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!
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 of the Ordo Chronos 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 his equipment. "No, it’d be better to wait out the pain of his incompetence" he thought. He swiped dust off his pauldrons, unable to see what he was doing for 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 and cloak 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 First Mars, was a man in his early twenties, with a distinct lack of an organic 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 First-"
“I need someone to transmit something to any ship near the Cadian system now.”
An effeminate voice reached 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 three Techpriests.”
“Yes my lord.”
He leaned towards Jeffersons station, and glared at the abnormalities upon the display; the Inquisitor slapped Jefferson 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 --AsterixCodix
Las-bolts hit the outer walls of the Cripple Corner, as high-explosive rounds flew out from shattered windows, taking chunks out of various storefront visages. This almost weekly exchange in the Underhive of Macharia featured, this week, the Saints of Sin attempting to siege the turf of the All Macharian Rejects. The former being the usual class of Chaos Cult that would rise to prominence, only to be shut down by a gang within days. The latter consisted of those who maintained 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 replaced an empty HE magazine from his Kai pattern Autogun, with 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 the Warp 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 looked over the counter and witnessed the destruction of the concourse leading away from the bar. “That's it! One tank will have to do” he frustratingly muttered under his breath, as he affixed a half empty tank of Squats Breath beer to his wrist mounted flamer, before reaching for his own Graia pattern Autogun. He slid over the bar, his trench coat having opened to reveal the body armour beneath, as he unloaded an entire magazine into an unlucky trio of cultists. He dived under a window, having ejected the half empty clip, before he inserted one filled with a combination of hollow point and armour piercing rounds.
A bright white flash accompanied the sound of a storefront collapsing and screams of the heretics bringing a roar of approval from the besieged Rejects. A motorbike in Rejects colours careened around the corner screeching to a halt in front of the bar. A rather tall man in an armoured trench coat lept off the bike, and ducked down behind it. "Where the fuck is everyone else?" He barked in disgust, seeing 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 was interrupted by a crackling in the air, causing it to heat up almost exponentially. A rogue las-bolt missed its intended target and struck a bottle of wine imported from Prospero. "That was a fucking Millennium Twenty-Three vintage!" He screamed as he stood, drawing his antique double barrelled shotgun from within his trench coat, taking shots at the source of the las-bolt with his plasma pistol. With one fell swoop, he burnt a hole through the chest of two cultists, before he unloaded one barrel of his shotgun one handed, shredding the armour of three and then unleashing the single explosive round from the second barrel into the head of a three armed, bird masked cultist with a heavy stubber. He ducked back down to reload his weapons, a faint glow of fire emanated from behind his bike. He swore under his breath; "I swear to god, if they shot the tank..." Then aloud 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 peeked over his bike, he saw a column of flame rising, 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, as he tossed his plasma pistol through the window. As he turned back around, having loaded only solid slugs into his shotgun, he aimed 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 faded 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. A gutteral laugh came through a skull mask, as the teenager swung a punch at one of the cultists. A wave of black flashed up his left arm as he punched a hole through his targets clothing. A smell of singed flesh indicated the edges of the hole having been cauterised by, seemingly nothing. From nowhere, this masked teenager drew 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, had been 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, vaulted his bike, and charged forwards towards the massacre. With a slide between the legs of one, he fired a solid slug into the eye socket of a heretic ahead of him, and before he fired directly upwards, through his targets chin and skull. He reloaded, wiping the sprayed 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 he levelled his pistol at Giz's head. "Whoa whoa whoa! You can put- well, stow away the pistol, the Arbites are nearly here." he hurriedly stated, as he shoved 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 arrived at the blood drenched scene. Seeing two individuals having a discussion, with one of them at gunpoint, an Arbitor barked "Lay your weapons down now!" with a booming voice and slight lisp.
"Situation normal, send clean a up team. Authorisation Adeptus Astartes Legionem Damnatorum. Identification Areas Cassius"
A faint murmur sounded from the lead Land Speeder, as they ran the details through their systems. "Affirmative. Sending clean up team. Sorry sir."