So, I May Be A Daemon (Warhammer High)

Prologue

"There! Near Cadia a temporal anomaly. Unlike anything I've ever seen!” A Steel Legionnaire in black flak 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?” Investigator Conroy van Vonvolkvan of the Ordo 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.”

"Also inform them of our arrival within the month, accounting for Warp travel" he added as a side to the Commwoman He leaned towards Jeffersons station, and glared at the abnormalities upon the display; the Inquisitor slapped Jefferson on the back, “Congratulations Jefferson. You have just found the first temporal anomaly in a decade.”

Chapter 1

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 in the Warp is that booze anyway?”

A metal mask fitted with a respirator and damaged voice modulator along with a stark white, red-trimmed trenchcoat 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 trenchcoat 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 trenchcoat lept off the bike and ducked down behind it. "Where 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 damned 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 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 flame-cloaked teenager, arms raised, some raising literal arms, covered in a blue flame. A guttural 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 target's 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 a cleanup team. Authorisation Adeptus Astartes Legionem Damnatorum. Identification Araes Cassius"

A faint murmur sounded from the lead Land Speeder, as they ran the details through their systems. "Affirmative. Sending cleanup team. Sorry, sir."

Chapter 2

“What the Warp is an Astartes doing in the underhive? Are they purging without informing us? Is this some kind of training exercise? Was it just a teleportarium malfunction that brought him here?” Thoughts akin to these ran through the heads of the desk Arbitrator and her co-workers around the entry hall, as they witnessed a teenager, what must’ve been an incredibly young Neophyte and a young man enter the courthouse, followed by a nervous group of their co-workers. None of them wore manacles of handcuffs around their wrists. “Welcome to the courthouse my lord, though I must ask, what is the purpose of bringing this retinue of yours?” inquired the Regulator.

Regulator Velutarian was at the head of the group, now with his helmet in the crook of his arm, displaying an acid-scarred face, with a sensor array in place of a left eye. His right was a dark, almost black emerald green. His voice echoed throughout the atrium, which drew the attention of any Arbitor that had not yet noticed the collection that had entered the room.

“Well, we had to leave someone behind to clean up the bar. Who better to do so, than the man who brews the beer?” responded Araes, his mask now attached to the belt of his trench coat.

With his face now uncovered, he was almost an exemplar of physical perfection; he had a sharp jawline, smooth skin, strong cheekbones and a slightly turned-up nose. His eyes clearly burned with a passion; they faded out from his pupil to sky blue bordering the sclera, from a deep purple. In the bright light of the courthouse, his hair gave the impression of a dwindling fire, showing ember coloured locks of hair beneath an ashen black. He gave off an air of suspicion and alienation as if the world around him had changed in ways he couldn't yet determine.

“Yes my lord, but why a pair of hivers?” Velutarian wasn’t used to escorting their sort into the courthouse without handcuffs around their wrists, most criminal hivers were executed in the field unless theirs were the pettiest of crimes, and those were dealt with by the Orpo. He glanced back at the pair of hivers, either side of Araes.

The datafile identified the younger hiver as one Jack Lament, a rather ironic name given his generally good luck according to appended notes and witness statements.

In one hand, Jack carried a mask, with a deactivated HUD, that would detail everything from temperature, to the fuel level of something, “probably illegal” thought Velutarian, to the integrity of a pair of respirators.

On his back was slung an autogun of some description, and along his left sleeve lay a rail of sorts with a pair of pins attached to the ends of the rail, each by a small hinge.

His hair was an electric blue swept across his left eye, covering both ears and reaching the base of his neck at the back. His one visible eye had a trio of scars running across it, reminiscent of those left by a xenoform’s clawed hand on a hapless soldier, alongside a blood red colouration to his iris.

“It is doubtful that these two have ever even seen a sun.” Velutarian thought to himself.

“Is that a problem officer? Surely it wouldn’t mean much?” questioned the teenager, his open trench coat displayed a variation of the standard Macharian loadout: a set of flak armour worn beneath, and an array of laspistols, spare power packs and a hip flask in holsters and pockets along the inner lining of his trench coat.

“No, not at all," he said as sarcastically as possible, "it’s just strange how you aren’t in cuffs.”

