Warhammer 40k : John The Inquisitor

Tony ignored him and approached a rack—but instead of alcohols, it held a beautifully crafted long sword adorned with holy winged motifs. A cluster of mechanical servitors hovered around the weapon, swinging incense burners and performing what looked like a sacred ceremony.

Tony placed a hand over his heart and began to recite in High Gothic, his voice low and reverent. "Oh Lion of Caliban, guide this blade to strike down the enemies of the Emperor. Let this sacred weapon never falter."

Robert groaned. "There it is again. High Gothic. But why's yours so weird? Randy's doesn't sound like that. Is this some Caliban dialect?"

"Not quite," Tony replied, running a finger along the blade's edge. "It's the accent of my home world, Goronni. Even after all these years, I can't seem to shake it."

"Goronni?" Robert tilted his head. "Where's that?"

"A feudal world," Tony explained. "I was the eldest son of a knight there before the Dark Angels chose me. My people have their own ways, their own stories. Even in the Chapter, those roots stay with me."

Robert squinted at him, clearly unimpressed. "Wait, wait. You're telling me the Dark Angels don't recruit exclusively from Caliban?"

Randy let out an audible sigh. "The Dark Angels are a fleet-based Chapter, Robert. We recruit from many worlds. This isn't news."

"Yeah, but I thought Caliban was your homeworld!"

"It was," Tony said, carefully applying holy water to the sword's blade. "Until it was destroyed. All that remains is the Rock, a massive asteroid fortified with engines and void shields. It's our mobile fortress monastery."

Robert stared. "Caliban exploded? How does that even… Never mind. Did you guys study this in your Chapter history? Because we Space Wolves don't bother with boring lectures. Stories of glory are way more fun."

"Of course you'd think that," Randy muttered.

"Hey! Our Primarch, Leomond, had plenty of glorious tales," Robert shot back, puffing his chest. "Remember the story of the great hunt? Or the time he wrestled that beast on Fenris?"

The old wolf Olaf chuckled from his corner. "Aye, those were tales worth hearing. And Robert, don't forget who kept you alive long enough to brag about them."

Robert grinned. "True, true. But I bet the Dark Angels' trials aren't half as brutal as the Space Wolves'. Tony here looks like he'd faint after a stroll through Fenris ice fields."

"Care to test that theory?" Tony challenged, raising his sword. "We still haven't finished our last sparring match."

Robert's chainsaw axe roared to life. "You're on, kitten."

"Enough!" Olaf barked, his commanding voice cutting through the tension like a thunderclap. Both warriors froze mid-step, weapons poised.

From the shadows, a figure emerged—half-man, half-machine, with a mechanical voice that ground out each word like gears turning. "The Inquisitor has spoken. There is work to be done." The Astartes warriors exchanged glances. Their playful rivalry was over. It was time for war.

In the icy expanse of the Milky Way, the planet Victoria Prime hung in the vast, endless darkness like a lone sentinel. With no satellites or meteorite rings to keep it company, the planet was a picture of solitude. Its surface was a tempest of chaos, with gargantuan cyclones swirling endlessly, painting the surface in intertwining shades of white and gray-brown—a chaotic dance of nature's fury. Despite the madness, a faint shimmer of light emanated from the planet, wrapping it in an ethereal glow. In the vast emptiness of billions of light-years, Victoria Prime was a lonely beacon in the void.

But peace—if it could even be called that—was about to be shattered. From the depths of space, several small black objects darted toward the planet like predators zeroing in on prey. The Thunderhawk gunships tore through the outer atmosphere, their descent lighting up the sky like a swarm of fiery meteors. The lead gunship, painted a striking blue with a roaring shark emblazoned on its nose, led the charge. Two other Thunderhawks followed close behind, and ahead of them, five Lightning fighters sliced through the thick clouds with surgical precision.

The atmosphere fought back, buffeting the incoming ships with violent turbulence. Yet, the high-powered vector propulsion engines of these galactic raptors roared defiantly, their blue flames scorching the sky as they tore through the planet's thick veil. As they broke through the clouds, the engines shifted seamlessly, and the ships stabilized, their fiery descent transitioning to a controlled glide.

Inside the blue Thunderhawk, the red warning lights dimmed, signaling the end of the chaos—at least for now. The violent shaking subsided, and Johnson, an imposing figure clad in black power armor, glanced around the cabin. His three Astartes brothers stood locked in place by hydraulic restraints, their immense frames unyielding.

Robert, ever the boisterous one, unlatched his restraints first, stomping toward the center of the cabin. "We've broken through the atmosphere! By the Emperor, this cursed turbulence is finally over!" he Randy said, his voice echoing through the metallic interior.

Randy, ever the pragmatic one, spoke up. "Have we been detected?"

The answer crackled over the comms. "Negative, Lord Randy. No radar signatures or defense responses. The station we scanned before launch seems abandoned. No heat signals detected."

"Typical," Tony muttered, his tone laced with disdain. "This planet has zero defense awareness. Any Imperial enemy could waltz in unchallenged."

Johnson smirked. "True. But at least it works in our favor. Squadron leader, take out their anti-aircraft firepower. Pilot, prep for airdrop."

The Lightning fighters surged ahead, their engines roaring as they targeted a sprawling factory on the wasteland below. The workers on the transport deck, blissfully unaware, continued their mundane tasks, pushing carts of scarlet pigment toward waiting trucks. Their routine shattered as the first missiles screamed overhead. Explosions ripped through the factory, turning defenses into smoldering ruins. Survivors scrambled in panic, but their efforts to fight back were laughably futile—their rifles and curses equally ineffective against the incoming storm.

The Thunderhawks followed, their blue vector nozzles adjusting for a hover just above the factory. From the lead ship, four enormous figures dropped to the ground with a resounding thud, their black power armor gleaming ominously. "Astartes!" someone shrieked, but the cry was cut short as Tony raised his bolt pistol, ending the poor fool with a single shot.

Chaos erupted. The guards' bullets and laser fire glanced harmlessly off the Space Marines' armor. The Deathwatch had arrived, and they weren't here to negotiate. Bolter fire tore through the defenders, leaving nothing but carnage in its wake. Robert and Tony strode forward like avatars of destruction, power weapons cleaving through bodies and cargo alike. Johnson watched with a grim satisfaction as his brothers carved a path of annihilation.

"Landing," Johnson commanded. Behind him, two more Thunderhawks touched down, disgorging squads of Stormtroopers. The elite Imperial forces formed up and advanced, their Hellguns spitting precise beams of deadly light. The guards stood no chance; their disorganized retreat turned into a slaughter.