Eversor
- "Fear me, for I am your apocalypse."
- --Eversor Temple Mondus Executus
Eversors are one of the varieties of assassin utilised by the Officio Assassinorum in the Warhammer 40k universe. They are psychotic nutters implanted with extensive cybernetics and drugged up to the eyeballs then put to cold sleep, only warmed up and awake during missions, making them near-perfect killing machines. On /tg/, Eversor assassins are known for their tendency to smash through walls and scream "WRYYYYY", shamelessly ripping off both the Kool-Aid man and Dio Brando, before slaughtering everything unfortunate enough to be in the room.
On the tabletop, Eversor assassins began life as near-invincible monstrosities; Melta Bombs made them the only assassin that could really threaten vehicles, while their combat drugs gave them the ability to do a triple-length charge or even not die until the end of the turn regardless of damage. The Neuro-Gauntlet's original incarnation halved the entire stat line of anything it wounded, including their remaining wounds, leading to combat best summarised as "oh hai Abaddon" *splat* "now you're a guardsman" *splat* "now you're a Gretchin."
These days, they are of debatable usefulness. With a lucky roll, they can cause incredible damage on a charge, but because of this the enemy tends to concentrate quite heavily on shooting the screaming junkies before they have a chance to kill everything. If you're in a large battle, consider using one as a distraction. If the enemy kills it before it can do its thing, they've not been shooting at your other units with several heavy-hitters; if it gets into combat, enjoy rolling the most dice for a single model you'll probably ever roll. Just remember to use it to justify its points cost - whatever it does, it's an expensive piece that probably won't see the end of the battle.
As a short summary of the Eversor, think of your neighborhood drug-addict and/or serial killer, give him a chainsaw, a storm-bolter, power fists, power armor then inject him so full of morphine, heroin and whatever else you can inject to into him until it starts leaking from every opening in his body, then mind-control him so he can do your bidding and tell him to kill anyone and everyone and everything he sees that isn't you. That's a good idea of what an Eversor is.
Also, anytime and every time an Eversor shows up it means that shit will hit the fan, in fact it will hit the fan so hard that the fan flies off its socket and decapitates the Tau weeaboo communist that's waiting outside.
Last but not least, this insane cocktail of drugs masquerading as a living being explodes when you kill it, and his blood is essentially acid. So even if you do gain the upper hand and kill it, an Eversor has the last laugh.
The Eversor's dynamic entry
1. Scream: Oh yeah! While destroying point of entry.
2. Commence Pelvic thrust
3. Wryyyyyy...
4. Kill...KIIIIIILLLLL!!!!!!
5. ?????
6. Profit!
Gallery
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Someone has a case of the Mondays.
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Eversor Assassins are also known for appearing doing peaceful things, because that's "funny".
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This is a sketch, a more detailed picture would show the Eversor on top of a mound of corpses.
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Nothing is sacred, especially when made fappable.
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WRYYY!
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Turn signals are for pussies.
Kýrie Eléison
Chapter One
Sick. The Officio Assassinorum drone always felt sick whenever he entered ‘the hive’. A long catwalk suspended in the middle of a cavernous hexagonal hall, the putrid green glow of endless status monitors and stasis tubes radiated an aura of death and decay. Not so unfitting for the legendary storage vaults of the Eversor Temple.
Despite his many trips to the hive, Nicolas Gilbo could never suppress the shiver in his spine that always snuck up on him when he least expected it. Shaking off his unease, he moved slowly to monitor station #4432 to finish the rites of rearming and release. He stared up into the face of death, suspended in a fetal position within its fluid tomb. The irony was not lost on him. A skeletal, barely human husk gazed vacantly back at him, its augmentics continually twitching despite being comatose. Out of curiosity, he flipped through this unit’s combat history. Unit service life three years. Number of sorties, two hundred and sixty. Estimated enemy casualties inflicted, eight thousand five hundred and twelve, half of those from a planetary governor’s dirigible brought down in the center of Falchion hive.
Biological age, twelve standard years.
But it was the list of wounds sustained in action that horrified him the most.
T3-T9 thoracic vertebrae shattered from an Ork Warboss, left arm amputated after close combat with World Eater Champion, fifty seven separate stubber and lasgun wounds. Three cardiac arrests and automated restarts, and it didn’t stop there. By the Emperor, what did it take to kill one of these things? With great trepidation, Gilbo keyed through the unit’s start up routine and assigned unit #4432 its next mission.
“What kind of dreams does a monster like you have?” Gilbo wondered.
See Also
- Core of Brutality
- Praise the Emperor, in which we see into the mind of an Eversor assassin.