"On a different, less passive aggressive note," Giz coughed through "Velutarian" before proceeding to ask "how exactly did you pull that magic, pull-shit-outta-midair, punch-through-people's-chests-and-cauterising-the-wound shit?" aiming this question towards Araes.

"What? Oh right, my Power Fist and Plasma Pistol. A little thing called Archaeotech my friend, allows me to do this," he said as a Power Fist materialised around his left arm, an energy field rippling up from his clenched fist.

"Right, well, please refrain from doing that in here my lord."

“Well, you’re going to have to put up with this Velutarian. Remembering I can do this at will. Can I just call you Vel?” asked Araes, as the Power Fist de-materialised, receding into the trench coat's cuff.

With a deep sigh, signifying his annoyance at dealing with a pair of teenagers, he said “If. You. Must.” through gritted teeth.

“Great! Now, I must ask, where exactly are we?” Araes asked, to the bemusement of his retinue.

“Hive Primus, Macharia, Cadian System, Segemetum Obscurus. But, I'm sure you already knew that my lord.” answered the Arbitrator on desk duty, eager to have something interesting occur. “Oh, where are my manners? Rhilia Bowerand, at your service my lord.”

Rhilia was perhaps the greenest of Arbites in the Hive Primus precinct, having been inducted a month prior. Her armour showed little to no signs of wear indicating either her lack of experience or her dedication to maintaining her equipment, Or both. thought Araes. The trooper’s lengthy, auburn hair was kept in a ponytail, to avoid any difficulties when removing or putting on her helmet. She had fairly soft features, covered by very little in the way of make-up. Her eyes shared their colour with the ceramite of her armour.

“Araes Cassius, at yours. Now, what's the fastest way to Terra?” he inquired with all the patience of someone with very little time on their hands.

“Well, a vessel bearing the markings of a branch of the Ordo Investigatorum is due to arrive within the week, so you could hitch a ride on that?” suggested Rhilia, trying desperately to hide the nervousness and awe in her voice. Even the men and women of the Adeptus Arbites know fear and awe when Astartes are concerned; they just hid it better than most, usually.

“Ordo Investigatorum. I guess that could work. Any idea as to the day they're due?” asked Araes, the impatience receding from his voice.

“Let's see here… Oh! You're in luck, their ship just arrived at Hive Secundus, followed by a second one? This can't be good…” Rhilia’s voice betrayed her, revealing to all those present her fear.

“Right… Well, my lord, you'll be getting your ship back to Terra soon enough.” Stuttered the Regulator. He cleared his throat, continuing “In the meantime, we need to sort out this business involving that bar of yours Mr... Garret Zekiel.”

“Yeah, and the payment for wiping out a cult! Don't forget that!” Giz added hurriedly.

“Of course, all in due time. Now, if you'd kindly follow Enforcer Ryt.” Velutarian said, acclimating to some sense of normality. Giz followed the Enforcer towards and down a corridor, tripping on his way out, until of sight of the others. With almost comedic timing, a Vox went off from behind the desk. Rhilia prepared to answer before it activated on its own, relaying its message through the Precinct’s PA system.

“Hive Primus Arbites Precinct, this is Investigator van Vonvolkvan of the Ordo Investigatorum. Prepare to receive me and my retinue within the next hour. Emperor protects”

“Well, this should be fun.” Araes muttered sarcastically, before asking "What in the name of the Emperor is the Ordo Investigatorum?".

Chapter 3

“So, long story short, the Ordo Investi…. the Ordo is the watchmen for the watchmen and more”? summarised Araes, simplifying the answers provided by his current company. He leaned against the eastern wall, one foot flat against it, the other on the ground, arms folded in front of him. Jack sat perched on a staircase to Rhilia’s left, with Vel leaning against her desk, hands propping himself up on either side. It was clear that he was prepared to draw his Bolt Pistol, should the need arise.

Rhilia responded in a slightly more chipper fashion, having warmed up to the Legionnaire, “Pretty much. They themselves report directly to the Emperor, Malcador and the Primarchs,” she paused, recalling something from before.

“Actually Araes, you said “in the name of the Emperor” right? You do know that isn’t entirely… legal shall we say?” she inquired, trying to hide her unease at his choice of words.

