Warhammer 40k : John The Inquisitor

The fanatical defenders of the factory had been all guts and no strategy, charging wildly and spraying bullets like toddlers with finger paint. It was chaos, fueled by their apparent overindulgence in scarlet pigment. One of them almost shot Marshall, mistaking his polished armor and clean uniform for the mark of a heretic. The irony wasn't lost on him.

Sighing, Marshall folded his arms and turned his gaze to the glowing golden icon of the Redeemer. His brooding was interrupted by a quiet, almost ghostly arrival beside him. Startled, he glanced sideways and then did a double take. "Where the hell have you been, John? You missed all the fun."

"Dealing with some issues. Hope I didn't miss anything too exciting," John replied, his casual tone matching his lopsided grin.

"Not really. Just Harry's victory speech and the priests' usual droning proclamations. You're lucky you skipped out."

Their conversation was cut short as a jubilant believer bounded over, clutching a pot of scarlet pigment incense. "Brothers! This is the finest holy dust reserved just for you! Praise for your glorious deeds, Brother John!"

John took the offered incense burner, his smile never wavering. "Where's Brother Montana? Haven't seen him give his customary sermon."

The believer's fervor didn't dim. "Oh, he's busy with something important. No one's seen him, but I'm sure he's doing the Lord's work." He passed another incense burner to Marshall, who exchanged a glance with John before reluctantly taking a puff. The believer laughed wildly, his eyes bloodshot. "Can you hear it? The gods are laughing, praising our victory!"

"Absolutely," John said, patting the man on the shoulder. "Keep celebrating. May the Emperor guide you."

As the believer staggered back to the crowd, John signaled Marshall with a tilt of his head, leading him out of the raucous hall. The laughter and hymns faded as they entered the silent, dimly lit corridors of the monastery. The vibrant warmth of the celebration was replaced by the cold monotony of gray stone and pale light streaming through tall windows. Statues cast long, haunting shadows, turning the corridor into a mausoleum of forgotten time.

John stopped beside a statue of a soldier holding a spear and a laser gun, his flag seemingly caught in an eternal breeze. Unlike most imperial statues, this one's markings of allegiance had been erased. Even the Sky Eagle was gone.

Marshall's instincts flared. John's usual smirk had been replaced with a rare, serious expression. "What's going on, John? Spill it."

"Alright, cards on the table," John said, folding his arms. "I know you're an undercover agent. Let me guess—sent here by the Grand Arbitrator?"

Marshall's face froze, his hand twitching toward his holster. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't play coy. You didn't lose your marbles after inhaling the scarlet pigment, which means you've got filter lungs like me. That's not standard issue for zealots. Plus, your marksmanship? That's no novice skill. You're a sniper, trained in open terrain—not something you pick up in a hive city. So, yeah, you're not exactly a true believer."

Marshall hesitated, his fingers brushing the grip of his weapon. John raised a hand, his grin returning. "Relax. I'm not turning you in. Hell, I'm undercover too."

Marshall blinked. "What?"

"Yep," John said with a theatrical shrug. "Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus, at your service. And no, my name isn't a pseudonym. What about yours?"

Marshall straightened, his hand falling away from his holster. "Lieutenant Marshall Cops, law enforcement officer, Victoria System. Formerly of the 758th Cadian Regiment."

"Cadian, huh? Fought in the Victoria Counter-Rebellion?"

"Yes, sir. Chaos cultists."

"Figures," John muttered, rubbing his neck. "Listen, I've got critical intel. There's a major threat brewing on the other side of the galaxy. I need to meet your boss—fast."

Marshall nodded, his face grim. "Understood. I'll relay the message immediately."

John stepped closer, lowering his voice. "There are heretics in the upper echelons of Hive Victoria. Keep this between us and the Grand Arbitrator. Loose lips sink planets."

Marshall's expression hardened. "Got it. Do you know who?"

"Not yet, but I'll find out. Montana's dead. I pulled some juicy secrets from his mind before he went. Now I just need to climb the ladder and see what shakes loose."

"Understood, sir. Anything else?"

John gave a humorless chuckle. "Yeah, hurry. This threat? It's bigger than you think."

Marshall watched John disappear into the shadows, his mind racing. His eyes fell on a battered mural depicting the Battle of Macragge. The Ultramarines' triumph loomed large, yet the cracks and fading colors seemed ominous. The statue of the Astra Militarum soldier stood tall, but Marshall couldn't help but feel the weight of a future victory—if it came—might be far grimmer.

***

The sharp clang of metal echoed through the training cabin, reverberating like the toll of a Randy. Cold, flickering light danced beneath the strips of illumination, streaking like meteors across a midnight sky. Inside the cage, combat training servitors wielding high-speed swords whirred and slashed with relentless precision.

Tony moved through the chaos like a shadow, his every step fluid and deliberate. What appeared to be a dizzying whirlwind of blades to the untrained eye unfolded in slow, deliberate arcs in his vision. His enhanced senses and Astartes reflexes turned a deadly storm into a choreographed dance. The tall, agile Dark Angel twisted and weaved through the servitors' attacks, his movements almost hypnotic.

Unarmed, Tony faced the mechanical death machines with nothing but his wits and his courage. A single misstep and one of those razor-sharp blades would end him, yet he showed no fear. This was his element. Here, in the heart of danger, he thrived. He spun, ducked, and pivoted, his body a whirlwind of motion, evading strikes that should have been impossible to dodge.

Suddenly, Tony shifted his stance. His hand darted out like a striking serpent, slamming into the servitor's shutdown switch. A series of mechanical whirrs and clicks followed as the servitor's limbs locked and retracted. The once-lethal machine folded into itself and disappeared into the ceiling hatch, leaving behind an eerie silence.

Tony exhaled deeply, his sweat-soaked form gleaming under the cold lights. He stepped out of the cage, grabbing a towel that was more like a mortal's bath sheet, draping it around his neck. Even the simplest tasks seemed to require a touch of grandeur when you were a towering Space Marine.

The public training hall sprawled out before him, but it was unusually quiet. Only three other giants occupied the space. Randy, the robed and ever-serious Dark Angel, sat on a bench, tinkering with a bolter using multi-tool pliers. Nearby, Robert swung his chainsaw axe in wide, menacing arcs, the weapon's teeth roaring like an angry beast. "Why so late, Tony?" Robert called out, his wolfish grin exposing sharp teeth. "Got tired in there?"

Tony snorted. "Tired? Hardly. I was performing the prayer ritual. Unlike some of us, I actually honor the customs of my Chapter." He cast a pointed look at the Space Wolf, his tone dripping with mockery.

Robert rolled his eyes. "You Dark Angels and your mumbling rituals. What's next? Singing lullabies to your swords?"