminster Abbey! 
BERIAL- I'm not picky. 
GABRIEL- Me either. 
ARGRATH- Tell you what; Berial and I will go to the Tower. Tzaph, you and Gabe go to Westminster. Then we'll meet outside the Houses of Parliament, or something. 
TZAPHIEL- Sounds rockin'. Gabe, let's go. 
GABRIEL- Oh, yes, "master"... 
*The Rivals wander off. The Traitors pop up from behind a conveniently placed bush* 
ABADDON- Fabius, you and Kharn go after Tzaphiel and Gabriel. Ahriman and I will follow Argrath and Berial. Remember, you'll meet up with your contact at the Tower. 
FABIUS- Muahahaha, he shall be the death of them both! 
ABADDON- Yes, quite. Ahriman! 
AHRIMAN- Yo! 
ABADDON- Onward! 
AHRIMAN- Ho! 
*Abaddon and Ahriman dramatically leap after Argrath and Berial. Fabius, wheeling Kharn in a wheelchair, trundle after Tzaphiel and Gabriel* 

*Meanwhile, on the bottom of the sea...* 
*A mysterious figure shifts on the seabed. They are shrouded in the inky blackness of the depths of the ocean, and stagger to their feet* 
MYSTERY FIGURE- Urgh... limbs *gasp* smashed... lungs *gasp* squashed... slight headache... spleen... still unaccounted for... can't keep *urgh* describing symptoms... must regain strength... must regain... POWER!!! 
*Mystery figure rises from the ocean in a coruscating halo of dark light and malign Chaos energy* 
MYSTERY FIGURE- MUAHAHAHA!!! TREMBLE WORLD, FOR MY BLASPHEMOUS REJUVENATION IS COMPLETE!!! ONCE AGAIN, I SHALL BE PLAGUE AND DECAY UPON THIS EARTH!!! FEAR ME, OH FEEBLE INHABITANTS OF... 
*pauses to read a nearby signpost* 
BEXHILL BEACH!!! MUAHAHAHAAHHAHAHAHA!!! *pause* .... yeah. 
*Random old couple look towards the darkling figure* 
OLD WOMAN- Who do you think that is, 'Arold? 
OLD MAN- Dunno Mabel... looks like one of them Chaos Warlords of Nurgle, or somesuch. 
OLD WOMAN- Ooo, I don't like those Chaos Warlords... always killin' and spreading unholy disease. Our Trisha had a spot of bother with one of 'em only the other week, and she said... 
MYSTERY FIGURE- SILENCE, FLESH-BLISTERS!!! 
OLD WOMAN- Politeness don't cost nothin', young man. Now apologise! 
MYSTERY FIGURE- BE QUIET, YOU HEINOUS HAG-BEAST!!! 
OLD WOMAN- Well I never! 
OLD MAN- 'Ere, now look 'ere... 
MYSTERY FIGURE- DO YOU KNOW WHERE I CAN FIND THE PLACE YOU CALL LONDON? SPEAK QUICKLY, 'LEST I EVISCERATE THEE AND FEED THEE THINE BOWELS!!! ... or pancreas *pause* ... yeah. 
OLD WOMAN- What's the magic word? 
MYSTERY FIGURE- WENCH, I KNOW COUNTLESS DARK INCANTATIONS!!! WITH BUT A WORD I CAN FLAY THE FLESH FROM THINE FACE, OR TRANSMUTE THINE BLOOD INTO CAUSTIC TAR!!! 
OLD WOMAN- Unless I hear a "please", we ain't telling you nothin'. 
MYSTERY FIGURE- OH FOR THE EYE'S SAKE... PLEASE? 
OLD WOMAN- That's better. Didn't hurt, did it? 
MYSTERY FIGURE- THOUGH MY MAGNIFICENT STATURE DOES NOT DISPLAY IT, MY SOUL HAST BEEN TORN IN TWAIN FOLLOWING SUCH PETTY PROTOCOL AND MORTAL NICETIES. 
*long pause* 
OLD MAN- Oh. 
OLD WOMAN- Would you like a sticky bandage? 
MYSTERY FIGURE- NAY!!! I DESIRE ONLY THE KNOWLEDGE OF THE WHEREABOUTS OF THE PLACE YOU CALL LONDON!!! 
OLD MAN- *gesturing vaguely over his shoulder* 'Coupla miles that way. 
MYSTERY FIGURE- AH, YOU FEEBLE FLESH-THINGS STILL BEND UNTO MINE WILL!!! FATHER NURGLE HAS NOT ABANDONED ME YET!!! 
OLD WOMAN- You don't have to shout, we're right here. 
MYSTERY FIGURE- *faltering* ERR... IT IS MORE... DRAMATIC!!! *pause* ... or something. 
OLD MAN- Never 'eard so much shouting in all me life. 
OLD WOMAN- Tsk, Chaos Warlords these days. Just a bunch of noisy hooligans! 
MYSTERY FIGURE- ERRR... I... WELL... YOU SEE... 
OLD MAN- No respect! 
OLD WOMAN- Our generation was better! 
OLD MAN- Back in my day... 
OLD WOMAN- I remember when... 
MYSTERY FIGURE- BE QUIET!!! DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU INSULT WITH YOUR ENDLESS TIRADES? 
OLD MAN- Who? 
MYSTERY FIGURE- I... AM... *thunderclouds roll in, sea becomes stormy and wild* DAAASLEAH CAAALIN DESAAAI!!! SCOURGE OF LIFE, BANE OF PURITY, DEFILER OF FANOGANE VIII, AND HERALD OF THE PLAGUES OF GREAT FATHER NURGLE!!! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! 
*long pause* 
OLD WOMAN- What did he say his name was? 
OLD MAN- I think he said Daniel. 
OLD WOMAN- Well, I didn't vote for 'im. 
*With a scream of rage, Dasleah slays the old couple and flies towards London* 
DASLEAH- SOON I SHALL HAVE REVENGE UPON TZAPHIEL FOR HIS BETRAYAL OF ME UPON THE FLIGHT TO THIS DESOLATE PLACE!!! NO BEING, MORTAL OR DAEMONIC, INSULTS DASLEAH AND LIVES TO TELL THE TALE!!! NO-OOONE!!! 
*pause* 
DASLEAH- God, I'm good at this. 

*Back with Tzaphiel and Gabriel, at Westminster Abbey* 
GABRIEL- This is the place. Pretty nice. 
TZAPHIEL- Indeed it is... indeed it is. A beautiful structure with a long and proud history, embodying faith, duty, and honour. 
*long pause* 
TZAPHIEL- Well, no time like the present. Gabe, pass me my Hymns of Pandemonium. 
GABRIEL- *handing over a huge book* I thought you'd never ask. 
TZAPHIEL- *flipping through the book* Let's see... what to summon... Catastrophes... Daemonettes... Desires... Elementals... Enigmas... Fiends... Flamers... Flesh Hounds... *mutter* a friggin' index would have been nice... *brightens up* ah, here we go... Furies. 
GABRIEL- Hallejulah. 
TZAPHIEL- Hallejulah indeed. Now then... I'll need a blood sacrifice... 
GABRIEL- *grabbing a nearby civilian and messily tearing him in half* Check. 
TZAPHIEL- ... And an Icon to summon them to. 
GABRIEL- *producing a big novelty foam hand declaring that "Furies Are #1!"* Check. 
*Tzaphiel puts on the big novelty foam hand and begins the summoning ritual* 
TZAPHIEL- Uuz'bhed'urruu Rghao'vsoouz'nrua... 
GABRIEL- Do we HAVE to use Furies to destroy Westminster? I mean, I have krak grenades... 
TZAPHIEL- Where's the fun- and effectiveness- in that? Furies are ten gallons of ass-kicking in a five gallon jug, yo'. 
GABRIEL- Point taken. So make with the sacrilege! 
TZAPHIEL- You made me lose my place! 
*Suddenly!* 
MYSTERY VOICE 1- That's not all you'll lose! 
MYSTERY VOICE- 2- Indeed, for a great deal more than your place will be lost! 
MYSTERY VOICE 1- Yeah! Like your life! Muahahahaha! 
TZAPHIEL- Who's that? 
GABRIEL- I dunno... but they're good. 
*Fabius wheels Kharn out from behind a pillar* 
FABIUS- Thought you could escape us, eh? 
TZAPHIEL- *shrugs* Owing to your utterly grotesque incompetence... yeah. 
FABIUS- Well, you were wrong! 
KHARN- DEAD wrong! 
GABRIEL- Damn, they're really good. 
TZAPHIEL- Yeah, they're really good... at being losers! 
GABRIEL- OO-RAR!!! 
MYSTERY VOICE 3- As amusing as I find all this witty banter... 
GABRIEL- Yeah! As amusing as you being a loser! 
TZAPHIEL- OO-RAR!!! 
FABIUS- Damn, they're stealing our bit... 
KHARN- Why I oughta... 
TZAPHIEL- Oughta what? Not be a loser? 
GABRIEL- OO-RAR!!! 
MYSTERY VOICE 3- If I hear one more "witty" phrase that would often be associated with either pro-wrestling or a cheerleader's hissy-fit, there's gonna be a whole lotta pain... *pause* for you. 
TZAPHIEL- Then show thyself! 
*The owner of Mystery Voice 3 steps out of hiding to reveal himself...* 
GABRIEL- Dum dum DUUUM!!! 
TZAPHIEL- You don't have to say "dum dum DUUUM"... it's implied. 
GABRIEL- Phooey. 
*The owner of Mystery Voice 3 is... Typhus! He seems different from before... he has a crapload of bionics and augmetic limbs* 
TYPHUS- Hiya. 
TZAPHIEL- It's Typhus! 
GABRIEL- I thought you died during the Eye of Terror campaign! 
TYPHUS- Nay, I was but grievously wounded. But my devout followers rebuilt me with bionics and strengthened my body! Now I am stronger than ever! Half Typhus, half android! HENCEFORTH, I SHALL BE KNOWN AS... TYPHOID!!! 
*long loaded pause* 
*longer...* 
*Tzaph and Gabe suppress a snigger* 
GABRIEL- Laaaame... 
TZAPHIEL- Typhoid? Pssh, I think I hear Influenza calling. 
TYPHOID- You leave my mother out of this! 
GABRIEL- *unlimbering accursed crozius* Don't sing it, bring it, mamma's boy. 
FABIUS- *readying Rod of Torment* Bile shall whoop your ass Bile-tastically. 
TZAPHIEL- *unsheathing Dark Blade* Hope you have a good doctor, 'cos I'm about to put the hurt on. 
KHARN- *flailing IV tubes in a threatening manner* IT'S THWACKY TIME!!! 
TYPHOID- Oh for Heaven's sake... if I wanted to hear stuff like this, I would have stayed at home and watched a pseudo-sport, like professional wrestling or Foxy Boxing. But, pain is pain... *readies Manreaper* 
*The five close in on each other, ready to strike, when suddenly!* 
GABRIEL- Dum dum DUUUM!!! 
TZAPHIEL- For the last time, it's implied! 
GABRIEL- Don't harsh my buzz, square. 
*Anyway... suddenly, a menacing winged figure flashes past, and settles on a nearby low wall* 
MYSTERY FIGURE- CEASE!!! 
ALL- WTF!? 
MYSTERY FIGURE- *pointing to Tzaphiel* YOU!!! TZAPHIEL!!! NOW YOU DIE!!! 
TZAPHIEL- I'm not Tzaphiel! Errr... *pointing to Gabriel* He is! 
GABRIEL- Hey, ass! 
TZAPHIEL- I'm just trying to divert daemonic rage onto you... geez... why can't you be a team player for once? 
MYSTERY FIGURE- ENOUGH!!! I AM TIRED OF YOUR BANAL DRIBBLINGS!!! 
*pause* 
TZAPHIEL- ... You said "banal"... right? 
MYSTERY FIGURE- ... YES. 
TZAPHIEL- God, that's a relief... 
MYSTERY FIGURE- ANYWAY... NOW YOU... 
TZAPHIEL- 'Cos, y'know, that would just be nasty otherwise... 
MYSTERY FIGURE- SHUT UP!!! 
TZAPHIEL- I mean, you probably wouldn't be the only one who'd get tired of it... I'd be downright annoyed... 
MYSTERY FIGURE- SILENCE!!! 
GABRIEL- Isn't it kind of contradictory to shout "silence"? 
MYSTERY FIGURE- ENOUGH!!! *huge eruption of dark energy and light* NOW THEN... TZAPHIEL!!! YOUR TREACHERY WILL NOT GO UNPUNISHED!!! NO-ONE DRUGS ME, PUSHES ME OUT OF A PLANE, AND LIVES TO BOAST ABOUT IT!!! *pause* well... not for long anyway... yeah. 
TZAPHIEL- Wait! That must mean that you're... you're... 
MYSTERY FIGURE- YES TZAPHIEL... YES!!! 
TZAPHIEL- You're... *gasp*... Aunt Petunia? 
*pause* 
MYSTERY FIGURE- ... YES TZAPHIEL!!! IT IS ME, DAAASLEAH!!! *thunderclap* ... yeah. 
TZAPHIEL- That was my second guess. 
GABRIEL- Moron. 
DASLEAH- NOW TZAPHIEL, PREPARE TO PAY THE PRICE!!! 
*Tzaphiel and Dasleah leap to battle* 
FABIUS- So... what, are they ignoring us now? 
TYPHOID- I've had under a dozen lines, and the writer's cutting me out already? Laaame. 
KHARN- I like bagels.