“Well, no one knows his name right? So, if no one knows his name, why should something like that constitute a crime?” Areas responded almost dismissively. His mind began to wonder Is she suggesting… no, I'm just overthinking this… He shook his head, trying to dislodge the growing doubt in his mind.

“But in any case, what does this guy with the most pretentious name in the history of the Imperium want with some random Hive world?” he asked with a growing season of doubt in his mind.

“Well, besides the fact that this isn't some random hive world - we’re right at the edge of the Eye of Terror sir, - your guess is as good as mine,” she said with a mixture of emotion in her voice (one part distaste, to seven parts, amused confusion thought Araes). With a shrug, Rhilia tidied her desk to the sound of Arbitrators inspecting every nook and cranny for dust. An Investigator’s surprise visit warranted caution and the cleaning of the Courthouse. “Chances are they're here to collect soldiers caught tampering with their equipment to chuck into the Martian army regiments,”

What in the name of the Holy Emperor is going on…? Ordo Investigatorum, Investigators, Imperial Guard on Mars, and worship of Him being illegal? Araes had spent ten years of his life, serving the Emperor in his Legion of the Damned. I died - is that even the right word? - as some kind of Primarch rip-off before I was even born and this is the most confusing thing I've encountered. He took a second to take in the information and struggled to comprehend it. “So, don't suppose someone could enlighten me as to what the date is? Warp travel has a funny way of messing with my internal clock. You know how it is,” he began to walk towards the corridor Giz was led down a few minutes prior.

“It is 5.001-” began Rhilia, as Araes stumbled slightly over his own feet.

He turned to face her, some level of confidence returning. That's slightly reassuring. Was it just a day in the warp? I should be fine, right? Granted I came out in an entirely different sector than the one I was headed to. Then again, why is everything so different? thought Araes, his mind practically tripping over itself. He'd later question why his mind was so rushed that day.

“253.M32,” She finished.

That, however, is the COMPLETE OPPOSITE OF REASSURING! He took half a step back, before catching himself, he inhaled sharply in an attempt to better comprehend what he’d just been told. So I've somehow gone back in time? Wouldn't be the first time a Legionnaire's done that. Well… what the hell am I supposed to do… he thought as he tried to maintain his composure. He began to examine the room, glancing at the paradoxically featureless details adorning the walls, taking it all in with a different perspective. His hair seemingly darkened, the ember coloured locks appearing to recede.

After an uncomfortably long silence, Araes forced out a question, his voice wavering slightly “what… What is known about the Legionem Damnatorum?” He was desperate to take his mind off the ten millennia that seemingly undid itself.

Rhilia was the first to answer, somewhat pitying the Legionnaire. “Um, besides you being a part of it my lord, basically nothing.” She searched digital databases on her terminal but was constantly met by messages denying her access. “Well, nothing that I have clearance for. My best guess is that they're some special ops guys, like the ancient Sass of Britannie, - I think that's what they were called. Not sure though, that long ago is kinda lacking in the detail department -”

Velutarian interrupted the newest Arbitrator before she derailed the conversation entirely. “Frankly, it’s a surprise so little is known. There’s speculation that the Legionem Damnatorum are the remnants of the two lost Astartes Legions. It is even speculated that they are the result of a failed experiment by Archmagos Dominus Belisarius Cawl to try and improve the Astartes geneseed.” he was glad to finally make use of his vast yet useless knowledge gathered from the texts of madmen. Spending the good chunk of 20 years as an Arbitor, he’d ‘acquired’ texts that broke the Imperial Truth and detailed vast conspiracy theories, and read them extensively, to try and find what out why so many would defy the Emperor and question the very fabric of Imperial society. He often saw how some religious groups were still legal, within reason. Emperor worship is outlawed outside of the Cadian System, and Catherics are still legal across the galaxy, but he'd never understood why people worshipped anything. Nor would he understand what drove people to such levels of paranoia and insanity as to question everything accomplished since the Unification Wars. “But why do you ask? Surely you know what you’re own organisation is?” he asked, trying to pry information out of the Legionnaire.

