Marvel: Warhammer Simulator

Simulating Launch—

[Current Identity Acquired: Space Wolf Bloodclaw (Warp Variant)]

[Please select a descent identity.]

[If refused, a random identity will be assigned.]

[Identity selection refused.]

Simulating Launch—

[You have descended into the Warhammer Universe.]

[Time: Unknown]

[Location: Milky Way Galaxy · Outer Reaches · Unknown Void]

[You find yourself aboard a combat barge named the Kraken.]

[You are inside a private chamber.]

[Behind you, a massive water tank occupies a third of the room's space.]

[You are wearing a mismatched set of Mk V Heresy-pattern power armor.]

A frail, sickly boy approaches you hesitantly, holding up a heavy metal helmet with trembling hands. His eyes shimmer faintly—one blue, the other red—suggesting some sort of mutation.

You breathe in the damp air instinctively and take the helmet. The boy flashes a nervous smile, his malnourished teeth bearing the marks of stunted growth.

"Name," you say in a low voice, your tone like coarse sandpaper scraping across glass.

"M-my name is S-Spongy, Lord P-Patrick…" the boy stammers, his expression hesitant.

You can't help but grin, baring a row of sharp, shark-like teeth. With your armor fully equipped, you move to a fractured mirror within the room.

Reflected back at you is the image of a bald Astartes warrior. Your ashen-gray skin resembles that of a corpse, and even the whites of your eyes are entirely black.

The mismatched pieces of your Heresy-pattern power armor bear a distinctive shark insignia etched into their grey ceramite surface. Recognition flashes in your mind.

Space Sharks… The Carcharodons Astra Chapter.

Behind you, Spongy speaks timidly, reminding you that the short lunch break is about to end.

You follow him out of the cabin, navigating the labyrinthine corridors to the lower decks of the ship. Eventually, you arrive in a vast area Spongy calls the "Crab Hall."

The hall is crowded with mortal crew—easily numbering around three thousand. Amid the throng are Astartes warriors like yourself, most clad in similarly mismatched power armor, their skin equally ashen. A few share your entirely blackened sclera.

You sit in an unoccupied corner, watching Spongy weave nimbly through the crowd toward the food dispensary. Eventually, he returns with a small bowl of nutrient gruel laced with ceramic powder and a liter of stale water.

You frown as you take a bite of the flavorless gruel, your expression unchanging as Spongy carefully sips from his bowl of watery corpse-starch with visible reluctance.

Your keen senses pick up the scent of roasted meat as a brawny mortal warrior walks past, carrying a plate piled with it.

"Spongy," you say, "watch my bowl. Don't steal a bite—you'll choke."

Rising to your feet, you make your way toward the food dispensary. The crowd parts instinctively before your towering power-armored frame. Even the Astartes warriors glance at each other with faint confusion as you block the dispensary entrance.

You grab a mortal chef by the collar, lifting his sweating, corpulent body into the air.

"Why is my servant only given corpse-starch, while others get meat?" you demand, your face emotionless as you stare him down.

The chef trembles violently, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, unable to form a coherent response.

"Scout Squad Patrick 5020, put him down," a deeper voice booms from behind you.

You turn to face the source—a massive Astartes clad in ornate Terminator armor. His shoulder pauldrons bear a Terminator Crux and prayer scrolls, with three ancient iron skulls hanging from his belt.

Judging by the reverent gestures of nearby Astartes, you deduce his rank. Releasing the chef, you salute him with the Chapter's formal gesture.

"Captain," you address him instinctively, though you do not know his name.

"Why are you bullying mortals?" the captain growls, his voice like a depth charge reverberating through your ears. "Have you forgotten the Codex Astartes, or the dignity of being an Astartes warrior?"

You wait until his scolding ends before calmly explaining the situation. The captain, whose name is revealed to be Chauvin, listens impassively before questioning the chef himself.

From their conversation, you learn that food supplies on the ship—and for the entire Chapter—are running low. The mortal warriors granted meat are part of an auxiliary force known as the Devourers, destined for a high-casualty mission. The meat is their final meal.

You fall silent, guilt and understanding washing over you.

Turning to the chef, you offer a sincere apology. Then, facing Captain Chauvin, you admit your mistake.

Chauvin accepts your apology and hands you a portion of his own rationed meat—a gesture of camaraderie and discipline.

"Patrick, this ship is our home. Once forgotten, we are now changed. These mortals are Emperor's children as much as we are. Don't let this happen again," Chauvin says gravely.

You nod, baring your shark-like teeth in a grin.

Then, with deliberate calm, you make a request:

"Captain, let me join the mortal auxiliary in their mission. I'll take responsibility for them. I'll do my best to bring them back alive."

Chauvin's black sclera shift slightly as he considers your words. After a moment of hesitation, he agrees.

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