Ward-pocalypse

This article or section involves Matthew Ward, Spiritual Liege, who is universally-reviled on /tg/. Because this article or section covers Ward's copious amounts of derp and rage, fans of the 40K series are advised that if they proceed onward, they will see fluff and crunch violation of a level rarely seen.

The Ward-pocalypse

The figure strode through the mire of blood, the entrails of the dead swarming with pale maggots feasting on the remains. Its armour was slicked with blood, unknown which heretical chapter this space marine came from. Above, the sky whirled in a myriad of colours, yellow fading to blue fading to blood-red, at the same time but not at the same time at the same time. The moans of the wounded and dying could be heard over the moans of daemonettes, sating their lust with the rigid bodies of the deceased. The figure paused for a moment, to witness a gory red daemon, a sword in it's claw-like hand, dismembering one of the cadavers on the ground. The armour this specific cadaver was wearing - more specifically it's colouring - appeared to be that of a Blood Angel. Space Marines. The creature finally finished it's hacking, and gave a screech of triumph, lifting the severed arm into the air for all to see and feast their gaze upon.

The figure began to stride again, wading through the knee-high gore until he reached some sort of cathedral. Upon it's Imperial spires were impaled the near-corpses of many Sisters, their faces locked in a rictus of never-ending pain as Furies tore at their open entrails. A smile crossed the figure's hooded face and he looked back towards the doors to the cathedral, stomping his way up the wide stairs, slick with the blood of the loyal. He entered the doors, and everything seemed to take a deep breath in. Inside the cathedral it was devoid of noise and gore and creatures of the Warp. Lines of wooden pews, untouched by that which had ravaged outside, stood row upon row, facing an altar at the other end of the cathedral. Upon this altar stood a figure of the Emperor, cast in gold, his face looking down in noble humility. Beneath this altar of untouched purity, another figure was bowed in prayer, his whispers echoing inside the building, his unhelmeted face beseeching his lord for strength.

The figure, nearing the end of the pews and the kneeling figure, gave a laugh, it's noise disrupting the purity of the cathedral and breaking it's purity. The praying figure stood and placed it's helmet back on, sealing the Corvus-pattern helm, and turned to face the intruder. A battle-brother of the dismembered Space Marine left outside in the seas of blood, his armour was clean of the filth of battle, it's red seeming to shine brighter than the statue of the Emperor behind. The statue seemed to be smiling, almost. A chainsword was leaning against the altar, teeth devoid of smears of gore, and a bolt pistol was in his hand, fully loaded. The beak-faced helm gazed levelly at the menacing figure, and a voice spoke, clear and precise, almost an art in itself.

"You have destroyed the purity of this shrine, and all those who worshipped it Brothers, sisters, those with beards and without. You have destroyed them all. In turn, they shall destroy you, heretic."

A menacing voice filled the room from underneath the figure's hood, low and growling, yet high and whining at the same time, but not at the same time at the same time.

"You shall be corrupted, as I once was. Do you not even know the perpetrator of this massacre, loyalist scum? Look upon my face, and see."

The figure pulled down it's hood, and the Blood Angel barely held back a gasp, seeing what could only be a lie. In all his glory, there stood Roboute Guilliman, face recognisable under layers of gore and twisting skin. With a hand, the figure wiped gore from it's massive pauldron, revealing a stylised 'U' in gold. With another echoing, mocking laugh, it placed gauntleted fingers at it's chin, and pulled. With a ripping, fleshy noise, the skin tore, and was removed, revealing another face, one even more horrific than the last.

Here, in all it's terrifying, horrific glory, stood the Bringer of the End Times, that which would bring around the apocalypse. It's face twisted as a name rushed to the Blood Angels' lips.

"Matt Ward." "Heretic."

"Am I so much as that? I work for the Fourfold Powers, and they pay me well to disrupt every aspect of this universe as you know it. Through devious means, I have brought about the destruction of four fifths of the Grey Knights, who hold no power against me now. I have removed ninety percent of the Sisters of Battle convents. The Ultramarines have increased tenfold in power and size under my guidance, and now follow me and only me. The Emperor is a fraud, and he shall soon be dethroned, and replaced by Me!"

Another laugh echoed around the room, and a roar of frustration and anguish mirrored it from the Blood Angel. A red haze of fury gathered around his vision, and all he could see was the Arch-Traitor, Horus, facing him on the battle barge in orbit around Terra. From his eye wept a single, blood-red tear as he spread his wings, feeling the heavy weight of his sword, forged by his father, leapt into his hand. He dropped his pistol, feeling no need for it's ugliness in a duel between brothers. Horus laughed again, and raised a pistol, boiling with plasma, from his side and pulled the trigger.