“Of course I do Vel, it would do you vel to relax a bit.” quipped Araes, having somewhat regained his composure. His poor pun elicited a groan from the unamused Velutarian, whilst Araes still pondered about the state of the Imperium and thought about Vel's response. Of course, you’re partially correct. Just look at the Fire Hawks chapter. Wait, they don’t exist yet… and I guess they never will... Well, the point stands nonetheless. I'm talking to myself aren't I? He took a second to readjust his trench coat and tried to tidy his ever messy hair. But damn that was lame; seriously “it would do you vel”? What the hell was I thinking? This probably… His hair ‘brightened’ slightly, his mind still tripping over itself, albeit at a slower pace.

Vel continued, undeterred by the terrible use of his name. “No matter what the rest of your organisation is, we still don’t know why you are here. So, care to enlighten us?” he asked, wanting to get as many answers out of the teenage Legionnaire before he could offload him onto the Investigator.

Araes answered, and regretted every word as they left his lips. “I have no clue, I guess I miscalculated where’d I’d come out of the Warp.” His eyes brightened with fear, to the point that they might be visible in the dark.

Rhilia jumped onto his slip of the tongue, fast enough to give a White Scar whiplash; “If you came out of the Warp, where’s your ship?"

Jack piped up, having sat on the sidelines for most of the conversation. “He appeared in front of the bar in a pillar of fire. I mean seriously, a pillar of fire. Either he teleported into the hive from some Leginem Damna… LD ship that passed over or something and this was his training, to get back to Terra or wherever. Or he lives in the warp and that pillar was a rift he created to enter the hive to grab a pint. He still massacred muties and Cultists as if it was second nature.” He was content to sit out most of the conversation; the less attention the better was his personal motto. Unfortunately, as a bartender that rarely happens. And now, he wanted to save his saviour from having to answer questions he likely had no answer to.

“In any case,” Araes interjected, desperate to change the topic off of him, “is anything known about this Investigator? He seems to be a bit… odd, for lack of a better word”. He wanted to garner as much information as possible if he was to travel to Terra with the aficionado of wide pauldrons. Vel began answering the latest of the long list of questions from Araes. “Well, besides his apparent penchant for pauldrons rivalling those of Cypher-”

Areas smirked at the mention of the most wanted man on Terra, after his conversation with the Emperor. So I’m not the only one who noticed that. How old is that escape artist anyway?

Vel continued, unaware of the company approaching the precinct, and Araes’ mental conversation. “-He recently requisitioned a modified Chimera with a squad from the 1st Mars. Supposedly, he’s obsessed with Warp tides trying to find a way to utilise them to manipulate time-”

Araes grinned slightly wider, as he moved around Velutarian. Well, this will be an interesting trip. The sound of ceramite hitting concrete steadily increased in volume.

Vel’s hand drifted ever closer to his pistol, as the unfamiliar footsteps grew in number and volume. “Beyond that, he seems to be slightly obsessed with daemons and trying to find a correlation between them and time travel. So far he’s found nothing. By all accounts he’s a bit eccentric,” he finished.

Araes could hardly conceal his worries, given how his fiery features adjust themselves to express such a change of emotion. His irises died down to appear almost black in colour; the ‘embers’ in his hair followed suit. “So, any indication as to when that Inquisitor is to… Vel, why in the Warp are you saluting”? Velutarian stood to attention and saluted the second he recognised the figure now entering the room.

“That would be because of me, Mr Trench Coat,” a deep voice laced with authority interjected before Velutarian could even begin to respond.

Araes turned towards the source of the voice and saw an individual with large pauldrons, a red cloak, and black power armour beneath. He was flanked by a pair of Imperial Army Soldiers in red fatigues and black armour affixed with a tool belt filled with various tools and side arms. Both carried modified lasguns, that of the one on the left featured a grenade launcher affixed to the side and a triad of barrels. That of the one on the right featured a holo-scope with a variety of lenses that, Araes assumed, could be slotted into the sight to increase the magnification. The underside of the barrel had a small lighter welded to the end with a red pipe that leads to a small canister marked ‘flammable’ secured to the rifle stock.

“I am Investigator Conroy van Vonvolkvan. And you should show some respect to authority,” He announced with a level of distaste so unmistakable, it could only have come from someone of his position.

Araes swivelled around on his heels in order to face the newest arrivals. “Ah, if I was speaking to someone of a higher position than myself I probably would. Araes Cassius, not quite at your service,” he grinned, each sentence dripping with sarcasm. He bowed towards the Investigator in an over-the-top manner indicative of his opinion on the Pauldron King. As he rose, white teeth exposed in a grin that would put a Harlequin to shame, Conroy pulled a bolt pistol from its concealed holster, and pressed its barrel against Araes’ forehead.

