So, I May Be A Daemon (Warhammer High)
Foreword
At the moment, there only exists a prologue. Expect more to arrive.
Now with its first chapter! Almost literally actually.
Prologue
"There! Near Cadia a temporal anomaly. Unlike anything I've ever seen!” A Cadian in black armour and red fatigues pointed to an indistinct blob on the terminal monitor to his right, displaying the results of numerous scans taken in and around points of conflict for the Imperium and its enemies. “That’s just a Warp storm Jefferson. Remind me why I requisitioned you and not just your equipment?” Inquisitor Conroy van Vonvolkvan stared at his subordinate resisting the urge to put Bolter round through his skull, to see the brains of the incompetent guardsman before him splattered over is equipment. No, it’d be better to wait out the pain of his incompetence. He swiped dust off his pauldrons, unable to see what he was doing for his they created a collar around his head. A slight click, was all that would indicate a rail along the back of his cloak; it was the only thing that kept his armour together, else his pauldrons would fall to the ground, and he’d be left in bare Inquisitorial Power Armour, revealing it to be little more than the armour of a Neophyte.
“Milord, you requisitioned me, because I designed this equipment.” Sergeant Jefferson of the 1st Mars, was a man in his early 20’s, with a distinct lack of a right leg. He and his men clearly hadn’t slept for days, given the Chimera’s stench of black coffee. “You requisitioned the Phobos’ Fury me, and my men because of our expertise with machines. It is honestly surprising that the Dominus allowed this, given how the 1st-"
“I need someone to transmit something to any ship near the Cadian system now.”
An effeminate voice reaches the Inquisitor from behind the Vox station, “What’s the message my lord?”
“Send a ship to Cadia, loaded with as much recording equipment as they can fit and at least 3 Techpriests.”
“Yes my lord.”
Leaning towards Jeffersons station, glaring at the abnormalities upon the display, the Inquisitor slaps him on the back, “Congratulations Jefferson.”
Chapter 1
So this chapter comes in about 4 parts, character limits eh? Probably won't be the last time this happens
Las-bolts hit the outer walls of the Cripple Corner, as high-explosive rounds fly out from shattered windows, taking chunks out of various storefront visages. This almost weekly exchange in the Underhive of Macharia this week featured the Saints of Sin attempting to siege the turf of the All Macharian Rejects, the former being the usual class of Chaos Cult that rises to prominence, only to be shut down by a gang within days, the latter consisting of those who maintain the Hive’s Manufactorums.
“Jack, get your lamenting ass out from behind the bar, and burn these bitches, or start pouring pints!” barked Idrom Vacuous, the resident squat mechanic, as he ejects an empty HE magazine from his Kai pattern Autogun, only to replace it with a one etched with a small flame. “Your one to be cracking wise, squatting down like that” returned a vaguely distorted voice from behind the bar, “bear in mind that one precisely aimed lasbolt could send us all to Hell and back. Who's idea was it to make booze out of promethium and that Fenrisian shit? Because they're getting the first pint if we survive this. Where the fuck is that booze anyway?”
A metal mask fitted with a respirator and damaged voice modulator along with a stark white, red trimmed trench coat hood, hid and protected his face as he looks over the counter and witnesses the destruction of the concourse leading away from the bar. “That's it! One tank will have to do” he frustratingly mutters under his breath, as he affixes a half empty tank of Squats Breath beer to his wrist mounted flamer, before reaching for his own Graia pattern Autogun. He slides over the bar, his trench coat opening to reveal the body armour beneath, as he unloads an entire magazine into an unlucky trio of cultists. Diving under a window, he ejects the half empty clip, inserting one filled with a combination of hollow point and armour piercing rounds.
A bright white flash accompanies the sound of a storefront collapsing and screams of the heretics brings a roar of approval from the besieged Rejects. A motorbike in Rejects colours careens around the corner screeching to a halt in front of the bar. A rather tall man in an armoured trench coat leaps off the bike, and ducked down behind it. "Where the fuck is everyone else?" He barks in disgust, to see no one besides Idrom Vacuous and Jack Laments in the bar.
"Either dead or making a move to burn down their 'church', we're all that's left otherwise."
"Well, looks like I have to clean this shit up myse-" The biker's interrupted by a crackling in the air, causing it to heat up almost exponentially. A rogue las-bolt misses its intended target and strikes a bottle of wine imported from Prospero. "That was a fucking M34 vintage!" He screams as he stands, drawing his antique double barrelled shotgun from with his trench coat, taking shots at the source of the las-bolt with his plasma pistol. With one fell swoop, he burns a whole through the chest of two cultists, before unloading one barrel of his shotgun one handed, shredding the armour of 3, and then unleashing the single explosive round from the second barrel into the head of a 3 armed, bird masked cultist with a heavy stubber. Ducking back down to reload his weapons, a faint glow of fire emanates from behind his bike. He says under his breath "I swear to god, if they shot the tank..." Then to the remainder of his crew: "Get ready to make a move up. Jack, get ready to burn em"
"Ya might want to turn around Giz."
"What, why?" As he peeks over his bike, he sees a column of flame arising, escalating this gang clash, into something worthy of the Arbites attention. "Oh shit. Gents, stash anything that ain't exactly legal. Literally any empty keg in the back. Shove this in there as well" Giz barks at his remaining men, tossing his plasma pistol through the window. As he turns back around, having loaded only solid slugs into his shotgun, he aims back towards the cultists, his eyes drying up from the heat. And as suddenly as the flame ignited it died down, to reveal a teenager, dressed in a trenchcoat that fades from red at the bottom to yellow then to white, like a flame.
Cultists approach the flamecloaked teenager, arms raised, some raising literal arms, covered in a blue flame. Laughing throw a skull mask, the teenager swings a punch at one of the cultists. A wave of black flashes up his left arm as he punches a whole through his targets clothing. A smell of singed flesh indicates the edges of the whole having been cauterised by, seemingly nothing. From nowhere, this masked teenager draws a pistol, unrecognised by everyone witnessing the situation.
Everyone, except Giz. "The kid just, pulled a plasma pistol, out of nowhere!" His usual composed and controlled thoughts, being cast aside, replaced by his attempts to comprehend the events unfolding ahead of him. Sirens grew ever deafening as the Arbites Land Speeders drew near. Giz, seeing this as his chance to finish off the cultists, vaults his bike, and charges forwards towards the massacre. With a slide between the legs of one, he fires a solid slug into the eye socket of a heretic ahead of him, and fires directly upwards, through his targets chin and skull. He reloads, wiping the blood from his eyes, to see the teenager, ("no he can't be, he's, as tall as a Neophyte...") punch through the stomach of a final cultist, before levelling his pistol at Giz's head. "Woah woah woah! You can put- well, stow away the pistol, the Arbites are nearly here." he hurredly states, as he shoves his shotgun back into its holster, within his trenchcoat. "Ya might want to ditch the mask too kid. You going to put that thing away or not?"
The Land Speeders arrive at the blood drenched scene. Seeing two individuals having a discussion, one of them at gunpoint. "Lay your weapons down now!" Barks an Arbite with a booming voice and slight lisp.
"Situation normal send clean up team. Authorisation Adeptus Astartes Legionem Damnatorum. Identification Areas Cassius"
A faint murmer sounds from the lead Land Speeder, as they run the details through their systems. "Affirmative. Sending clean up team. Sorry sir."