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## arturslv

The fight of the century is under way! Dasleah versus Tzaphiel! Who will win? Who knows? Who cares? And what of Argrath and Berial, being pursued by Abaddon and Ahriman? All these questions and more will be answered in Traitors, Part Five! 



How did you like it


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## arturslv

100 things I would do if I was a Chaos Warlord 

My Legions of Terror will have helmets with clear plexiglass visors, not face-concealing ones. 

My ventilation ducts will be too small to crawl through. 

My noble half-brother whose throne I usurped will be killed, not kept anonymously imprisoned in a forgotten cell of my dungeon. 

Shooting is not too good for my enemies. 

The artifact which is the source of my power will not be kept on the Mountain of Despair beyond the River of Fire guarded by the Dragons of Eternity. It will be in my safe-deposit box. The same applies to the object which is my one weakness. 

I will not gloat over my enemies' predicament before killing them. 

When I've captured my adversary and he says, "Look, before you kill me, will you at least tell me what this is all about?" I'll say, "No." and shoot him. No, on second thought I'll shoot him then say "No." 

After I kidnap the beautiful princess, we will be married immediately in a quiet civil ceremony, not a lavish spectacle in three weeks' time during which the final phase of my plan will be carried out. 

I will not include a self-destruct mechanism unless absolutely necessary. If it is necessary, it will not be a large red button labelled "Danger: Do Not Push". The big red button marked "Do Not Push" will instead trigger a spray of bullets on anyone stupid enough to disregard it. Similarly, the ON/OFF switch will not clearly be labelled as such. 

I will not interrogate my enemies in the inner sanctum -- a small hotel well outside my borders will work just as well. 

I will be secure in my superiority. Therefore, I will feel no need to prove it by leaving clues in the form of riddles or leaving my weaker enemies alive to show they pose no threat. 

One of my advisors will be an average five-year-old child. Any flaws in my plan that he is able to spot will be corrected before implementation. 

All slain enemies will be cremated, or at least have several rounds of ammunition emptied into them, not left for dead at the bottom of the cliff. The announcement of their deaths, as well as any accompanying celebration, will be deferred until after the aforementioned disposal. 

The hero is not entitled to a last kiss, a last cigarette, or any other form of last request. 

I will never employ any device with a digital countdown. If I find that such a device is absolutely unavoidable, I will set it to activate when the counter reaches 117 and the hero is just putting his plan into operation. 

I will never utter the sentence "But before I kill you, there's just one thing I want to know." 

When I employ people as advisors, I will occasionally listen to their advice. 

I will not have a son. Although his laughably under-planned attempt to usurp power would easily fail, it would provide a fatal distraction at a crucial point in time. 

I will not have a daughter. She would be as beautiful as she was evil, but one look at the hero's rugged countenance and she'd betray her own father. 

Despite its proven stress-relieving effect, I will not indulge in maniacal laughter. When so occupied, it's too easy to miss unexpected developments that a more attentive individual could adjust to accordingly. 

I will hire a talented fashion designer to create original uniforms for my Legions of Terror, as opposed to some cheap knock-offs that make them look like Nazi stormtroopers, Roman footsoldiers, or savage Mongol hordes. All were eventually defeated and I want my troops to have a more positive mind-set. 

No matter how tempted I am with the prospect of unlimited power, I will not consume any energy field bigger than my head. 

I will keep a special cache of low-tech weapons and train my troops in their use. That way -- even if the heroes manage to neutralize my power generator and/or render the standard-issue energy weapons useless -- my troops will not be overrun by a handful of savages armed with spears and rocks. 

I will maintain a realistic assessment of my strengths and weaknesses. Even though this takes some of the fun out of the job, at least I will never utter the line "No, this cannot be! I AM INVINCIBLE!!!" (After that, death is usually instantaneous.) 

No matter how well it would perform, I will never construct any sort of machinery which is completely indestructible except for one small and virtually inaccessible vulnerable spot. 

No matter how attractive certain members of the rebellion are, there is probably someone just as attractive who is not desperate to kill me. Therefore, I will think twice before ordering a prisoner sent to my bedchamber. 

I will never build only one of anything important. All important systems will have redundant control panels and power supplies. For the same reason I will always carry at least two fully loaded weapons at all times. 

My pet monster will be kept in a secure cage from which it cannot escape and into which I could not accidentally stumble. 

I will dress in bright and cheery colors, and so throw my enemies into confusion. 

All bumbling conjurers, clumsy squires, no-talent bards, and cowardly thieves in the land will be preemptively put to death. My foes will surely give up and abandon their quest if they have no source of comic relief. 

All naive, busty tavern wenches in my realm will be replaced with surly, world-weary waitresses who will provide no unexpected reinforcement and/or romantic subplot for the hero or his sidekick. 

I will not fly into a rage and kill a messenger who brings me bad news just to illustrate how evil I really am. Good messengers are hard to come by. 

I won't require high-ranking female members of my organization to wear a stainless-steel bustier. Morale is better with a more casual dress-code. Similarly, outfits made entirely from black leather will be reserved for formal occasions. 

I will not turn into a snake. It never helps. 

I will not grow a goatee. In the old days they made you look diabolic. Now they just make you look like a disaffected member of Generation X. 

I will not imprison members of the same party in the same cell block, let alone the same cell. If they are important prisoners, I will keep the only key to the cell door on my person instead of handing out copies to every bottom-rung guard in the prison. 

If my trusted lieutenant tells me my Legions of Terror are losing a battle, I will believe him. After all, he's my trusted lieutenant. 

If an enemy I have just killed has a younger sibling or offspring anywhere, I will find them and have them killed immediately, instead of waiting for them to grow up harboring feelings of vengeance towards me in my old age. 

If I absolutely must ride into battle, I will certainly not ride at the forefront of my Legions of Terror, nor will I seek out my opposite number among his army. 

I will be neither chivalrous nor sporting. If I have an unstoppable superweapon, I will use it as early and as often as possible instead of keeping it in reserve. 

Once my power is secure, I will destroy all those pesky time-travel devices. 

When I capture the hero, I will make sure I also get his dog, monkey, ferret, or whatever sickeningly cute little animal capable of untying ropes and filching keys happens to follow him around. 

I will maintain a healthy amount of skepticism when I capture the beautiful rebel and she claims she is attracted to my power and good looks and will gladly betray her companions if I just let her in on my plans. 

I will only employ bounty hunters who work for money. Those who work for the pleasure of the hunt tend to do dumb things like even the odds to give the other guy a sporting chance. 

I will make sure I have a clear understanding of who is responsible for what in my organization. For example, if my general screws up I will not draw my weapon, point it at him, say "And here is the price for failure," then suddenly turn and kill some random underling. 

If an advisor says to me "My liege, he is but one man. What can one man possibly do?", I will reply "This." and kill the advisor. 

If I learn that a callow youth has begun a quest to destroy me, I will slay him while he is still a callow youth instead of waiting for him to mature. 

I will treat any beast which I control through magic or technology with respect and kindness. Thus if the control is ever broken, it will not immediately come after me for revenge. 

If I learn the whereabouts of the one artifact which can destroy me, I will not send all my troops out to seize it. Instead I will send them out to seize something else and quietly put a Want-Ad in the local paper. 

My main computers will have their own special operating system that will be completely incompatible with standard IBM and Macintosh powerbooks. 

If one of my dungeon guards begins expressing concern over the conditions in the beautiful princess' cell, I will immediately transfer him to a less people-oriented position. 

I will hire a team of board-certified architects and surveyors to examine my castle and inform me of any secret passages and abandoned tunnels that I might not know about. 

If the beautiful princess that I capture says "I'll never marry you! Never, do you hear me, NEVER!!!", I will say "Oh well" and kill her. 

I will not strike a bargain with a demonic being then attempt to double-cross it simply because I feel like being contrary. 

The deformed mutants and odd-ball psychotics will have their place in my Legions of Terror. However before I send them out on important covert missions that require tact and subtlety, I will first see if there is anyone else equally qualified who would attract less attention. 

My Legions of Terror will be trained in basic marksmanship. Any who cannot learn to hit a man-sized target at 10 meters will be used for target practice. 

Before employing any captured artifacts or machinery, I will carefully read the owner's manual. 

If it becomes necessary to escape, I will never stop to pose dramatically and toss off a one-liner. 

I will never build a sentient computer smarter than I am. 

My five-year-old child advisor will also be asked to decipher any code I am thinking of using. If he breaks the code in under 30 seconds, it will not be used. Note: this also applies to passwords. 

If my advisors ask "Why are you risking everything on such a mad scheme?", I will not proceed until I have a response that satisfies them. 

I will design fortress hallways with no alcoves or protruding structural supports which intruders could use for cover in a firefight. 

Bulk trash will be disposed of in incinerators, not compactors. And they will be kept hot, with none of that nonsense about flames going through accessible tunnels at predictable intervals. 

I will see a competent psychiatrist and get cured of all extremely unusual phobias and bizarre compulsive habits which could prove to be a disadvantage. 

If I must have computer systems with publically available terminals, the maps they display of my complex will have a room clearly marked as the Main Control Room. That room will be the Execution Chamber. The actual main control room will be marked as Sewage Overflow Containment. 

My security keypad will actually be a fingerprint scanner. Anyone who watches someone press a sequence of buttons or dusts the pad for fingerprints then subsequently tries to enter by repeating that sequence will trigger the alarm system. 

No matter how many shorts we have in the system, my guards will be instructed to treat every surveillance camera malfunction as a full-scale emergency. 

I will spare someone who saved my life sometime in the past. This is only reasonable as it encourages others to do so. However, the offer is good one time only. If they want me to spare them again, they'd better save my life again. 

All midwives will be banned from the realm. All babies will be delivered at state-approved hospitals. Orphans will be placed in foster-homes, not abandoned in the woods to be raised by creatures of the wild. 

When my guards split up to search for intruders, they will always travel in groups of at least two. They will be trained so that if one of them disappears mysteriously while on patrol, the other will immediately initiate an alert and call for backup, instead of quizzically peering around a corner. 

If I decide to test a lieutenant's loyalty and see if he/she should be made a trusted lieutenant, I will have a crack squad of marksmen standing by in case the answer is no. 

If all the heroes are standing together around a strange device and begin to taunt me, I will pull out a conventional weapon instead of using my unstoppable superweapon on them. 

I will not agree to let the heroes go free if they win a rigged contest, even though my advisors assure me it is impossible for them to win. 

When I create a multimedia presentation of my plan designed so that my five-year-old advisor can easily understand the details, I will not label the disk "Project Overlord" and leave it lying on top of my desk. 

I will instruct my Legions of Terror to attack the hero en masse, instead of standing around waiting while members break off and attack one or two at a time. 

If the hero runs up to my roof, I will not run up after him and struggle with him in an attempt to push him over the edge. I will also not engage him at the edge of a cliff. (In the middle of a rope-bridge over a river of molten lava is not even worth considering.) 

If I have a fit of temporary insanity and decide to give the hero the chance to reject a job as my trusted lieutentant, I will retain enough sanity to wait until my current trusted lieutenant is out of earshot before making the offer. 

I will not tell my Legions of Terror "And he must be taken alive!" The command will be "And try to take him alive if it is reasonably practical." 

If my doomsday device happens to come with a reverse switch, as soon as it has been employed it will be melted down and made into limited-edition commemorative coins. 

If my weakest troops fail to eliminate a hero, I will send out my best troops instead of wasting time with progressively stronger ones as he gets closer and closer to my fortress. 

If I am fighting with the hero atop a moving platform, have disarmed him, and am about to finish him off and he glances behind me and drops flat, I too will drop flat instead of quizzically turning around to find out what he saw. 

I will not shoot at any of my enemies if they are standing in front of the crucial support beam to a heavy, dangerous, unbalanced structure. 