Uncaring of the damage it would cause, the Blood Angel, feeling the righteous might of the Black Rage within him and powerless to stop it's advance, charged towards Matt Ward, not feeling the plasma as it roasted a cauterised hole in his left side. His plate-like ribcage and vital organs were undamaged, but the wound would soon take it's toll. Raising the chainsword in a two-handed grip, he brought it down in a strike that would surely have split the traitor in half, had it connected. Matt Ward took a step to the side and reached out with his empty hand; clutching the Blood Angle's helmet and ripping it clear off, leaving the head bare. With hate and blood-filled eyes, the Angel turned to face the traitor, seeing him only as Horus, reliving Sanguinius' final moments. Grabbing the blade of the chainsword, Matt Ward bent down until he was level with the face in front of him, staring into the eyes that saw only corruption and whispered, the sibilant sound promising more than he could ever give.

"I could give you power, more than you could possibly imagine. The power to wipe any Chapter you do not want off the face of the galaxy. To rewrite history unto your own ideas, corrupting that which was once perfect into a twisted agony of what it once was."

With a roar of inner pain and conflict, the Blood Angel tried to bring the chainsword closer to Matt Ward's face, but the traitor held it too tightly, keeping it steady as the whirring blades broke underneath his ceramite-clad palm.

"I promise you this, and more. By my side, we will rule the galaxy, removing the Corpse-God from his throne! WE COULD HAVE IT ALL!"

With a final, anguished howl, the Blood Angel let go of the hilt of the chainsword and threw himself bodily towards the traitor, his pauldron-clad shoulders meeting the torso of Matt Ward with an audible crack. The traitor was thrown backwards, armour cracked and hissing forth gases of unknown compositions of his own design. The Angel stood and walked shakily over to where the traitor got to his feet, anger and hatred visible in their eyes. On his way, his picked up his chainsword and thumbed the activation rune, hearing the reassuring noise of it thrumming back to life. His mouth twisted as he viewed Horus beckoning him forward, a grin of pure malice on his face. Finally within range, he pulled the chainsword above his head to deliver the killing blow, and then stopped. He looked down, and saw a hand of claws, lightning arcing across their surface, buried within his chest. Blood fizzled and burnt upon their surface, as Matt Ward stared at him, a wide grin showing corrupted teeth. The traitor pulled him close, and whispered into an ear.

"If you shall not join me, then you shall die."

Agony tearing him apart, the Blood Angel let out a defiant howl more akin to that of the Space Wolves, and brought his chainsword down in an arc. Without another thought, Matt Ward's head was removed from his shoulders, rolling to a stop in the corner. His Astartes-enhanced body struggling to cope with the mortal wound he had been dealt, the Angel pulled himself from the lightning claw, the Black Rage fading as his eyesight dimmed. His unsteady feet carried him over to the statue of the Emperor, dropping his chainsword form nerveless with a loud clatter as it hit the stone floor. His feet failed him, and he dropped to his knees, close to the statue of the almighty ruler. Crawling forward, his legs failed him as blood drained form his body from he mortal wound he had been dealt. Pulling himself forward now with his hands, clawing at the stone as he wrenched the last movements from his body.

Pulling himself finally to the altar, he heaved his body into a sitting position, back against the altar and the Emperor. He couldn't feel anything below his waist, and the blood flow had nearly ceased from the wound he had been dealt. The cauterised plasma burn in his side didn't hurt now. His vision started to grey out, and he reached pulled off his right gauntlet with slack hands, the ceramite hitting the floor with a loud clunk. With the skin bared to the cold air, he reached behind him and touched the foot of the mighty statue. The gold felt cool against his hand, soothing him. A single, bloody tear slid down his cheek and dropped to the floor, the red bead glittering on the dull stone.

Matt Ward would not have his way now.

He was reassured by the touching of the statue. His eyes closed, and his last thoughts were of the Emperor. His body lay at the foot of the altar like a sacrifice to a god, bloodstained and broken in his glory.

He could see the sands of Baal in his eyes, and feel the harsh winds blowing against his face. His hands were around the haft of a sword made of metal, to hunt for the survival of his tribe. Getting a feel for the surroundings, he began to walk. The sun stood like a single eye and, for a second, it seemed to be made out of gold.