Toyhammer

The following article is a /tg/ related story or fanfic. Should you continue, expect to find tl;dr and an occasional amount of awesome.

A Fan fic in progress by Rogue Psyker

Chapter 1

"This is Inquisitor Iosef Danilov. What is your status?"

Ragged breathing hissed out of his helmet as the grey-armored figure tapped his Vox-caster.

"We are currently unsure. The terrain is most confusing as it bears little... coherence. The surface I am on can only be described as... springy. This place appears to be artificial, sir."

The sound of battle erupted around him as the lead Knight began firing his Storm Bolter, ripping a ragged line of holes in the cliff face. A slim, armored warrior stood before them, its spear crackling ominously with eldritch powers as it faced the four Grey Knights.

"You are outnumbered, xenos! Prepare to die!"

Then suddenly, there was a popping sensation as oddly armored figures emerged from nowhere.

"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~"

Chapter 2

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."

Omake: 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?"

Chapter 3

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.

Chapter 4

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..."

Omake: Farseer Days: Frustration

"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.]

Omake: Resurrection Destruction

In the dawn of time, the Necrotyr had always been a rather sad race. They were burned by their own sun, and their lives were short. The race of the dead had always seen the constant reminder of their own short lives. Bad luck and the Necrotyr race traveled hand in hand. Until the C'tan arrived, they knew little of what happened outside of their system, their science focused only on lengthening their paltry lives under the harsh glare of their sun. Gods of the Stars, they offered the Necron immortality, but as always, there was a price: Their very souls, their personalities.

Encased in living metal, they accepted this terrible price, and became the Harvesters of Souls, bent on eradicating all life in the materium. Billions died on millions of worlds as the war between Gods raged. In the end, the C'tan were beaten back by a third force created by the malevolent use of the Warp, and soon they decided to slumber, to weather the storm beneath the crusts of worlds spread throughout the galaxy.

Aeons later, the Necron rise again...

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."

Chapter 5

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."

Omake: c0gb01

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..."