Conroy gestured towards Araes with his free hand.

“Let this boy be a lesson to you all,” proclaimed the Inquisitor.

He pulled the trigger.

Araes felt the bolt hit his forehead; he almost felt it pass through the bone as if it were paper. He almost felt every fibre of his being be swept away with the bolt's explosion. He almost felt the embrace of death, as he hit the floor, cracking the back of his skull on the reinforced ceramite flooring. He almost felt his life ebb away.

Almost.

Araes felt his skin and clothes heat up, waves of flame flowing down from the crowns in his hair. He felt the familiar lick of flame on the sides of his eye sockets, a pair of blue flames standing proudly beneath their impure counterparts. The barrel of the bolt pistol dropped to the ground in a pile of molten metal, joining the slag that remained of the single shell it fired.

Every Arbitrator who bore witness to these events drew their weapons and aimed them at the flaming teenager, unsure as to whether they'd actually be effective against him. Velutarian and Rhilia included.

“I am Araes Cassius of the Legionem Damnatorum. And you will listen to me. You speak of respect for authority, and yet you show none in the face of it? You are fortunate that I need a ship to Terra, and yours is the only one available,” Araes’ rage was made manifest with the growing magnitude of his flames. Vel, Jack, the two Soldiers, and every Arbitrator who bore witness to this display of sheer anger, each stepped back, away from the pillar of flame that was Araes.

As suddenly as the flames enveloped him, they died down; the embers in his hair vanished entirely, his eyes settled to a soft purple. Giz returned, his pockets visibly sagging with the weight of credits, and witnessed Araes collapsing scorch marks around his feet, and a small pool of molten metal in front of him. To the others, it was clear that the effort of sustaining the flames having drained him of all energy. Jack was the first to react, diving towards the man who had effectively saved his bar. (Legally it was in Giz's name, but its running was left to Jack most days). He caught the falling Legionnaire, and lay his body down on the scorched floor. The many Arbitrators lowered their weapons, some holstered theirs and pretended like the events of the last minute never happened, despite the scorch marks and molten metal on the ground.

“What. In the Warp. Just happened?” he asked, questioning the very nature of reality after having witnessed the unconscious teenager do what he previously never even needed to think was impossible. Wordlessly, the assortment of Soldiers, gangers and officials stood and knelt around the Legionnaire, clueless as to the role he had played throughout his existence, and what he is still to endure.

“Well, don't just stand there like a bunch of Catherics at a sermon, gimme a hand with this bastard would ya? He's heavier than he looks,” grunted Jack, as he tried to lift the unconscious Araes, after just kneeling by his side for longer than anyone would care to admit.

“Roight,” Giz muttered as he dropped down, and slid his arms under Araes’ body. “Where is the infirmary in this damned place?” groaned Giz through gritted teeth, straining under the weight of the Legionnaire.

“Down the corridor you just returned from, go left, and it's down there,” provided Rhilia, already filling out paperwork surrounding the scorch marks, and a requisition form for a maintenance servitor to be based in the foyer, in case of similar future incidents. The two gangers shifted Araes to better carry him between them.

Even still, Jack and Giz struggled to carry Araes at all; he was either deceptively light or the archaeotech he carried weighed him down. Giz feared what could happen if the latter were true, and Araes had encountered them in the same way as he had originally. “Vel, give us a hand or two would ya?” he said through gritted teeth.

“R-right” muttered Velutarian, now afraid of what this teenager was capable of. If he can just set himself alight, appear in pillars of flame, and has access to archeaotech like that, what can the rest of his organisation do? He jogged towards them and did what he could to help. As one, they carried Araes to the infirmary, cautious of what he might do. All in all, they were fairly proud of only dropping him once.