If I'm eating dinner with the hero, put poison in his goblet, then have to leave the table for any reason, I will order new drinks for both of us instead of trying to decide whether or not to switch with him. 

I will not have captives of one sex guarded by members of the opposite sex. 

I will not use any plan in which the final step is horribly complicated, e.g. "Align the 12 Stones of Power on the sacred altar then activate the medallion at the moment of total eclipse." Instead it will be more along the lines of "Push the button." 

I will make sure that my doomsday device is up to code and properly grounded. 

My vats of hazardous chemicals will be covered when not in use. Also, I will not construct walkways above them. 

If a group of henchmen fail miserably at a task, I will not berate them for incompetence then send the same group out to try the task again. 

After I captures the hero's superweapon, I will not immediately disband my legions and relax my guard because I believe whoever holds the weapon is unstoppable. After all, the hero held the weapon and I took it from him. 

I will not design my Main Control Room so that every workstation is facing away from the door. 

I will not ignore the messenger that stumbles in exhausted and obviously agitated until my personal grooming or current entertainment is finished. It might actually be important. 

If I ever talk to the hero on the phone, I will not taunt him. Instead I will say this his dogged perseverance has given me new insight on the futility of my evil ways and that if he leaves me alone for a few months of quiet contemplation I will likely return to the path of righteousness. (Heroes are incredibly gullible in this regard.) 

If I decide to hold a double execution of the hero and an underling who failed or betrayed me, I will see to it that the hero is scheduled to go first. 

When arresting prisoners, my guards will not allow them to stop and grab a useless trinket of purely sentimental value. 

My dungeon will have its own qualified medical staff complete with bodyguards. That way if a prisoner becomes sick and his cellmate tells the guard it's an emergency, the guard will fetch a trauma team instead of opening up the cell for a look. 

My door mechanisms will be designed so that blasting the control panel on the outside seals the door and blasting the control panel on the inside opens the door, not vice versa. 

My dungeon cells will not be furnished with objects that contain reflective surfaces or anything that can be unravelled. 

If an attractive young couple enters my realm, I will carefully monitor their activities. If I find they are happy and affectionate, I will ignore them. However if circumstance have forced them together against their will and they spend all their time bickering and criticizing each other except during the intermittent occasions when they are saving each others' lives at which point there are hints of sexual tension, I will immediately order their execution. 

Any data file of crucial importance will be padded to 1.45Mb in size. 

Finally, to keep my subjects permanently locked in a mindless trance, I will provide each of them with free unlimited Internet access.


----------



## arturslv

What the Emperor thinking... 

"39,002 bottles of Emperor's Tears on the Wall, 39,002 bottles of Emperor's Tears, take one down, pass them around, 39,002 bottles of Emperor's Tears on the wall. 39,001 bottles. . ." 

"You know, I've had this itch for 3,435 years, right at the base of my neck. . ." 

"Why can't they hook up a playstation 40,000 in here?" 

"Damn, my foot's asleep again." 

"You know, when I said sacrifice 1000 souls to me daily, they must have misunderstood. I actually meant sacrifice 1000 COALS. It's so cold in this huge throne room..." 



Two guardsman are yomping off to war when one says to the other: 
"Hey sarge, this lasgun is heavy. I wish we had something lighter." 
The Sarge, being a grizzled veteran of many wars, let's the man in on a secret: 
"You could kill grots just by pointing your finger at them and shouting: ABANG ABANG ABANG! Because the grots know that when they hear that they are gonna die and so fall over dead to save themselves the bother." 
"You must be joking Sarge," - the soldier replies and thinks nothing more of it. 

War comes. The guardsman runs out of ammo. 

In desperation he points his finger and shapes it like a gun. Feeling rather stupid, he shouts ABANG ABANG ABANG! And to his surprise he sees whole squads of gretchin die. 
He proceeds to slaughter all of the gretchin horde with the exception of one grot that is charging straight towards him. 
He shouts ABANG ABANG ABANG! but nothing happens. 
Rather confused he shouts louder ABANG ABANG ABANG! 
The next thing the guardsman remembers is being smashed flat by some awesome force, every bone in his body is crushed. 

The last thing he remembers is a small high pitched grotty voice squeeling: 
ATANK ATANK ATANK! ATANK ATANK ATANK!


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## arturslv

A lot of people say the lasgun is the worst piece of equipment in the universe. This is not so. Check out this "true" account. 

One battle Jim the guardsman's unit is wiped out except him. Jim suffers an attack of common sense (or a failed leadership check; the details are fuzzy) and bolts for the nearest cover. Unfortunately he barrels headlong into a Chaos space marine holding a plasma pistol. 

"Wait don't kill me yet", says Jim: "let me show you a trick." The Chaos space marine agrees and Jim promptly pulls out a cigar. He puts it into his mouth and uses his lasgun to light it. 

"Pah! That's nothing. I can do that!" - says the Chaos space marine. So Jim hands him a cigar. The marine puts it into his mouth and then puts his plasma pistol to the cigar. He pulls the trigger and promptly blows his head off. Jim swaggers off back to base to have a well deserved cheeseburger. 

This is just one example of a lasguns awesome and devastating power.


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## Davidicus 40k

I vote this thread officially be renamed "arturslv's thread."


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## hungryugolino

I vote that arturslv make his own thread if he wants one with his name on it.

P.S. Where did you get your sig image?


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## arturslv

i think that there's an option to upload one.


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## hungryugolino

Yes, but the image came from somewhere...


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## Lord Reevan

that image is one of the heresy supplied ones under 40k avatars....


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## arturslv

arturslv said:


> Two guardsman are yomping off to war when one says to the other:
> "Hey sarge, this lasgun is heavy. I wish we had something lighter."
> The Sarge, being a grizzled veteran of many wars, let's the man in on a secret:
> "You could kill grots just by pointing your finger at them and shouting: ABANG ABANG ABANG! Because the grots know that when they hear that they are gonna die and so fall over dead to save themselves the bother."
> "You must be joking Sarge," - the soldier replies and thinks nothing more of it.
> 
> War comes. The guardsman runs out of ammo.
> 
> In desperation he points his finger and shapes it like a gun. Feeling rather stupid, he shouts ABANG ABANG ABANG! And to his surprise he sees whole squads of gretchin die.
> He proceeds to slaughter all of the gretchin horde with the exception of one grot that is charging straight towards him.
> He shouts ABANG ABANG ABANG! but nothing happens.
> Rather confused he shouts louder ABANG ABANG ABANG!
> The next thing the guardsman remembers is being smashed flat by some awesome force, every bone in his body is crushed.
> 
> The last thing he remembers is a small high pitched grotty voice squeeling:
> ATANK ATANK ATANK! ATANK ATANK ATANK!


i think that this one is the funniest. ATANK ATANK ATANK!


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## arturslv

As I always say, Khârn the Betrayer was pretty fun to be around, and contrary to popular belief he actually had a sense of humor as well. Probably the best example was in the middle of the campaign during a sweeping of an Imperial Guard command post, with Khorne Berserkers and our Red Rivers company marching directly into the defensive fire. The closer we got, the more apparent it became that the only thing holding the Guardsmen together was a grizzled looking Commissar in full uniform, one gun turned on us and another firing on any of his men who looked like running. 

Khârn was at the tip of the assault, and so he got to the Commissar first, plucking the screaming officer up by the neck and holding him over his head. 

Then, out of nowhere one of the other berserkers grabs the Commissar's legs and roars "MAKE A WISH!". Well, as you can imagine everyone on both sides forgets about the fight, and watches Khârn and this other Khorne-worshiping marine just start pulling on this Commissar at both ends, the old man screaming out oaths and curses like you wouldn't believe! You could almost hear the sound of flesh tearing and bone snapping over the cheering. 

Then, Khârn just let go. Totally not expecting it and pulling with all his might, the Khorne Berserker just falls backwards and starts tumbling with the near dead Commissar into a damaged hellhound, his armor grating off it and sparking! 

Well, after the explosion we all turned back to Khârn, who had managed to keep a hold of the Commissar's fancy hat. Ol' Khârn put it on, and damned if it wasn't the funniest thing any of us had ever seen... till he turned to us and bellowed "I'M THE NEW COMMISSAR" at us. 

They tell me five thousand traitor guardsmen died that day before someone could take that hat off him. 

What a kidder!


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## arturslv

Contrary to popular belief, Khârn the Betrayer was a pretty fun guy to be around during a blood-letting campaign. Sure, he'd get so wrapped up in the blood-lust that he'd butcher friend and foe alike but it's not like you didn't get a fair warning from his name or anything. 

I served in the traitor guardsman legions known as the Red Rivers, because we got sent in first to soften up the positions and you could see our progress by the red river of our blood. I kept running into Khârn during one of the bigger scourging campaigns, and he wasn't dickish about the whole him being a space marine and me being killed by flashlights or angry glances at all. 

The first time I saw him, I was on perimeter patrol at one of our forward outposts, we'd just overrun a Sororitas non-militant chapel, and I was watching from afar when Khârn strides up, cool as you like holding the largest stone pillar I've ever seen. I turned back and the whole chapel was falling down. He'd just ripped the thing right out and was carrying it on his shoulders! 

Then, if that wasn't insane enough he went and hefted this whole pillar through the air, and crushed the entire congregation of Slaaneshii, all in one go. 

I was just standing there dumbfounded when Khârn looked at me, as though noticing me for the first time and yet not surprised by my presence at all. He held his palm out, and I obliged him a high five. He'd earned it. 

Shattered every bone in my arm doing it though. 

Nice guy, that Khârn.


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## arturslv

The second time I crossed paths with Khârn was in a later stage in the campaign. We were besieging one of the major hives of the planet, and I tell you what that place was locked up tighter than a Dark Eldar's pants. My commander, Oxlor the Vilest, was stuck in an argument with some idiot leader of some group of Death Guard. You could see the smell it was so bad. I could tell Oxlor wasn't happy, since everyone knows the Death Guard's answer to everything is to just walk at it and watch your bits fly off. Not so good for us soft and squishy guys. 

Out of nowhere, this big hand grabs our commander by the shoulder and just hefts him aside, three whole trenches back where he rebounds off a basilisk. The crew was so shocked they fired off a round on a horrible trajectory, and the shell streaked high into the sky. 

Khârn the Betrayer just dusts himself down, and then picks back up what he had been holding. Now, I'm no techpriest and I never will be, but I know a nuclear warhead when I see it. I don't know where he got it. 

No one says anything, so The Betrayer just punches the Plague marine in the face, and stuffs the warhead into the leaking mess of his stomach while he was still reeling. 

No run up, no preparation. He just fucking throws the other marine into the air at the hive. For a moment it actually looks like he's thrown the warp-damned fool OVER the hive, but as he flies over the top the basilisk shell comes down and spears him through the whole hive! There's a low boom noise, the ground shakes, and then the whole hive IMPLODES! 

Everything clears, and Khârn looks at me, and I feel about one foot tall. I don't know if he recognized me, but he leans down and whispers. Khârn WHISPERS to me. 

"I was trying to hit the Emperor's Children on the other side" he confides in me, and then nudges me as though it's supposed to be our little secret. 

I was in traction for a MONTH.


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## arturslv

here's the updated Emperor's list of Things to do after Resurrection. Enjoy!

The Emperor's list of Things to do after Resurrection 
It is a known and heretical fact that the Emperor will one day be reborn as the "star child" in the event he should finally die, as foretold by Tzeentch. Since this is Chaotic knowledge, the Adeptus Custodes will have none of it. When will it happen you ask? Simple: When Games Workshop finally decides to think logically and advance their stagnant plotl...Preaching about Chaotic visions is Heresy! Die unclean scum! *BLAM*. We are sorry for exposing you to a viable corruption, please disregard everything about this blasphemous "Star Child" none sense mentioned by this heretic. 

