This world was a bit strange, though not in any of the ways I knew. I've been in Dahl's service for, shit, must have been a decade or so. In that ten or so years, we've brought down, was it thirty or thirty-one cults? Either way, I've had a fairly colored career.
“Keep tight, I got a feeling.” Oleg was, surprisingly, a very attentive man for one his size. His autocannon kept swaying as he walked, somehow hushed against the marshy ground and dense vegetation. We kept moving as quietly and evenly as possible, stopping even ten meters to check our surroundings. It seemed, at least to me, that eyes were upon us.
“We're close,” the boss whispered. The man was a psyker, and had senses I couldn't even imagine. I used to think it was dumb luck, but the guys could, quite literally, feel the enemy even through the heaviest of cover. My upper back started aching, the telltale sign of Warp-taint in the area, an old injury I received from sorcerer devoted to Slaanesh. It took twelve days for the Inquisition to determine I was free of corruption, and I had been subjected to all manner of physical and psychic torture in that time. For me, it was just proof the Archenemy required such extreme measures. “Amos, take the left; Oleg, you have right.”
Dutifully, both of us moved into position. To be honest, I looked forward to blowing Ophidia's brains all over the forest. My las carbine had a small scope on it, painted the same woodland camouflage as the rest of the weapon. Not much magnification, but the high-contrast lens allowed for low-light operations, which this jungle most certainly was. My finger was halfway pressing the trigger before I even had the clearing in sight. I placed my crosshairs over the first human shape I saw.
The fact that it sat on a plinth in the middle of some Emperor-forsaken jungle on a planet in who know where was a bit confusing. It was a statue of some kind, made of what appeared to be metal. Inquisitor Dahl was the first into the clearing, scanning the area to find any possible ambushers. With the motion of his hand, Oleg and I likewise left our cover.
“This ring any bells?” The boss asked, feeling the same thing I was. The statue may have been made of psychoreactive materials, or something that exuded Warp energy. I tapped a gloved knuckle against the statue's ivory face, trying to determine its composition based on sound alone. It was metal, or perhaps polished ceramite, but it definitely didn't look like anything I had seen before. “No?”
“So much for your psyker, boss.” I gave the inquisitor a sly grin, knowing he knew I was only poking fun. I rested my back against the metal statue, feeling the slight ache that traveled up my spine from the minute Warp-taint. It wasn't concentrated enough to cause corruption unless I was directly exposed for hours on end. After leaning against the damp surface, which was free of the ice that would hint at an active psychic aura, I was able to determine that at least the outermost portion of the statue was made of high-quality ceramic.
Son, you're more fucked up than a left-handed football bat.
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“Mom, where's Dad?” Scipia asked through a yawn. Her dad was usually around, and it was rare he left without notice. The changeling larva looked to her mother, the Grand Matron, Chrysalis.
“I don't know sweetie, but I'm sure he'll be back soon.” The century-old queen smiled, confident her husband would return in a condition similar to how he was last seen. Taylor suddenly disappearing wasn't much to be concerned about, given the measure Chrysalis had to keep her informed of his status. The human was the central beacon for the changeling hivemind, a nexus she could feel at the small distance. Such a connection was once needed in the days of the Deceiver and his antiquated structuring, a regime Taylor ended nine years ago.
“Maybe Aunt Twilight knows where he is.” To Scipia, the logic was perfectly sound. The larva knew her father answered only to Princess Celestia, and Twilight was her student. The child, barely an infant when compared to her possible lifespan, figured the alicorn must know something if the legendary Burned Man was somewhere other than home on the weekend. It was worth mentioning that Twilight Sparkle was only called Scipia's aunt because her name was drawn from a hat to determine who would be Scipia's godmother.
“Perhaps.” Really, Chrysalis deeply doubted it. Taylor would have known a day or so before being pulled away, barring a major emergency. Though, were that the case, the Grand Matron would have been picked up as well. “If not, then we can always send Celestia a letter, can't we?”
Scipia smiled at the idea of heading to town, something that she usually only did for school or to see her friend Gingersnap. She never went specifically to see Twilight.