Conroy ran the back of a gloved hand across his forehead, wiping away sweat from his brow. He contemplated turning around and returning to his ship. He hoped this was just some insane dream. Sergeant (now Lieutenant) Jefferson stood to one side, jaw slack, lasgun gripped loosely, struggling to understand what just happened. He hefted his customised weapon onto his shoulder, produced a rag from one of the many pouches on his tool belt, and began polishing the three barrels of his lasgun. This was the weapon that got him drafted into the service of the First Mars, mere days after he joined the famed Steel Legion. It’s still dumb how attaching a small hydraulic piston with an empty tin can onto the side of this damned flashlight got me dragged away from home. At least I was able to refine it and integrate it fully into the rifle, and the machine spirit even relished it! Now, it’s just a simple flick of a switch, to charge the launcher and prime... He reminisced about his creation, every aspect of the mechanism and its refinement that made it the weapon it was today before he snapped back to his senses and continued polishing his prized possession. He continued as though the events he had just witnessed had never happened.

Conroy just stood there dumbfounded, unwilling to accept that his firearm of choice, was now just a melted puddle of metal, left to be scraped off the floor by a random servitor and discarded with other waste. “This is just a dream, this is just a dream, this is just a dream, this is just a dream…"

“Investigator, perhaps you require a drink?” Rhilia suggested, summoning a Servitor from the cafeteria with a press of a button. It came carrying a tray, filled with an assortment of drinks: a bottle of Scotch and a small tumbler, a glass bottle filled with Jack’s own beer branded as “Macharian Corner”, and a martini that had been stirred with a butter knife for 10 seconds whilst glancing at a 301 year old bottle of vodka, before having an olive inserted on the end of a cocktail stick. Or so the servitor claimed. Conroy immediately reached for the martini, drank it all and ate the olive in the first sip. He had the sense to catch the cocktail stick in his teeth. He opened the beer on the corner one of his pauldrons and drank it all in the space of thirty seconds, barely registering the sweet taste of the Fenrisian berries, and not at all noticing the surprisingly sour taste of the minuscule amount of promethium in the drink. Now that he was ‘only slightly’ inebriated, the Investigator calmed to an equal measure.

Conroy spun on his heels and began heading in the general direction of the infirmary. He only drifted and fell into the walls a grand total of three times.

Chapter 4

So this is what it's like. To finally die in service of the Emperor. It really is true, that duty ends only in death. All Araes could see was a blinding white light, as he opened his eyes to the world after death. Only, it wasn't exactly that. Someone had certainly died there recently, at the very least.

“So, the bar’s favourite hothead is finally awake huh? Ya caused a bit of a stir back there. Well, if a stir is a melted Graia pattern Bolt Pistol, and a scorch mark shaped around your boots.” Jack Lament’s blue hair shielded Araes’ eyes from the white lights of the infirmary, as he leaned over the Legionnaire's head. Why's he pronouncing everything a bit more… prim and proper? Well, attempting to.

“Looks like your eyes are fine. I ain't-a professional, so ya might want an actual doctor taking a look but, looks like you're good.”

As Jack straightened up, he brushed the hair out of his eyes, revealing to Araes his usually covered eye. Araes was mildly surprised to find that it didn't match his other eye; it was a soft-ish amber in colour.

He sat and propped himself up before he found that he could not utter a single word. He rubbed his throat in a vain attempt to coax out anything that even somewhat resembled communication. If he could, he would probably say something along the lines of “God-Emperor damn it, just let me kick it if your gonna keep making me think I have, ya might as well follow through" Luckily for him, he couldn't. He nodded towards the occupied bed opposite.

“Ya may be happy to hear, you aren't the only poor sod in here. Your old pal Conroy's just across from you, currently sleeping off a lotta booze. Well, he's been in here for the same amount of time you have. You two’ve been out cold for like, two hours.”

Conroy lay across the bed opposite, in what was by no means any conventional manner. His head and arms hung limply over one side, his cloak had splayed out over him; a small string of spittle hung from the corner of his mouth. All in all, it was a very undignified sight for the Investigator.

Jack stood up and began to make his towards the closest of the two exits, Araes’ eyes following him out “Now, I'ma go join Giz and try to find out how these guys got hold of my beer. I've never once sold it to one of these guys, and Giz is probably shouting his lungs out right about now because of it. Have fun Hothead.”

As he reached the door, he turned to Araes, “By the way, don't call him an Inquisitor. These guys don't usually jump at any excuse to blow your brains out, but call them Inquisitors, and that'll probably happen to ya. Then again, he already tried…” With that, Jack left them to each other.