This section has been improved by your local Commissar. +Amplus Palma Pro Terra!+ 

Get better power armor. 
Wipe out the Imperiu-BLAM HERESY! 
Rebuild the Imperium to it's former glory so it is not fucktarded like it is now. 
Make peace with the Tau and trade technology with them then kill them afterwards for being weeaboo Xeno-communists. 
Make peace with the Eldar and trade technology with them then wipe them out afterwards for being treacherous Xenos. 
Pacify the Orks and keep them alive for gladiator sports or target practice for the Space Marines. 
Put the Dark Eldar in Rehab. then eliminate them afterwards for being foul Xenos. 
Wipe out the C'tan. 
Wipe out the Necrons. 
Purge Chaos from the universe and seal the Eye of Terror. 
Tell the Sisters of Battle they can have sex with men and not to be pedophiles anymore. or be **** ******. Which would be great if it weren't for the fact that there's no rules against Sisters of Battle having sex with men. Nor have there ever been. 
Teach the Commisars NOT to kill the Guardsmen they're leading! Commend the Commissars on a job well done. 
Marry Macha and fuck the Eldar out of her! Then have 40,000 babies with her!!!!!!!!!! -Deemed as #1 Priority by Creed and the Blood Ravens (particularly by Gabriel Angelos and Indrick Boreale.)
(wait, how did Creed get in here and scribble on my to-do list? CREEEEEEEEEED!) 
Eat a live Carnifex without the aid of sauces. 
Eat another Carnifex with the aid of sauces. 
Further expand the Warhammer 40K storyline without the interference of Games Workshop. 
Destroy the enemies of the Imperium...WITH FIRE! Let the Galaxy burn if needed. 
Teach the Imperial Guard generals some actual tactics other than sending thousands of Guardsmen to take a hill outpost. 
Tell the Adeptus Mechanicus to stop keeping secrets.and threaten to Exterminatus Mars if they don't. 
Replace the Imperial Guardsmen Flashlights Lasguns with something that can actually do shit! Guardsmen with Pulse Rifles HELL YEA!!!!! 
Gather every Guardsman, Astartes, Inquisition dudes, Sororitas, Commissars.. heck everyone in the Imperium of Man, give them weapons, have them surround the Eye of Terror and then let the Greatest of all Holy shitstorms ensue. 
Personally execute Fulgrim, Pertutabo, Agaron and the rest of them traitor Primarchs.. after the Inquisition have given them a proper torturing. 
Beat Khorne in an arm wrestling match, then rip his arm off and beat him to death with it! 
Show Slaneesh my dick and watch as he kills himself because of envy! 
Hug Papa Nurgule and remain pure. 
Devise a scheme so elaborate and complex that I'll be the one to say "Just as planned" to Tzeentch. 
Outdick Eldrad. Then screw his daughter in front of him! Again! 
Issue a order to the Inquisition and the Commissariat that Porn is not Heresy. However, fantasizing about porn is giving in to excess so it's still heresy; all porn is to be given to your local Commissar for review. 
Go back in time and tell the dumb fuck at Games Workshop who fucked up the 5th Edition of Codex Astartes that "He's doing it wrong.", the dude to made the Imperial Guard better that "He's doing it right." then go to the guy who decided to give the Guard flashlights and take him to the Inquisition to be properly tortured. 
Recognize /tg/ for it's awesomeness. then wipe it off the face of Holy Terra for spawning half of the heresies we know today. 
Permit Space Marines and Sisters of Battle to date. to breed and create an incorruptible warrior race that will serve in his my name. Well, the Astartes are call themselves my Sons, and the Sororitas say they're my Daughters... maybe this plan is a wee bit awkward? But I want grandkids and the last time I was a dad, my son Horus went and ruined Christmas for everybody.

Rename the Sisters of Battle to "Step-Daughters of the Emperor" or adopted daughters or something. They technically are not related to me the way the Astartes Primarchs are, and I don't want my boys to be too squicked... unless they're into that kind of kinky! 
Be a better father to the rest of my sons, as not to spark another shitstorm that will inevitably cripple me for another few millenia. 
Go on a deer-hunting trip with some Vindicare and kill bag more kills than him using an Exitus Rifle. 
Overshadow an Eversor Assassin during his dynamic entry. 
Deceive a Callidus Assassin with disguises and trick her into having a romantic relationship with me. 
Outbrood a Cullexus Assasin and still remain awesome. 
Deceive the C'tan false God "The Deceiver" by tricking him into destroying the Necrons. 
Find out what if anything is chasing the Tyranids and see if they're friendly. If not: Launch the prototype promethium planetary bombardment torpedo. 
Smack that sorry excuse for a "Spess Mehreen" Indrick Boreale for giving me the blasphemous nickname of "Emprah." C'mon Indrick, you want people to call you "Drick" for short? 
Once again outdick Eldrad in the game of his choice, forcing him to ragequit. 
Beat a Lord of Change Greater Daemon in a game of Chess with only 5 moves. 
Make a better emergency life support system as a safeguard if things for some reason go south. By that I mean make some kinda Emperor Dreadnought or some shit like that so I can still do my job instead of all this being a decaying corpse on some tricked out toilet worshipped by the entire population... did I mention how much this sucks? 
Outright skullfuck Slaneesh for making something so good be so wrong and heretical. 
Eliminate masturbation across the Imperium and in its place have sanctioned sex workers as part of the socialized medical program because it is HERESY, and any fa/tg/uys caught doing it be sent to the Inquisitional training academy to be used as "test-subjects" for the Inquisitors in training, or sent of to Adeptus Mechanicus to be turned into servitors. so nobody will be stuck comforting themselves alone ever again. 
Send search parties throughout the Empire to find that awesome excuse for a Space Viking, Leman Russ, and if he's found alive, hand his ass to him like I did before I got stuck on this throne. 
Prove the existence of the Alpha Legion. 
Expand the Imperium to a intergalactic empire. Tyranids had to have come from SOMEwhere habitable. 
Create a special rule just for myself so that instead of just one unit as a scout, I field an ENTIRE REGIMENT'S worth of troops as scouts. (thus people will stop using Creed's name and will start saying EMPERRRRROOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRR!!1!!!one!!!!) 
Beat a Commissar at a Western-Style shootout. yee-haw! 
Recognize the Legion of the Damned for their awesomeness and baddassery. 
Apologize to Magnus for not listening to his warning.And afterwards,execute him for being a Traitor. 
Challenge Sly Marbo to a duel to decide who is the greatest being in the entire universe. 
Beat a Tau Broadside battlesuit in ranged combat using only a lasgun. 
Tear down the Ecclesiarchy. I Am Not A God, I am godly but not a god. I took offense when Lorgar started telling people this for a reason. Humanity has NO NEED for Gods. WE are the masters of OUR OWN DESTINY. Humanity should Seize our Destiny With our OWN TWO HANDs. 
Clean house with the Administratum. How can we get shit done when we don't know how much we have to work with? 
Dig out my office from all the paperwork/peat moss that has accumulated over the years decades Centuries Fucking Millenia. Not looking forward to this one. 
Teach everyone the scientific method. Again. 
Eat the Chaos Gods. Or brutalize them into line. Somehow... 
Hunt down my Legendary Power Sword. Again. 
Come up with a Name for my Legendary Power Sword. 
Drag Leman Russ and Corax out of the Eye of Terror. 
Throw a WAAAGH 
Invite the Orks to said WAAAGH. 
Aim said WAAAGH at the Necrons/Tyranids. 
Bring a camera. 
Force the use of the term "Heresy" punishable by flogging unless adequately vali-HERE-Gahk.. HOW DARE YOU QUESTION HIS ORDERS?! HERETICAL TRAITOR Ahem, validation. 
???? 
PROFIT. 
Come up with more shit for The Emperor's list of Things to do after Resurrection 2.0 if things do go south for some reason and the Emprah-dread ain't ready yet.


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## arturslv

I've been fairly insistent to you readers out there that Khârn the Betrayer was a pretty fun guy to be around. I know he gets a bad rap for the whole 'slaughtering his own allies' thing, but unless you've been there after a battle with him you don't really appreciate how much he strives to please his chaos god. 

It was after one of our many conflicts that the Red Rivers Infantry were preparing to march on to our next destination. Never mind that it was half the planet away, we as traitor guard didn't get transport vehicles. So as you can imagine when someone declared they'd found an Imperial Drop-ship in working condition everyone clamored and fought to get a free ride to our next engagement. 

Knowing full well I was too far away to get on the ship, I stayed with some of my fellow traitors at the battlefield. I'd seen Khârn after the battle, and as soon as we'd gotten our marching orders he was picking up corpses and putting them down elsewhere. This took an hour before he was satisfied, and seeing an audience he happily led us up onto a hill as the drop-ship flew a pass over the top of us, probably to gloat. Proudly, Khârn gestured to the battlefield, and then waved up at the drop-ship with his other hand. I peered down the hill, and realized he'd arranged the bodies to make out words, so many killed to form: 

On your drop ship hull
I planted a melta bomb
Blood for the Blood God


It was at that point the drop-ship erupted in a violent plume, and crashed down on top of the haiku. Roaring in a cheer, we lifted Khârn up together and made to carry him to the next battlefield as a sign of our appreciation and devotion to his art. 

We got about five paces before our spines liquefied, but Khârn didn't hold it against us for trying. 

Seriously, what a guy.


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## arturslv

I've always said Khârn the Betrayer is a heck of a guy in spite of his reputation. But even I have often wondered just which side of him was more prevalent. The great guy or the butcher? 

I got my answer when The Red Rivers sacked an Adeptus Mechanicus primary research facility. Aided by renegade tech priests we opened the bulkhead doors of the Head Magos's research chamber, and ended his life. In this room was a huge throne that the Magos used, a massive collection of wires around a cold metal frame used to interface with the facility. 

Grinning, a guardsman jumped onto the throne and yelled "HEY GUYS! I'M THE EMPEROR!". We barely had time to chuckle before hearing a loud clang behind us. 

Behind us stood Khârn, his axe having slipped from his grasp as he stared at us. We weren't sure what was happening till frothing blood began to spill out his helmet. 

With a roar of anger that drowned out our own cries Khârn rushed the throne, ripping it out of the wall over his head as the guardsman remained sitting in it screaming helplessly. With a cry of "REVENGE!" Khârn drove the entire throne through the floor, utterly destroying it and the guardsman in an explosion of gore. We ran. 

I was too slow and the other guys sealed the bulkhead behind them, leaving me alone and cowering as Khârn advanced. He was almost upon me when he stopped and burst out laughing at me. 

"APRIL FOOLS!" 

Rattled but relieved, I burst into an exhausted laugh at the clever gag. Suitably pleased, Khârn slapped me on the back and praised me for being such a good sport. The Tech Priests tell me they've never seen a bulkhead breached by a human body before, but that's Khârn for you. Heck of a guy.


----------



## arturslv

It was a normal day, just like any other, almost. Commissars were shooting their men, etc. But there I was, with the Red Rivers, sitting on some shithole of a bunker, when we just heard this loud crash. Of course, we thought it was an attack, it being in the middle of the damn night and all. A few of the guardsmen jumped next to the bunker wall, while I hit the ground. Suddenly, another crash was heard, this time closer. It sounded like it came from the inside of the bunker. 

“IT’S MY DAY OFF!” Khârn spoke as he broke the reinforced concrete wall, smashed a few guardsman directly in his path, and ran off. I didn’t know what had happened until a bit later. 

Across the land, several hundred kilometers out, lived a farmer, who took care of his heard of bronto-cattle. When he awoke this day, he grabbed his boots, put on his hat, got his tools, and stepped out the door, where several hundred dinosaur sized cattle were flipped on their backs with their insides scatter around the field. Carved in each one with what looked like a rusty fence post was the words “IT’S MY DAY OFF”. 

Blood of the people, skin of the innocent, bones of the pure, all laid out in a complex pattern. The cultists performed the exact ritual, syllable to movements, all in accordance with whatever Tzeentch had wished. Skies were darkening, wildlife fleeing, storms that shouldn’t happen this time of year started appearing. Then, out from the bushes, Khârn leapt, slamming a cultist into the arrangement, and instantly turning him into liquefied pulp. Across the land, a sound of a giant record stopping was heard. 

A single cultist watched as Khârn continued on his way, oblivious to the ritual. “Wow, I wasn’t expecting that”. He was then instantly destroyed. 

The commissar watched the mountains surrounding him. Fortified in his city, waiting for the forces of Chaos to come, all he needed was to wait until- “ENEMY SPOTTED. FIRE ON COORDINATES” A voice screamed through his earpiece. The basilisks quickly responded, firing at all the coordinates shouted through the comm. units. Eventually, they exhausted their ammo. The Commissar looked on the mountains, expecting to see the ruined army of Chaos. Instead, he saw nothing but splintered trees and rocks, and the craters from the barrage, which seemed to spell out “IT’S MY DAY OFF!”


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## arturslv

You know, being a part of a Chaos Campaign isn't just one great big conga line of decadence and killing like they probably tell you in the cults. There's lots of long moments where you're sitting in some shattered ruin waiting for the sorcerers to finish divining the next place to move. During these times I try to find whatever books I can and just read a bit. Sometimes you just get propaganda, but occasionally you find something someone has hidden away from all eyes. Heretical stuff. 

I found this one book in the city of Majoris Prime. It was like reading about Tzeentch without the tentacles. 