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I jumped away from the infernal thing with a small grunt of surprise. I immediately turned my las carbine on the statue, cracking off eight shots in half as many seconds. For the older model, that was damned impressive. Oleg and Dahl opened up with their respective weapons. The gaint's autocannon and inquisitor's heavy stubber tore into the cheap ceramic and junk metal core. One of the boss's plugs slammed a neat little hole in the statue's head, about the width of my thumb, and left an exit wound the equivalent size of a dinner plate.
After ten glorious seconds of pure anti-statuary hate crimes, our fire ceased. Only the plinth remained, nearly destroyed by our salvo. Bits of scrap littered the ground behind the statue's resting place, either bone-white or ebony, though they all displayed the dull, cheap tin that comprised the daemonic icon. Inquisitor Dahl was changing his ammo drum when a small, clapping sound echoed from the foliage to our left.
Gentlemen, so nice of you to expend your ammunition on my statue. A dead ringer for the daemonic icon stood at the treeline, his armored hands gently clapping like a nobleman. At his waist were a small pistol and powersabre, which resembled the sort given to Imperial Guard sergeants and commissars. Please, under order of the Equestrian Inquisition, put your weapons on the ground.
“Under order of the Imperial Inquisition, put yours on the ground and reveal yourself.” The boss slammed a new drum into his heavy stubber. The local hadn't actually done anything openly hostile, though he would undoubtedly be brought up on charges of heresy for having a connection to the Warp-tainted icon. “Surrender; you are outgunned.”
Inquisitor Dahl, you fail to account for my good friend behind you. This is your final warning. The heretic, who was very much a psyker possessing telepathic aptitude, casually spoke into my mind, and I can only assume the boss's and Oleg's as well. His armor, which had a body blacker than the void of space and a full-face mask the color bleached bone, was sleek and seemed to blend into the environment. Come on out, Pyromaniac.
A hulking figure slowly lurched from the cover of the trees. It was a bit larger than the average Astartes, and stouter still, though not to the extent of Terminator armor. It, too, was painted black, though faded to a dark grey, with stylized flames painted to look as though they came from its wrists and feet. Under its right arm was a flamethrower, linked by a heavy hose to an equally-massive fuel tank. Its helmet had two blazing, orange eyes, further keeping to its fiery theme. Hence the name Pyromaniac, I suppose.
Now, gentlemen, I suggest you lower your weapons. Though even and emotionless, the heretic's voice sounded smug. At that moment I realized why the masked man used his powers to speak to us and not his actual voice: he and his comrade might not have spoken our language, which would go hand in hand with their unusual armors. Nothing they had was of Imperial make, save the black-clad psyker's powersabre. So, was their equipment xenos-tech, some strange designs of a heretek, or something more sinister? That is your final warning.
There was a pressure, a sudden urge to do as he said. Chaos, and the Warp in general, could be very influential to even the most stalwart of minds. Oleg, who by virtue of his own stubbornness managed as he did, shakily held his weapon for twelve seconds. I lasted only a bit longer, my las carbine hitting the loam with a muted thud. The boss, the proud Imperial inquisitor, stood firm. The Ordo Hereticus had trained him well to withstand the mind-altering effects of psychic influence. Dahl was sweating, obviously trying to fight against the order, and using his own powers as a psyker to that end.
The temperature started to drop then, a sure sign of the boss's resistance. The air around him fogged as the moisture condensed in the chilled area, the scent of ozone wafting on the slight breeze that fluttered through the trees. Somewhere in the his head, a capillary burst. Blood dripped from his nose as though someone had slammed a gun-butt against his face, but Dahl held his ground. A shaky hand reached for his sword, a blessed power weapon that had been his master's, and his master's before him. The centuries-old blade slid from its scabbard agonizingly slowly, but still allowed itself to be known.
Steel cuffs were slapped over my wrists as Inquisitor Dahl dropped his ancient sword and heavy stubber. Oleg's legs were kicked from under him, making the giant of a man hit the ground hard enough for me to feel the vibration. He, too, was shackled as the flame-decorated hulk slung my comrades autocannon over his shoulder.
Your compliance has been noted. And, Dahl, I remember when I used to get nosebleeds like that; it's no big deal.