The door slammed back into place, waking the unconscious Investigator from his drunken stupor. Somewhat hungover, Conroy jerked his head up at the sound of the door. He wiped away the drool from his mouth, hoping that no one saw it and pushed himself off of the bed. He patted out creases in his cloak, swiped dust off of his pauldrons, ran a hand through his hair, and walked towards Araes’ bedside. The stench of alcohol coiled around the Investigator’s breath.

Conroy began talking to the barely lucid Araes, his speech slightly groggy from having just awoken. “I suppose that a proper introduction is in order. Investigator Conroy van Vonvolkvan. And you are?”

Araes cleared his throat and found his voice returning, ever so slightly. Little above a hoarse whisper, he answered “A… Araes Cassius, Captain of the Legionem Damna… Damna… damn it… The Legion of the Damned.” His frustration became ever the more evident, the more he spoke. He massaged his throat, trying to coax every word that he could out of his vocal cords.

Conroy handed Araes a cup of water from a nearby table, and read the doctors examination that lay alongside it. As Araes drank, his eyes warmed slightly and the Investigator began to question him. His voice was slow and calculated, thinking over every word, trying to avoid a repeat of that day's earlier events “Well young man, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. However, I must ask, what is the Legion of the Damned, exactly? Before now, I had never heard of you, nor your organisation. The only evidence for it existing is yourself, and the fact that it exists - somewhere - within the databases of the Adeptus Administratum.”

Conroy took a moment to examine the doctor's assessment. “According to this examination, you share your physiology with the Primarchs and the Daughters, more so than you do a normal human, let alone an Astartes. So, what is this Legion, and are your…” Conroy wafted his hand through the air, as he tried to think of a suitable word, “compatriots the same as you if they even exist?”

Araes hadn't stopped for air until his cup had been drained of every last drop. He cleared his throat once more and mentally prayed for his voice to return to him. Finally, he spoke as calmly as he possibly could, and answered the surprisingly reasonable Investigator’s questions “Well, technically, we're Daemons. But, some of us, are also time travellers, of sorts. In some ways, were technically a legion of ghosts. Should I explain?”. His hair brightened, and here I thought I'd be hung drawn and quartered before he even began asking questions.

Conroy was caught off guard, not just by what the boy had said, but also by how casually he said it all. Araes’ remark saying that they were Daemons, stuck in Conroy's mind. “M-most definitely. And kid, if you're a Daemon, how're you even remotely sentient? And just, what the feth are you going on about? Furthermore, if you were a Daemon, you wouldn't need that water, you wouldn't need to breathe, you wouldn't need to eat, you wouldn't even need to sleep. So, what are you?”

Araes wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, before continuing. “No war was ever won without casualties. We are the casualties of the Ade- Legiones Astartes. Their souls have to go somewhere, right? You, do know what a soul is, right?”

Conroy almost scoffed at the very idea. His voice began to drip with condescension, but with some doubt sprinkled in. “They don't exist. Psykers claim to see them but that's just impossible.” A psyker years ago had tried to explain, but it was like trying to explain to a blind man the colour red.

This...this will be harder than I thought… Araes was almost entirely lost as to how to explain. “Every living being has a soul. The Aeldari understand this better than anyone since the Primordial Annihilator is literally after theirs. Daemons are made from souls to some extent. You may not believe it, but just entertain the idea Connie.”

Conroy chuckled at the shortening of his already shortened name. “Go on then kid. I'll, entertain this idea of yours. Souls exist, so what? That still doesn't explain your sentience, nor your somewhat human physiology. So again, what are you?”

Araes looked somewhat hopeful, “I was just getting to that. I was a failed clone of a collection of Primarchs, created by a version of Belisarius Cawl. One of them, I believe was Corvus Corax, due to his own limited psychic abilities. That is why I am sentient. I think.”

Conroy chuckled at this, finding this whole ordeal to be rather comedic. “You think? So, the-not-quite-a-Daemon, thinks he's the result of a hybridisation of several Primarchs genomes, having gone wrong? This is all rather far-fetched for my tastes kid.”

Araes was on the defensive. “Hey, you try explaining it. That's the best theory I can come up with.” He began to continue his explanation of the Legion. “But in any case, that's whe-” Araes coughed more violently than he thought possible for someone like himself too.