That was about the time Khârn found me, apparently bored with beating the Slaanesh worshippers. He asked me what I was reading, and unable to quite explain it I passed the book to him. The berserker flicked through the first few pages idly, then as though captivated kept flicking through rapidly, head turning as he ran down the pages at lightning speeds as though possessed... I waited for him to say something, but for the longest time he just seemed entranced. 

At last he looked up, staring not at me but into the distance as if struck by a revelation. I was scared, more than usual. 

"I..." he started, "I have completely forgotten how to read." 

Then he dared me to eat the book. A great time was had by all.


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## arturslv

Down time between raids can be pretty boring, especially in the case of the Convent Complex of Decapitus IV, where the victims kill themselves before you get to them, and the crazies have nothing to torture. The Slaanesh guys are the worst. Without something to toy with they get all antsy and bother everyone. 

The Red Rivers had deployed to a hillside nearby the complex, mostly just taking stock of our own dead's gear and handing it out to one another. Most of us were Khorne boys, but there were always a few that had to be different. 

I was doing a quick search for more gear when I heard a series of almighty squeals, and a pair of bodies hurtled through the trees to my feet. I didn't have time to do anything before a head also came flying out and struck me in the face with an almighty crack. Broke my nose and knocked me dizzy. 

When my head cleared I found Khârn standing over me, with a small beret on. In one hand he had a paint brush, the other a little board with paints on it (though they were all just shades of red). 

"SORRY ABOUT THAT" Khârn yelled, much to my chagrin with the headache and all. He explained that he was painting, and the two fellows (Slaanesh, typical) had been giving him critique when all he wanted was a bit of peace. Once I'd gotten my bearings, I stood up and he showed me his work. 

"Khârn it... it looks like a painting of my eyes?" We shared a deep stare for a moment, then Khârn looked back to his work with a sigh. 

"I WAS TRYING TO DRAW A DUCK"


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## arturslv

The Annual Red Rivers costume party is more than just a traditional excuse to get drunk and invite some Daemonettes over, at least to me and those few of us who lived through last years: it will forever serve as yet another shining example of how Kharn's just a great guy to party with. 

There we were, in the middle of fun. The disco light was going, and we had an entire (formerly) Imperial planet all to ourselves to get dressed up and destroy in a fest of bad techno music. Everyone had shown up, it seemed, and even Abaddon was fairly relaxed; he waited a whole three hours before killing the DJ, and we were all drunk enough at this point to not mind the smell wafting over from the plague marine contingent, who spent most of the evening moping over the fact none of the daemonettes would dance with them. 

As I'd said, the party was in full swing when all of a sudden there was a horrible scream of rage, and then in through the window came everyone's favorite party guy, Khârn. He'd painted his armor all pink, and he'd ripped shreds of carapace off something to make a crude tail coming off his back. In the window he came, and landed squarely on the Daemonette I'd spent the last half hour chatting up, crushing her to a pulp and covering me in a spray of bits. He then proceeded to stand there for the next eight hours of the party, ignoring any and all attempts to lure him into conversation, or to get off the daemonette, who was still half alive after being crushed. 

I was kind of despondent after that, and spent the rest of the night drinking while Kharn spent the rest of the night standing still. Finally, just before we were about to dim the lights, Khârn took in a deep breath, and in a tone of horror and fear, shouted, "LOOK OUT, SLAANESHI WHORE!" 

The entire room burst into laughter. Man, what a kidder.


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## arturslv

"WHERE IS MY EQUERRY?!" Angron's roaring voice echoed throughout the ship, buckling two bulkheads and killing an astropath within the 'anger zone'. The World Eater's Primarch stormed through the corridors with his head held high, smashing it through several ornate archways as his feet battered and dented the floor with each step like the beating of a war drum. 

Captain Khârn of the Fifth Assault Company, Equerry of the World Eaters had been admiring the ornate workings of a dreadnought sarcophagus, a low sigh issuing forth from his helmet as he heard his lord approaching. With a thunderous crash, Angron threw his weight against the loudly snoring construct, sending it bowling into a nearby row of its fellows, knocking them all about like skittles. 

"TREACHERY! BLOOD! TRAITORS!" Angron screamed, flecks of spittle splattering all over the equerry's armor, "I'LL HAVE MY REVENGE! IN BLOOD! I'LL KILL HIS FAMILY! ALL OF THEM!" 

"What's wrong, my lord?" Khârn asked, his voice low as to not startle his already over-stimulated commander. 

Angron thrust a small plastcrete cube in front of the Captain's face, three little movable rows covered in colored squares. Even if it weren't practically being crammed up his nose, Khârn could clearly make out the shapes of Angron's armored fingers forced into every tile. 

"WHO MADE THIS?! I WANT TO EAT THEIR SKULL AND LINE MY BED WITH THEIR BONES! BLOOD!" Angron screamed again, utterly soaking Khârn head to toe in spittle. 

"I AM AWAKE?! IS IT TIME TO BATTLE?!" One of the dreadnoughts cried out, the sarcophagus merely wobbling on its side without being connected to its proper frame, as Angron and the Tech-priests continued screaming at everything. 

"And that" Khârn the Betrayer spoke to his audience of Red Rivers infantrymen, as he ineffectually plinked a skull full of blood against his mouthpiece and spilled it all down his front, "is why I decided to start killing everyone"


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## arturslv

There were victory celebrations, that much I can remember. Then the blood and other body fluids flowed. 

I woke up on some busted old bed in the remains of what was the Planetary Governor's palace, my blood-and-filth encrusted shirt half-draped out a nearby window. My head was ringing and as I groaned and rolled to my left, I came eye to eye with what I thought was one of those Sororitas. And damn near made a mess of the sheets. 

It all came back slowly. She was one of those holy ladies once, but she realized she liked burning and cutting things more than actually praying. Now she was just like me, only with more tattoos to Khorne and a rusty nail put through her lip. 

"Hey there beast" that fallen lady grinned, before kissing me on the cheek and giving me a big ol' scar in the process with her 'jewelery', "You guys were phenomenal" 

"'You guys'?" I groaned out, whilst rubbing my cheek. It was then I became aware of a shuffling behind me, and hurriedly I rolled over. 

There was Khârn, still in full armor, reading a newspaper that was a week old, a cigar jammed in his helmet's respirator. 

"One hell of a lay." the fallen sister remarked. 

Khârn glanced up from his newspaper and stared at me. After a very long moment, he put out his fist. I did the same, and as we brought our fists together, we both shouted "RESPECT KNUCKLES!" as I felt my entire arm shatter.


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## Lucio

"'Goddess of Temptation' came to mind here. Except that she kind of smelled like toast and burnt bacon."

You sir, are a genius.

LoTR references back on 15 made me laugh. Favorite scene in Two Towers, that. Though I'm not sure a Dwarf would be pleased to have his line taken by an ork.


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## lidane

I don't know Emprah-dread. Say the brief notes on Emprah-dread?:no:


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## arturslv

Another crusade foiled.


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## arturslv




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## arturslv

Tzeentch: Hmm... great, my elaborate tactics and thinking 973535279373254 moves ahead prooved quite useful. Only two turns left to my overwhelming vict- wait, wha- WHAT IS THAT QUEEN DOING HERE?! CRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED!!


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## arturslv

So. Fresh bunch'a recruits straight off the regimental home world, huh? Got your heads full of propaganda and not much else, lemme bet. Well, listen to me and listen good, kids - probably half of what you know is nothing but ambull-shit, and you'd better get that through your heads now rather than getting a traitor's lasbolt through your head on the battlefield. Now, you pray to the Emperor like you should, and if you don't the Commissar'll blow your head off, and that'll be a mercy compared to what I'll do to ya if I find out 'fore he does - but don't be thinkin' for a second that recitin' the Litany of Protection makes you invulnerable on a battlefield. 

Sure, you'll hear stories about brave Guardsmen that charged enemy positions armed with nothin' but their lasguns and their bayonets and won - and I'll even admit that probably a couple of them are true, but in an army that numbers in the billions one or two of ya are bound to get lucky every now and again, so it don't really say much. No, kids, they might make for inspirin' stories, but fanatical charges aren't what win battles. Battles are won by determination and tactics. Lemme tell you about this one time our regiment was servin' under the command of General Creed. 

Never a finer tactician has the Imperial Guard ever seen than that General Creed, let me tell you. He came up with plans so devious and cunnin' you didn't even have a hope of figurin' out how he'd done what he'd done 'less he explained it to ya himself. We were fightin' on Kavara IV, what'd used to be a good Imperial world till the taint of Chaos found its way down there and turned loyal citizens into traitorous scum. At the time we'd been shipped off, we thought we were just gonna be helping the local PDF put down a small insurrection, but what with the ways of the warp by the time we got there it'd turned into a full on rebel uprisin' and all the nobles were already dead or in hidin', and another army led by General Creed had arrived to bring it back under control - we'd been missin' so long they thought we'd been lost to the warp, you see, and sent another off in our place - so we wound up joinin' forces an' bolsterin' their ranks. 

Now, we got deployed into one of the urban centres that'd been taken over almost entirely by the heretics, goin' through clearing buildings of resistance and tightenin' the noose around their filthy necks. Only been gettin' minor resistance until a couple of hours in, when we stumbled across a fortified plaza that hadn't been in none of the intelligence reports. So there we were, pinned down by enemy fire, usin' rubble for cover and hopin' to the Emperor that'd we get some artillery support soon, when all of a sudden there's a tremendous rumblin' off to the right, soundin' like a column of tanks comin' up towards the buildin' we'd just cleared. 

We weren't gettin' nothin' about armoured support on the vox, so we was sittin' there shittin' ourselves wonderin' where the traitors had got tanks from, when all of a sudden the front of the buildin' just collapses out onto the street and a damn Baneblade rolls right on out in front of us. One blast from the main gun and it turned the heretic's position into a crater. The vox lights up and we get ourselves a message - "Armoured Support courtesy of General Creed", they say. Now that's tactics, kids - we never saw it comin', so those traitors sure didn't. The application of overwhelmin' force at just the right spot at just the right moment'll turn the tide of any battle in your favour. 

I took a look at that buildin' again as we were marchin' down the street in the Baneblade's wake, though. Funniest thing, the only hole in it was the one the tank'd made on its way out. How the hell we missed it when we were clearin' the place I don't know. How the hell Creed got it in there in the first place, I'm not sure I WANT to know - but let me tell you, pulling that off must've taken one hell of a tactical genius." 

-Sergeant Karls adressing new recruits to the Hirian 204th, shortly before being relieved of duty and sent for psychiatric evaluation due to inexplicable urges to scream incoherently.


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## arturslv

A Titan is a general term used by the Imperium for all things that are ridiculously MASSIVE and carry HUGE FUCKING RAPE GUNS that can blow the fuck out off the opposing side. The bigger ones are somewhat humanoid. Basically whoever has more Titans gets instant win. Most races own a titan of some sort, except for the Tau because they're too busy fapping and watching anime to build one. 


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Imperial Titans 

The Imperium has quite a variety of titans under the control of Adeptus Titanicus, each has a name and not one is the same as the other. They are quite often referred to as god machines due to their ability to blow the fucking shit out of anything in their way. They are so fucking huge that infantry cant do anything to them with their tiny ass guns. These titans can unleash unlimited amounts of RAPE via their MASSIVE FUCKING GUNS that are mounted on their arms and sometimes on their shoulders. Well actually there are guns fucking EVERYWHERE on a titan so when u see one you are quite fucked. Also they have 'void shields' which makes they pretty much invulnerable to whatever shit you can throw at it. 

Warhound Titan
The smallest Titan class the Imperium has but its still fucking massive. It looks like a dinosaur with no tail which makes it SCARY (Oh noes!). 
EPICIt carries smaller weapons such as a massive megabolter which is like a minigun that fires off tank shells, or a Huge ass LAZAR that rips your tanks a new one like they were made of cardboard. Or maybe throw a really big flamethrower on it. 

Reaver Titan 
Bigger than the Warhound so therefore causes more RAPE, this titan can wield an absolutely HUGE powerfist for fucking Wraithlords, Defilers, etc. It can also carry a massive hellfire missile launcher for more rape or triple lehzar rape cannons and even a fucking Gatling Rape Blaster 

Warlord Titan 
Its really REALLY fucking big, one of the more common huge fucking titans that carry all the weapons you can imagine from megabolters to huge lazer and devastator cannons that should've been mounted on some kind of fucking battleship. The Imperium seems to have almost as many of these as it has Reavers. Modified or custom built titans are known to exist such as the ANGRY FUCKING TITAN with its HUGE chain fist and even moar massive Chain fist, oh and it launches Angry Marines and Land Raiders, fucking awesome rite? 

