Warhammer 40k : John The Inquisitor

The muzzle of the bolt gun erupted with deadly flames, spitting death into the air with sharp, thunderous roars. The bullets ripped through the dim underground corridor, tearing into their mark with devastating precision. The unfortunate Genestealer barely had a moment to react before its upper body shattered like fragile glass.

Nearby, a chain-axe roared to life, its teeth gnashing through limbs and flesh with savage enthusiasm. The once dull, gray-brown walls of the corridor now dripped with gruesome red, transformed into a macabre canvas. The artist? A deadly force, a figure of destruction unmatched and unrelenting.

A purebred Genestealer crumpled to the ground with a satisfying thud. The towering giant wielding the bolt gun pivoted smoothly, unloading another precise volley to take down a leaping attacker mid-air. The alien's blood sprayed across his winged helmet, staining its black feathers a deep, ominous crimson. The Dark Angel didn't miss a beat. With a fluid motion, he swung his power sword, slicing clean through another alien, bisecting it in one graceful arc.

The Space Marine stood tall among the carnage, surrounded by shattered bodies and the metallic stench of blood. He raised his weapon, casually dispatching an opportunistic foe without so much as a glance. A plasma shot ignited an oil barrel nearby, triggering a chain of explosions that illuminated the corridor in fiery brilliance. He didn't even blink, the flames merely casting dramatic highlights on his helmet. Beside him, Robert—a Fenrisian Wolf in his brutal element—strode forward with a chainsaw axe in hand, its teeth slick with alien ichor. He fired his bolt pistol in measured bursts, each shot finding its mark with ease. The stark contrast between their calm composure and the panicked chaos of their enemies was almost poetic. Where the aliens scrambled and shrieked in terror, these two titans moved with calculated precision. Every shot, every swing, added another gruesome stroke to the battlefield's grim mural.

"Why are we even here cleaning up this trash?" Robert grumbled, not pausing as he calmly dispatched another unfortunate alien. His tone was as nonchalant as someone lamenting a tedious chore.

Tony, his fellow Dark Angel, gave a slight shrug, his bolt gun barking with authority. "Weren't you the one complaining about boredom and begging for a fight? Well, here you go."

"Don't give me that," Robert snapped, his tone dripping with disdain. "This isn't a fight; it's a slaughter. There's no honor in this."

"Honor's irrelevant," Tony replied coolly. "We're enacting the Emperor's will. Duty, Robert. Responsibility to the Imperium. That's what matters. Not your ego."

The crackle of the communicator interrupted their banter. Randy's voice, calm yet laced with a touch of amusement, filtered through amidst the distant hum of gunfire and screams. "Still whining, Robert? You got your fight. Quit complaining."

"And where's John?" Robert shot back, barely containing his irritation. "He's probably up there sweet-talking bureaucrats or..." Robert smirked knowingly, "...getting better acquainted with the new female governor."

"Definitely the latter," Tony chuckled. "We've been around him long enough to know his playbook."

"Years," Robert mused, pulling the trigger and dropping another enemy with a clean headshot. "So long I've lost track of time. How many centuries has it been now?"

"Centuries are just numbers to us, Robert," Randy's voice chimed in. The sound of heavy bolters roaring in the background added an unintentional dramatic flair. "Astartes don't count years like mortals do. It's all war and duty."

Robert snorted. "Still, feels like forever. And speaking of forever, what's the deal with John? You and the Inquisition—not exactly besties. Yet here we are, cleaning up after him."

Tony aimed and fired with casual precision. "Because John's not like the rest of them. No pomp, no pointless executions, no exterminatus for kicks. He's… different. Even the old Wolf Bjorn respects him."

"Ah, the Moon of Shame," Robert muttered, nodding slightly as if the words held an ancient weight. "That's why Logan's always had a soft spot for him."

"Logan has good reason," came a new voice, rich and steady. Johnson, the old wolf, had joined the conversation, his words carrying the authority of countless battles. "Armageddon. We were at our lowest—ammo gone, brothers exhausted. John had us cornered, yet he let us leave. Warned us to safeguard the refugees. Even pulled strings to save planets doomed by the Inquisition's purges."

"He didn't have to," Johnson continued, his voice tinged with an almost imperceptible reverence. "But he remembered what others forgot: the Imperium was built on hope. Not fear."

Robert smiled faintly, his axe tapping rhythmically against his helmet as he thought. "Yeah, that sounds like him. Not the usual brand of lunatic we're used to."

"Speaking of lunatics," Tony chimed in with a dry chuckle, "remember Asmodai? John managed to get that madman to cooperate. A galaxy-level miracle, if you ask me."

The group shared a moment of laughter, their banter flowing as naturally as their movements through the carnage. Even as they reminisced, they moved with the precision of seasoned warriors, dispatching enemies without breaking stride. Randy's voice crackled again, bringing them back to the present. "We're driving the rest of them your way. Get ready to mop up."

Robert smirked, stepping up to a mounted heavy bolter. He kicked aside the corpse slumped over it and hefted the weapon. Tony stood beside him, his bolt gun at the ready. The corridor ahead erupted in chaos as the fleeing xenos rushed towards them, oblivious to the doom awaiting them.

Robert pulled the trigger, unleashing a torrent of death. The bolter roared like a feral beast, shredding the horde into unrecognizable chunks. The corridor became a hellish storm of gore and smoke. When the weapon's final round was spent, Robert let it fall with a metallic clatter, surveying the carnage with grim satisfaction. "And that's that," he muttered, turning to the others. 

The four Space Marines stood amidst the wreckage, towering over the mountain of corpses. But before anyone could speak, their communicators buzzed again. Bryan's voice cut through the silence. "Everyone, back to the surface." 

Elsewhere, John reclined in the luxurious bed of the Governor's Mansion. The heavy Roman-style curtains framed the room in an opulent glow, and the soft, warm blankets wrapped around him like a cocoon. Beside him, Jenny stirred, her bare shoulder peeking from beneath the quilt as she rested her delicate fingers on his chest. John smiled, content and relaxed. He closed his eyes, savoring the rare tranquility. Nothing could disturb them now. Well, almost nothing.

The communicator on the bedside table beeped. Jenny stirred, her hazy eyes opening as she glanced at the offending device. With a groan, John reached for it, already knowing who was on the other end. "Bryan," he drawled, barely masking his irritation. "This better be important."

"Ultramarines are here," Bryan announced bluntly. "Third company commander Kyle Fabian and five companies of Space Marines. Get dressed and meet me at the airport."

The line went dead, leaving John to chuckle softly. "He knows me too well," he muttered, shaking his head. Turning to Jenny, he offered a lopsided grin. "Duty calls."