Once he finished, he continued explaining as best he could. “But that's where we come in. Each Damned Legionnaire is the soul of a dead Marine, serving the H- Imperium even in death. So, technically, we're ghosts, since we're the souls of the dead walking. We're Daemons because we're made from soul stuff and are technically an aspect of, and serve a god.”

The eyes of both men widened in shock as they realised what Araes' had said; one in the blatant heresy just uttered, the other, in sheer surprise as to his own stupidity. Araes, You are the dumbest bastard to have ever died and still fight in the name of the Emperor.

“Did you just…?”

“Yep.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.”

The Araes and the Investigator sat and stood in silence, respectively. Araes was the first to begin talking again. “I should probably explain that, right?”

Conroy shook himself back to reality. “Please do,” he replied, wishing more and more that he still had a sidearm to hand. He never carried anything larger, and rarely a sword.

Araes coughed once more and began to explain, his voice slightly hoarse “I'll explain the time travelling part as well… that'd probably help. And well... I am the living proof of your life's work. This… this is not the timeline I belong in, shall we say. I'm not entirely sure as to how different this one is, but I'll start with this: how many Primarchs live? And how many are loyal to the Emperor?” Araes continued to massage his throat, trying to think of the best way to explain.

Conroy raised an eyebrow at this, his curiosity piqued, and his mind wandering as to where Araes was going with this. “The mere notion of a Primarch not loyal to the Emperor is absolutely preposterous. All of the nineteen Primarchs are alive and loyal to the Emperor and the Imperium.”

Araes prepared to potentially bring down the Investigator's entire worldview, and was prepared to be branded a heretic, a warp-spawn, and wished that any consequence would be swift. He paused though, confused as to the nature of the 19th. Wasn't Alpharius killed twice, reportedly? And twins… wait… Alpharius Omegon… his last name was his brother's name.

As he spoke, his voice remained steady, seemingly detached from the words that left his lips. "Where - no, when - I'm from, out of the original Primarchs, 10 turned traitor, and 7 total died, mostly at each other’s hands. The Arch-Traitor, Horus Lupercal was slain by the Emperor himself. Alpharius, by Rogal Dorn; Omegon, by Roboute Guilliman; Konrad Curze, by a Callidus Assassin; Sanguinius by Horus; Rogal Dorn, died on a Chaos Cruiser; Ferrus Manus, by Fulgrim.”

Conroy couldn't believe what he was hearing; he shook his head in disbelief, struggling to understand all of the information, but mildly comforted by the fact that this proved the entirety of his life’s work.

But Araes wasn't done. As he spoke of Guilliman, there was some level of reverence in his voice. “Of the loyalists, Guilliman was fatally wounded by Fulgrim; The Lion and Vulkan went missing; Leman Russ and Corvus Corax, to the Eye of Terror; The Great Khan, somewhere in the Webway; Ferrus Manus, dead; Rogal Dorn died, just his hand was found; Sanguinius was slain before the battle of Terra.” He paused, in part to assess the Investigator's reaction, in part too because he really needed to breathe, having spoken almost nonstop for the last few minutes.

The Investigator let beads of sweat run along his brow, conflicted as to the nature of the information.

“Do I continue? It gets mildly better.” Araes looked on. The Investigator just nodded his head. “Well, Guilliman promptly kicked ass and began to reform the Imperium. He sacked several of the High Lords of Terra, is the Regent of Terra, barely tolerates the Ecclesiarchy, effectively cast aside the Regent of Ultramar and took direct control once again. Currently, Guilliman is the Regent of the entire Imperium. Well, I say currently… several millennia from now... in a different timeline.”

Araes sighed. “If you haven't guessed, this all means that the events that created me… Will never come to pass. In this timeline… It's too confusing in some parts and contradictory in others.” Araes made to move off the bed, his strength and energy returning. “But how come there's so little known about the Legion here?”

Conroy chuckled softly and gestured for Areas to follow him. “Come, we have a lot to discuss, and I want to get away from that abominable stench. As to your question, I'm unsure. I imagine it's because you are all there is to it. That Regulator Velutarian really wants to get you and those hivers out of here, as fast as possible. And I've got some friends who may want a word with Mr Laments.”

“You sure your not that friend? Come on Connie ya lightweight, admit it.”

“Never speak of this again.”