Imperator Titan
HOLY SHIT IT WEARS CASTLES Over 9000 times bigger and heavier than a warlord Titan and too many massive fucking guns to count. IT needs a whole ship to itself to get it around. Unfortunately the Imperium doesn't have a lot of 'em anymore since those chaos assholes stole the majority of 'em {they still suck though}. They said that it's the largest thing to walk on land, because anything larger would produce it's own gravity. 


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Unfortunately fielding a titan in a tabletop game will cause lots of RAGE and presents itself as a huge fire-magnet so every fucking thing on the other side will try to shoot at it. Luckily its got shields so it can soak up a lot of damage. Should said titan 'get killed' it may take out the whole field if its a small one, and all those units around it enhancing its awesomeness.


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## arturslv

Angron
The second angriest son of a bitch in the galaxy. He was so angry that the part of him that was angry exploded from his head, thus making him permanently angry. Being kidnapped by the Emprah didn't help matters so he fucking RAGED at his dad by joining up with Khorne, Warhammer's God of Battle, War and RAAAAAAAAAAGE! 

Among his revered exploits include slaughtering the entire population of a planet within a night, killing an entire contingent of Eldar soldiers led by a Farseer in his sleep, leading a gladiator rebellion against their employers and slaughtering every army sent against them. Until a huge one made up about seven came and fucked their shit up. However, one must understand that they had already beaten 25 others non stop and didn't even have tea afterwards. The Emperor saved him from dying here, which was a tremendous hit to his martial pride and soon after he RAAAAAAAAAAGEed furiously against the Emperor, believing him a coward devoid of honor and joined up with KHORNE the aforementioned God of War, Strength, Killing, Bloodshed, Battle, RAAAAAAAAAAGE. 

He also slaughtered his way throughout Imperial Space for over a century with 50,000 World Eater Berserkers and destroyed/maim'dkill'dburn'd/broke the backs of/split open/fucked 70 sectors. However, in a subsequent Imperial offensive, Angron was banished to the warp and his men routed. To be fair, this strike force was comprised of 2 Titan Legions, 4 full Spess Mehreen chapters and over 30 Imperial Guard regiments to do that. And again to be fair, they put up quite a fight against the superior force. And even more impressive was that Angron's force was only comprised of Close Combat heavy infantry, no ranged support, no artillery, more like an angry mob of pissed off supermen than an actual army! Which lends credence to the fact, Khornate Berzerkerz = Awesome. 

He is armed with a really huge fucking chainaxe that's taller than him with chainswords for the chainteeth of the chainaxe. He's also got a stormbolter, but we wouldn't be surprised if that fired chainswords as well. Fittingly enough, it was called 'Godtearer'. 

Oh yeah, and he was lobotomized long ago so he finds joy only killing shit. He then replicated this technology on his fellow legionaries, despite the Empy's warnings. Even in spite of this, however, that swell guy became Angron's 'cool head'. Ironic. 

Primarch of the World Eaters and that swell guy. 

His son could be Guts from the Berserk manga. Alternatively, he might BE Guts. But such things is to Chaos what Heresy is to the Imperium. 

Retrieved from "http://1d4chan.org/wiki/Angron"


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## arturslv




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## arturslv

The Wonderful Misadventures of Inquisitor Fob and the Classy Marines.

"I say, I do believe these guardsmen are shooting at us!" Inquisitor Fob yelled over the sound of the Classy Marine's flintlock bolters, as he and Brother Captain Houston ducked another volley from the heretical Guardsmens' lasrifles. 

"Indeed they are sir," Brother Captain Houston responded as he let loose a few shoots, decapitating a batch of traitor guardsmen. "Some would even say it's quite heretical, sir," Brother Captain Houston continued, hoping the Inquisitor would get the hint as he politely pushed Fob's head down under the make shift barricade as another round of lasfire came in. 

"Oh no, I'm quite sure it's just a misunderstanding. I'm positive we can talk it out. Lots of supposed Chaos activity in this area; they see a bunch of heavily armed lads walking on, you know how it is." Fob turned to stand. "I say!" he yelled as he began to walk towards the traitor guardsmen. 

Brother Captain Houston sighed. It wasn't that Fob was a bad man. He was just a bit light in the head he thought as he broke cover to protect his employer. 

"I say!" Fob repeated, as he once again tried to gather the guardsmen attention, just as Brother Captain Houston took hold of a metal top hat he kept hanging over his waist. He filled the top hat full of frag and melta grenades, pressed a button to close the now bomb-filled hat, and the threw it like a discus at a group of guardsmen that were getting ready to blow Fob to bits. The top hat stuck into a nearby wall and shortly exploded, sending the traitor guardsmen to wherever it is that heretics like them went. 

"You know, I really just don't think I'm getting to these people," Fob continued on, completely unaware of the surrounding danger. "I don't suppose you could do anything to help me? It is your job, after all." 

"Right sir. Getting right on it sir. Men, with me if you please." Brother Captain Houstan said as he and several other Classy Marines stormed the traitor lines, using their power sabers to cut a bloody swath. He then got to what seemed to be the biggest and most ornate looking traitor, picked the man up by his blood-encrusted collar and said "The Inquisitor would like a word with you," and began dragging him back to Fob. 

"Right," Fob began, trying to get his bearings as Houston dropped the quivering man in front of him. 

"I'd like to discuss this whole shooting-at-us business. Now don't get me wrong, I understand. What with rumors of a chaos insurrection being planned, and Ork raids, and all that business, I can see how you're more than apt to go a little heavy on the trigger, but! you'll be happy to know that we are not with the traitorous forces of Chaos, are not Orks, and are in fact here to bring the Emperor's Holy Light to this desolate and isolated planet. So, if you would just tell your men to stop shooting at us..." Fob stopped. He was staring at the multipointed star that had been engraved on the man's forehead. 

"Oh dear. You, you just...sit tight while I try and I discuss something with the Brother Captain here, alright?" Fob continued as he walked a little away and waved Houstan over. 

"I must say, I believe these men are the people we're looking for!" Fob confided, as the Guardsman commander very quickly began trying to gain control of his charges and get them to stop shooting. 

"Indeed sir," Brother Captain Houstan said flatly. He had found it a good voice to use around the Inquisitor. As I said, he knew the man wasn't bad, just a bit daft. 

"Oh indeed, Brother Captain! I'm an Inquisitor after all. We have a sixth sense about these things. What do you think we should do?" Fob continued, completely immune to sarcasm. His mind was like a freight train. It knew where it wanted to go, and damn-all if such little things like "facts" were going to try and get in the way. 

"Would you like us to capture them for you, sir?" Brother Captain Houston said as he watched the traitor lines with interest. Someone was pushing their way to the front and they held a large staff covered in symbols that were best not looked at directly. 

"Do you think we should?" Fob asked, unaware as the heretical leader pushed his way to the front, hatred burning bright in his eyes. 

"May the Four Gods feast upon your bones!" The staff-wielder yelled, pointing menacingly at the Inquisitor. 

"Excuse me?" Fob responded, his train of thought being momentarily rerouted. This was another thing which had always interested the Brother Captain: that the Inquisitor's daftness tended to be both his sword and his shield. He was almost completely immune to the seductions of Chaos, if only because he most likely didn't know he was being seduced. 

"I have seen the light!" the staff-wielder continued, "And I know that your pitiful Empire of Man shall not stand! For when Khorne finally runs out of skulls to collect, and Tzeetch screams in anger as all his plans come unraveled, only Father Nurgle and Mother Slannesh shall reign triumphant, dancing in the ruin of all things, enjoying the last feelings of all things as they..." and so forth. 

"Oh my," Fob said as the staff-wielder continued his speech. "I fear this may be getting very ugly soon. Is there anything you can do?" 

"Gladly," Houston responded as he held up flintlock bolter pistol and fired a single shot into the staff-wielder's head. It exploded. 

While the remaining heretics either ran away or were shot down by the Classy Marines, Fob just seemed startled. "Oh my," he said. "Now look what you’ve done. They're all running away and scattering. Now we're going to have to burn down the entire city down. I do so hate doing things like that, you know," 

"I know, sir, I know," Houstan said, not entirely unkindly, as he led Fob back to the Thunderhawk. They were going to have a long day ahead of them.


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## arturslv

Story the First
+++++ From the historical records of Inquisitor Jangel, non-aligned investigator of Adeptus Astartes "Incidents". Section #511: The Last Transmission of Mordian Regiment #453 +++++ 

It was about a month into the latest push - I think our frontline had moved about three, maybe four feet forward. Day after day we spent staring into the fog, waiting for another wave of the Necrons. We all knew the line was buckling, and there was still no news of reinforcements. Then, a week after their last attack exactly, we heard the Necrons preparing. Monoliths were barely visible through the fog, probing the Imperial lines for weak points. So there we are, shitting ourselves, watching for glimpses of those fucking robots, when help finally arrives! 

I know what you’re thinking - when you’re told you aren’t getting reinforcements in this army, there’s no way in hell you’re getting any help. And still, there they were! Four or five squads of Space Marines, complete with a Whirlwind tank and a Dreadnought! We were so surprised to see them that Corporal Sutton actually shot himself, thinking the robot scum finally had us surrounded. 

Anyway, we approach the Marines with the Major, and those guys were a sight - they weren’t wearing any kind of uniform colors - it looked like they’d just painted themselves whatever they liked. I shit you not when I say I saw one wearing bright purple with pink polka dots. They pulled up just behind our trenches, and their leader waved to us. I’ll never forget that helmet - first time I ever saw a silver Tau helmet on a Space Marine. That guy gave off an aura of easy style, I’m telling you. The men visibly relaxed when he got close. “Alright gang, D Marines, here to help!” the figure bellowed when it reached us, giving the Major a heavy pat on the shoulder. A “<3” symbol flashed across the viewing slit. “You guys relax, we’ve got this sorted!” we gaped in awe as “STAY COOL” flashed across his visor. 

So they mobilized right away, jumped our trench and fanned out all professional style in front of the lines. The Dreadnought lumbered up behind them, and the whirlwind parked behind us. By now the Necrons were visible, slowly stalking towards us, rank upon rank of skeletal figures. The Major nudged me in the ribs and grinned. “See now? They’re locking targets with their missile launchers!” He shouted, pointing towards the Whirlwind. I looked, and saw that the missile launchers were indeed prepping themselves. Except they didn’t look like missile launchers. They looked like amps. “And now they’re tossing out grenades! This is the might of the Imperium, my boy!” The Major went on. 

Then the grenades went off, in a blinding flash of white light. I squinted out ahead of us, and saw that each Marine had struck a pose. I gotta say, they looked fucking great. Behind us, the Whirlwind amps began thumping out a beat, and the Dreadnought’s floodlights blazed on and off, creating a dazzling strobe effect. I found the Marine Commander in the line. He had his Power Fist in the air. The amps behind me muttered “Time has come to...”, and one finger went up. The beat went on. “Time has come to...” Two fingers. “World...the time has come to...” Three fingers. “GALVANIZE” And fuck me, they put on one hell of a show. They had the whole damn regiment dancing, right up until the part where the Necrons burst over the parapet and tore everyone apart. Me and a few of the lads got away, and looking back at the struggling mass as we fled I saw a banner waving defiantly from the heart of the Necron horde, proclaiming “HARDER, BETTER, FASTER, STRONGER” into the night, and a voice shouting "One more time!" 

I'm telling you, it was the Disco Marines. Always dancing, all the time.


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## arturslv

Story the Second
You know what they say about the Mordian Iron Guard. "Not one step back, Victory or Death!" Unflinching discipline will face down any foe! Well, turns out that’s just regular old recruitment bullshit. Last time we spoke, I told you about how we lost the frontline to the Necron interlopers. Hell, we all expected we’d be back in the same trenches within a week, but it really hasn’t gone our way. Four months on and we’re in headlong retreat along cramped dirt roads all chewed up by Baneblade treads. All the bloody rain's turned it into a mudbath, and the going had been painfully slow. 

Anyway, we were three weeks into the retreat, exhausted, and that’s how we met the Disco Marines for a second time. We knew the Necrons’d be closing fast, so the colonel sent out a distress call for evac. Well, turns out luck was on our side and we got not one, but two replies from friendly dropship squadrons. The Colonel didn’t bother to stop them both from converging on us, as he knew we’d need all the ships we could get if we were getting everyone out of there. 

So yeah, they arrive after about half an hour, and to the horror of us Guardsmen, they’re Ultramarine Thunderhawks. Now, no offense to the Emperor, but these guys are total dicks. Self-righteous pricks, the lot of them. We’d met them before on the campaign, and we knew all they ever did to "help" was stop the retreat and force us all into some "noble" last stand against the robots, hopping in their dropships and fucking off right before they all died, of course, leaving the piled corpses of thousands of Mordians behind them. Sure, they aren’t expendable like regular Guardsmen, but why even get into the last stand in the first place? Fucking glory hogs, all I got was two fingers lopped off. 

ANYWAY, we’re all grumbling as they land up in front of us, and the Marines come out. Very official, very professional. Emperor's finest, etc, etc. Their commander, huge guy, scarred face, walks over to the Colonel and says in ringing tones, so the whole regiment can hear: "I suppose you want us to carry your men to safety, Colonel? Well, I have some good news. The retreat stops here. With the Emperor’s steel, and the Emperor’s courage, we shall face down the Necron scum! Here, we make our stand! HERE, WE-" We’d all been losing interest by this point - heroic speeches become less impressive when you get them once a week - but we all heard it, in the distance; a rhythmic thumping. Soon the Marine Commander could hear it too, and we all strained to hear the words over the blaring tune. 


Disco-Stu has come to destroy YOU!“'Do the D.A.N.C.E! 1, 2, 3, 4, fight! Stick to the B.E.A.T! Get ready to ignite!” 

I knew who was coming when I heard that. And I’ll admit, I pissed myself a little bit I was so relieved. Maybe we wouldn’t have to join in with the stupid last stand! The Disco Marines were here to help! They had it sorted! 

“Do the DANCE! The way you move is a mystery! Do the DANCE! You’re always there for music and me!” 

And on that note, the Disco 'Hawks landed. God, they were great. I’ve never seen so much sparkly paint on Imperial armor. The bay doors opened, and out they came. It was in the day this time, so I could read their insignias - I didn’t see much in the way of Latin or purity seals, but there were a lot of mottoes. I glimpsed “Black by popular demand”, “Catching all the lights” and “Electroma” as they passed. Then they parted ranks, and out he came. I thought he must’ve died at the frontlines, but there he was, the Disco Commander, silver Tau helmet shining bright in the weak sunlight, wearing a thick purple cloak about his shoulders. He looked my way, and a “” slid across his visor. 

So yeah, no-one’s spoken in a while now. The Ultramarines are all standing at attention, and across the way the Disco Marines are leant up against their Thunderhawks, unpacking amps and all sorts of tech shit. The Disco Commander walked over to the Ultramarine head, and the guy growls as he approaches. “What the hell are you wankers doing here?” “We got a distress call. It sounds like these men are in dire need of some fun times.” The Disco Commander says. “STAY COOL” flashes on the visor. “You can fuck off. These men are under my command, and I say they fight, AND DIE.” he raised his voice so we could all hear him clearly for that. “Right here!” “They’re as much under my command as yours, Brother Amulius. You know there’s only one way to settle this.” Says the commander, and as he finishes, off comes the cloak, revealing the resplendent gold-on purple patterns underneath, the strobe lights flare, and the Disco Commander bellows “DANCE OFF!” The Marines behind him immediately take up the cry, and the amps blast a ringing “LETS! DANCE!” at the Ultramarines. 

Yeah, so that’s when the Ultramarine, Amulius, snaps. He goes fucking apeshit. His jaw twitches, and then he screams, spraying the commander with spittle; “Enough! Fucking! DANCE! BULLSHIT!” And on the “shit”, he bunches his fist and lays one on the commander. We all winced in sympathy, it was one hell of a punch. But the commander, he just takes a couple steps back, shakes his head, and looks up. There was a big ol’ dent in his helmet, and “IT’S SO ON” flashing repeatedly on the visor. He pushes a button on his wrist, and the heat vents on his backpack swivel to face Amulius. Yeah, turns out they’re amps too, and they start pumping a beat straight at him. The commander’s getting into it, letting the beat carry him as it gets louder, louder, louder, until even the furthest Guardsmen had to jam their fingers in their ears. And I still hear it all perfectly, the strobe lights still blazing, the commander framed against Amulius, making his lazy dance steps seemingly without a care in the world. Then the real tune hits us. “Put your hands up!” We winced again, even the Ultramarines were showing discomfort. “Put your hands up!” A couple of Guardsmen pass out. “PUT YOUR HANDS UP FOR DETROIT!” Amulius sinks to his knees, clutching his head. “OUR LOVELY CITY!” And the commander thrusts sharply forward, slamming his crotch plate into Amulius’ face, breaking his nose and sending him sprawling into the mud. 

And hell, we couldn’t help but cheer the guy on. Let me tell you, we had one hell of a party right there, crowd heaving as the Disco Marines lead the beat from their 'Hawk-top decks. 

Yeah, it was going great until the part where the Ultramarines rushed forward and started bashing our faces in with their bolters. 

Self-righteous pricks.


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## arturslv

Story the Last
This will be my last message to you - all I can do is hope an Imperial receiver catches all this and forwards it. The campaign’s gone from disastrous to catastrophic in the last few months, with the seemingly infinite tide of Necrons crawling all over the planet’s surface. In the end we retreated to our remaining strongholds, and that’s when the traitor legion arrived - Slaanesh Marines, thousands of them, hit us like a ton of bricks. We’ve gone over why they decided come again and again, and the only conclusion we’ve reached is that they saw an opportunity for carnage and just jumped to join in. 

So yeah, the traitorous bastards hit our fortresses, one after another, and they fall one by one. How were we supposed to stem the Necron advance on the one side and hold off perverted cultists on the other? Anyway, the Ultramarines, now in charge of the campaign, realize that we’re more or less fucked. Scattered Mordian companies and regiments all over the place, millions dead, and no progress. So they uncharacteristically forgo their last stand for once, instead opting to pull out entirely. That’s it. We’re all alone on a planet full of robots and chaos scum. Then what’s left of our regiment, holed up in the mountains, gets a message over the comm link. It was right from the campaign flagship. I guess it must’ve been a planet-wide broadcast. Anyway, it went something like this: 

“Men, you’ve all fought bravely, but the heretics and living metal scum have overrun us. Countless good soldiers have gone to their graves in the defense of the Imperium, and I regret that I must sacrifice many more to put an end to this calamity. The order of Exterminatus has been confirmed on this planet, and is scheduled to commence within the next three hours. There will be no further evacuation of the planet’s surface - our forces are too scattered, and the dropzones too dangerous to allow it. But remember, men, in death you will serve the Imperium, saving countless more from the corruption and the slaughter that follows these affronts to the Emperor’s grace. We may have lost this fight, but it only opens the door to new, fresh, glorious victories! I only regret you brave men will not be there to see them. In His name.” 

That’s it. That’s all we got. So yeah, we sit there all glum, until we hear the distant sound of roaring engines. We all ran up to the parapet of our little outpost, and sure enough a whole bunch of the Slaanesh Marines are racing up the slope towards us, clinging on to the sides of their rhinos, screaming their warcries. Our first reaction was to ready our weapons, but a few, realizing the futility of clinging on to life for another few hours, opted to end it there. Idiots. Help was at hand! A low electronic rhythm, and a great, metallic voice roaring over the tune: 

“Prime time of your life! Now! Live it! The prime time of your life! Prime time of your life!” 

Yeah, that’s right. The Disco Marines, back again! This time, they were cruising in landspeeders, and it was one hell of an entrance. We hear them coming up behind us, and turn around to see the first one hit the parapet. The driver jumped the ridge at an angle, so the speeder did a couple of barrel rolls as it jumped, confetti blasting out behind it as it went, to land perfectly about five feet away from our guys. Within seconds the air’s full of more speeders, careening over our meager defenses. We all forgot about the Slaanesh Marines and cheered them on as they got out of their seats. 

Now usually the Disco Marines have a laid back air about them, but not this time. They get out of their speeders and rush to the parapet overlooking the advancing enemy. Others snap open cases and start assembling their gear. They really looked like they meant business. The Colonel saluted the Disco Commander when he finally appears, striding purposefully out from amongst his men, and began to tell him about the heretic threat. The commander interrupted him. “I know, Colonel. Those aren’t ordinary Marines. They’re Noise Marines. We’ll handle this.” His visor read “SERIOUS”. It was terrifying, frankly. What in the Emperor’s name could make a Disco Marine so somber? 

Well, we were about to find out. The Disco Mrines lined up in front of the defenses, and the Noise Marines stopped their charge a little way from them. It’s gone deathly quiet - the only things moving are the LED lights on some of the Disco Marine backpacks, spelling out slogans like “INTERSTELLAR”, “Born 4 the beat”, and “REMIXAR”. Looking at them then, the Noise Marines looked a lot like the Disco Marines, actually. Sure, their amps were built into their faces and they looked all fucked up with their soundblasters hanging at their hips, but they each had their own look, like the commander’s lot. 

Anyway, the commander steps out into the empty ground between them. His Noise Marine counterpart does the same. They stare at each other for a while. The Noise Marine’s the first to speak. “Brother. It’s been a long time.” He rasps. “Not long enough, Lepidus.” Replied the commander, casually, but his poise betrayed him - tense, stiff. Lepidus, the Noise Marine, laughed. “Very well, commander. You will fight for them?” He smirked, gesturing towards us. The commander nodded. “Good. Allow me to begin!” 

And with that, he brought his hands down on the soundblaster, letting out a discordant howl - more Noise Marines joined, and suddenly out of the chaos a tune emerged, surprisingly catchy and upbeat. Lepidus led the beat, wailing to the tune. I couldn’t quite make it out, but it sounded something like; 

“Hiiiiigh life! Myyy life! HIIIIIGH LIIIIIIIIFE!” 

There was a clear cessation of movement in the air, and the Disco Marines collectively took a step back under the sheer pressure of sound. But the commander took two steps forward. One of the Marines behind him grabs a mic and tosses it to him, and the rest ready their synthesizers and decks. The commander catches the flying microphone, slings it round under his helmet, and the Disco Marines start their own tune. The Noise Marines stopped as the new sounds hit them, starting with a piercing beat and gradually loudening to a pant-shitting crescendo. The commander nods along for a few moments, then starts his riposte. 

“Ahh! Because we! Are! Your friends! You’ll! Never be alone again! Come on! Well come on! We! Are! Your friends!” 

On that, he turns to us, and starts clapping to the beat. We clap along with him, cheering the commander on - by this time lights of all colors are flaring on both sides, and the first rank of Disco Marines advanced, pumping their fists in the air and doing some fucking great dance moves. 

The Noise Marines had suffered this for a while by then, and Lepidus gave the signal for a counterstrike. The first two ranks of Slaanesh Marines marched forward and began blasting out a ferocious tune. The Disco Marines responded in turn, blasting out an equally energetic beat to counter it, with us still cheering them on. You could actually SEE the music, writhing and curling about the rivals, their amps hissing smoke and their instruments, in some cases, actually aflame. Soon they were completely wreathed in smoke, and all we could hear was a violent, chaotic musical frenzy emanating from within. Occasional flashes of purple or red darted through the smoke. 

We watched that for several minutes, then the Colonel stands up. “The Marines are fighting for us in there, men! It’s time to stand shoulder to shoulder with them!” He bellows, raising his sword. As one, we jumped the parapet and rushed into the smoke, screaming our defiance. 

God, that smoke was thick. Couldn’t see a damn thing, but after a few moments stumbling through it, we burst into the eye of the storm. And what a sight we got. I’m not lying here, this is the solid truth. I don’t know where they got the stage from. I don’t know how they’d got their guys to coordinate for these songs. But they’d done it. We got in there to find the Disco Marines and Noise Marines side by side on the stage, banging out a tune. Lepidus and the commander were standing at the front of the platform, back to back, both of them blasting out the beats on their instruments of funk. The commander’s visor reads “PEACE”, and as he sees us arrive, he beckons us over to the front, and shouts; “YOU READY FOR THIS SHIT, MORDIANS?” 

They then proceeded to lay down something wonderful. 

And that’s where I am now. I’ve left the party to record this message for you, using the regimental comm link to broadcast it as far as I can. The Exterminatus barrage has just begun, I can see the sky burning on the horizon. I imagine we only have about ten minutes before the atmosphere’s totally stripped. Still. 

We’re gonna celebrate. Oh yeah. One more time. Oh yeah. Don’t stop the dancing. One more time. 

+++++ Thought for the day: "The Beat can never die." +++++ 

[TRANSMISSION ENDS] 

Retrieved from "http://1d4chan.org/wiki/Disco_Marines"


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## arturslv




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## Davidicus 40k

hungryugolino said:


> I vote that arturslv make his own thread if he wants one with his name on it.
> 
> P.S. Where did you get your sig image?


Took me a while to find it again, but this is a pretty good article and it has my sig image:

http://pc.ign.com/articles/108/1080371p1.html


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## arturslv

All I'm trying to do is to keep this thread alive. I have seen many threads go dead and cold and... *sniff* sorry, guys. And to remind, I did not write or draw this stuff that I have been posting, but all credit to those guys who did.


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## arturslv

He needs MOAR Dakka


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## arturslv

I guess that's a start, but still needs MOAR.


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## daemosa




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## Svartmetall




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## Bane_of_Kings

Love the Ravenor one and the Nurgle one. 

Bane of Kings Out.


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## khorneflake

wow, talk about threadomancy... i made this when i first came onto this site, i thought it died...


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## warsmith7752

Some say I have the body of a god, shame it's nurgle. I had a 50/50 Chance of being a sex bomb and I get stuck with the plague! Even bird brain gets some respect, slanesh gets to sit and pleasure itself and khorne sits there like a rock made of flesh then has the occasionally violent fit.


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## Amoeba Bait

Just something I made up myself:
You may have to zoom in, the text got squished.


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## shampawnya

Holy crap! I remember Squats! Actually I think I had a set of them...


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## XxDreMisterxX

Does this count as 40k humor? haha. xD


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## Scathainn

This may have already been posted, but it gets me every time.


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## Alsojames

Hey, I'm looking for an artist to draw a WH40K comic series with me.

The premise is centered around a chapter of SMs called the Iron Angels (with silver armour and red trim)

The first comic features 4 strips of a Space Marine of the IA chapter pounding a Traitor Guardsman into the dust, only to have him make his measly AS on 5s and 6s every time. In panel 5, the SM shoots the Guardsman, only to reveal that he is wearing Caraprace Armour (4+ AS), and as such can't get the AP value.


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## Alsojames

*My turn *

*Famous Last Words*


(An Imperial, to an Inquisitor): 'I'm an Atheist'

(Guardsman, unaware that his female comissar is right behind him): 'Dude I would sooo bone her'

(To a librarian wearing a Helmet): 'Ooooh, Now do Darth Vader!'

(To a pair of Daemonettes): 'Cockblock!'

(To an Ork): 'Make love not war'

(To a Great Unclean One): 'Dude, You Stink'

(On Halloween, to an Inquisitor): 'Ooooh, Lookit me, I'm a deeeeemooon!'

(To a Custodian): 'Missed a spot'

(To a Dark Eldar): 'I think you need some psychiatric help'

(To a Tyranid Gaunt): 'Awww, can I keep it?'

(Eldrad Ulthuan, to his army): 'We're screwed'


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## shampawnya

Okay I know I gotta post this here:

My new version of The Sanguinor!;










Space Jesus! Smiting the fowl wretches of the warp with "The Electric Guitar For Great Justice" and the magical powers of Rock! 

P.S. The Mystic bottle of JD bestows upon his unit the universal rules of Fearless, Feel No Pain, Stubborn, Furious Charge, Rage, Eternal Warrior and Awesome!


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## DestroyerHive

View attachment 9262


filling up space...:music:


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## Alsojames

Lol that was good.


5 Things you'll never see in the 40k universe but should:


1. A Vidicare singing the no-scope song

2. An Adeptus Sororitas in a langerie shop

3. The Emperor (or a Custodian) buying laxitives

4. An Inquisitor playing a Chaos Daemons army

5. A Guardsman repeditally pulling the trigger on his lasgun in a dark area, for the simple reason that he actually believes it is a flashlight.


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## Master WootWoot

Just some comics that i have made. It's also on the
'Sketches and art-forum'.

View attachment 9277

View attachment 9278

View attachment 9279

View attachment 9280

View attachment 9281


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## Alsojames

haha, those are funneh


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## Master WootWoot

Glad you like it!


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## Professor Pumpkin

A few I've come up with:

Chapter Master Gabriel Seth: Flesh Tearers! Listen to me! I have found a way to once again make us heroes of the Imperium!

Flesh Tearer Marine: How?

Gabriel Seth: It will be a path fraught with danger, and it will take us many years to complete! It is... community service!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jerry Springer: Hello, and welcome to "The Jerry Springer Show"! Today we have The Emperor and his son Horus!

"The Emperor walks onto the stage"

Member of the Crowd: Boo! You suck!

Emperor: Exterminate him Robert!

"Robert Gulliman appears and shoots the crowd member"

Jerry: So, do you mind me calling you "The Big E"?

Big E: Not at all mortal.

Jerry: So, I hear that you're having some issues with your son, Horus. Would you like to elaborate?

Big E: Of course. My son is trying to kill the rest of my children and myself.

Jerry: Ouch. I bet that hurts.

Big E: Yes. In fact some of my children have allied with him. This saddens me, although Fulgrim doesn't. He was a waste of space anyways.

"Fulgrim emerges holding a "Nuts" magazine"

Fulgrim: What a load of bull-crap! What did I ever do?

Big E: Although you do is wank and torture people. You're the fucking Jigsaw of the 41st millennium.

Fulgrim: But wanking is good! And so is torturing people! And I LURVE Slasherporno's!

"Big E shakes his head and looks at Jerry"

Jerry: Let's get Horus on the show ladies and gentle xenos!

"Horus walks on and kills the front row for fun"

Jerry: What was that for!?

Horus: I don't know. I like fucking stuff up.

Fulgrim: Not as much as I do!

Jerry: So, Horus, I take it you and your dad are having a little argument?

Horus: It's more of a heresy, but sure call it that.

Jerry: I know that you've turned to the Chaos gods for help. Including Khorne the god of Blood and-

Angron: BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! LEMONS FOR THE LEMON GOD!

"Angron walks on and drinks the blood from the front row of the crowd"

Jerry: Whoa! Calm down! Can I finish my sentence please?

Horus: Yes. Angron is a fucking nutjob pay no attention to him.

Jerry: So, as I was saying Angron now supports Khorne, Fulgrim supports Slaannesh, Magnus the Red supports Tzzenntch and-

"Magnus changes from a curtain into himself"

Magnus: Hi. I didn't know Angron the fuck-wad would be here Horus.

Horus: Yeah, well neither did I. Now let Springer continue!

Jerry: Thanks, and the last god is Nurgle, supported by Mortarion.

"Mortarion appears and sneezes on a few people"

Mortarion: I have a very bad cold you know.

Jerry: So we'll be right back after this break to see how Fulgrim, Angron, Mortarion, Horus, Magnus and The Big E handle these issues.

Jerry: Ok guys, welcome to back to the show!

Robert Gulliman: Can I talk now, fuck's sake GW need to give me another book...

Jerry: Oh hi Robert.

The Big E: Robert! My only non-retarded child!

Robert: Hi Daddy!

Horus: Shut up Robert, before I pound your face into Mortarion's huge arse!

"Robert cries and runs away"

Jerry: So I take it you still have a few loyal sons then Big E?

Big E: Oh yes. I'll get them to come on stage.

"Sanginuis, Lion El'Johnson, and Rogal Dorn walk onto the stage"

Big E: Where are the rest?

Lion: Leman started fighting, so we left.

Horus: You know, this chat show is shit. Why the hell didn't we book Oprah?

Fulgrim: I might have given her a disease.

"All the primarchs look at Fulgrim"

Fulgrim: What? I like a little junk in the trunk.

Horus: Not now Fulgrim, we're on TV. And not Babestation.

Sanginuis: I got wings!

Rogal: I want some fucking money!

Lion: Both of you shut up. And go fetch that shit sack called Robert.

Big E: You know Lion, you're my favourite.

Lion: Shut up.

Robert: So are we just going to talk or eat cookies or something?

"Robert stands at the door as Leman Russ barges in and sends Robert into the ceiling"

Leman: BITCH! FUCK YOU ANGRON!

Angron: NO YOU FUCK YOU!

Leman: NO YOU!

Angron: NO YOU!

Jerry: FIGHT!

Crowd: Jerry, Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!

The Big E: Both of you sit down!

"Big E kicks Leman in the face"

Horus: Fuck this I'm going to my battle barge.

"The entire group is teleported up"

Horus: I forgot it's a group teleporter. 

Big E: DIE HORUS!

"Everyone runs away except Fulgrim who sits and flicks throught Nuts"

Jerry: I'm going to follow Sanginunis and see what happens.

Sanginunis: Horus! You fudge head! DIE!

"Sanginunis fails and is killed, but makes a dent in Horus' crotch piece"

Jerry: Uh... Don't hurt me please...

Horus: Don't worry, I like you.

Big E: Horus! Let us duel!

Horus: Ok! But no name-calling!

Big E: Okay!

"Hours pass and the battle is a stalemate, but the dent in the crothc piece reveals some of Horus' cock"

Fulgrim: Holy shit! It's huge!

"Fulgrim begins to tickle it, throwing Horus off-guard, allowing the Big E to kill him"

Big E: Yay! 

"Big E trips over Fulgrim and breaks every bone in his body"

Fulgrim: Uh... Can you edit out the last part?

Jerry: I guess so. But only if you suck on this!

*FOLLOWING SCENES DELETED BY THE IMPERIUM ARCHIVE*


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## Master WootWoot

That is really absurd, and it made me laugh!

+rep!


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## shampawnya

I started a one paneled humorous WH40K comic and thought I post er here... lemmie know what ya think... or should I continue workin' my dayjob


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## Alsojames

Hahaha double or triple A?


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## shampawnya




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## Master WootWoot

Hehe... I see guardsmen is a popular comic topic.


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## Geeky

Bit of self promotion regarding the 40k humor(hope noone minds, it IS relevant to the topic): 

http://www.geeky.nu/humor/warhammer-40k-how-the-horus-heresy-really-begun/ - Imperial scribes have found records from the events predating the Horus Heresy! 
http://www.geeky.nu/humor/idiots-you-will-know/ - More of a general wargame thing, but anyone who plays warhammer 40k for any amount of time will regognize some of the issues 

Anyway, hope someone gets a laugh out of my attempts at warhammer 40k humor


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## GrizBe

*Watches the crickets and tumbleweeds roaming the thread.*


----------



## Alsojames

Geeky said:


> Bit of self promotion regarding the 40k humor(hope noone minds, it IS relevant to the topic):
> 
> http://www.geeky.nu/humor/warhammer-40k-how-the-horus-heresy-really-begun/ - Imperial scribes have found records from the events predating the Horus Heresy!
> http://www.geeky.nu/humor/idiots-you-will-know/ - More of a general wargame thing, but anyone who plays warhammer 40k for any amount of time will regognize some of the issues
> 
> Anyway, hope someone gets a laugh out of my attempts at warhammer 40k humor


LOL. Number 11 + 12 win!


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## Wusword77

For the LoLs :laugh:


----------



## Lord Solar Macharius




----------



## Anfo

LOL at the names under each ork.


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## Lord Solar Macharius

Not mine.


----------



## Harland

Where is arturslv???
I want to read the rest of Traitors!


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## MidnightKid333

lol nice jokes about the dark angels, especially the "can you keep a secret" one


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## Alsojames

> Matt Ward's welcoming to the Dark Pantheon:
> 
> 
> Nurgle: Welcome to the Warp, human. I am Nurgle, Lord of Decay.
> 
> Ward: Uhhh yeah, i wrote your Fantasy book. I know who you guys are.
> 
> Nurgle: Oh yeah. That's right. Made us really strong and tough to beat.
> 
> Khorne: Yeah that's right. Thanks for making us super kickass, Matt
> 
> Ward: Sure, no problem.
> 
> Tzeench: I love that we're our own book now. It's a wonderful.....change.
> 
> Khorne: Kinda got nerfed in 40K though
> 
> Ward: Sorry guys, not under my jurisdiction
> 
> Gods: (collective 'oh')
> 
> Ward: So what's this all about?
> 
> Khorne: We're elevating you to the rank of Chaos God. We like you that much. Your horrible Grey Knights codex in 40k caused so much infighting among the faboys that my skull throne grew three times its size since release!
> 
> Tzeench: Yes, it was a rather nice....change from the rage over Teclis in fantasy.
> 
> Nurgle: Kinda made demons a major pain in the ass to use. Hmm....Major pain in the ass.....like hemmorhoids. Hehehehehe
> 
> Khorne: Hey yeah you're right. This human punk practically fucked us over with the GK dex!
> 
> Tzeench: That bastard Draigo keeps levelling my city....
> 
> Nurgle: And burning my forest!
> 
> (The three look at Ward menacingly)
> 
> Ward: Uhh......guys?
> 
> (The three proceed to beat the shit out of Matt Ward)
> 
> 
> Tzeench: Where's Slaanesh?
> 
> Nurgle: He's wanking somewhere to the fanboys' compulsive raging over Matt's bad fluff writing.





Some kind of bump :/


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