Day 181, Year 988, 41st Millennium
Hive Orion
Lower Hive
Eric stepped carefully through the dark corners of the already dimly lit alleyways. His heart was still beating faster than normal from the brief, brutal clash that had just occurred. His body was completely on edge, and he could feel the underlying tension humming through his veins. He tried to place his steps as silently as possible; deep down, a paranoid fear gnawed at him that the rival gangers might still be nearby. If he made even the slightest sound, he might have to run for his life again.
Who knew? Maybe they would circle back to check on their dead comrade, and then they might track him down.
Eric felt a surge of frustration and annoyance as he glanced down at the submachine gun in his hands. If this damned piece of scrap hadn't jammed, he could have gunned down all six of them without being hunted like an animal. At the very least, it would have made his journey much less stressful. After what just happened, he felt deeply uneasy relying on this weapon, but he had no choice—it was one of the few pieces of firepower he had at his disposal.
Driven by caution—or perhaps the sheer paranoia born of survival and combat—Eric constantly glanced over his shoulder to ensure nothing was following him. Even though he couldn't hear any footsteps, he couldn't shake the feeling. Something horrific could easily be lurking in the shadows.
"If only I could just walk down the main thoroughfare where there are crowds. Then I wouldn't have to be so paranoid in the dark," Eric thought bitterly. If he hadn't chosen this secluded route, his disguise might have allowed him to reach his destination much faster, and possibly safer. But taking the main roads ran the risk of his disguise being scrutinized and exposed by real gang members. Besides, if he was caught in a dark alley, he could simply run away—or kill whoever realized he wasn't a true Iron Fang.
But in the exact moment he turned his head to check his six, his boot caught on a jagged iron plate protruding from the broken walkway ahead of him.
"Ah!!"
Eric let out a short yelp as he pitched forward, slamming face-first onto the unforgiving metal floor. His head took the brunt of the impact, but fortunately, the crude iron helmet he wore absorbed the blow. However, his elbows and knees struck the metal grating hard, sending sharp flares of pain through his limbs. Worse still, his own body weight, combined with the heavy gear in his bag, pressed his chest violently against the flat iron armor plate he was wearing... armor he had looted from the dead Iron Fang ganger. Armor that was definitely not designed to accommodate a woman's anatomy.
Eric pushed himself up clumsily, one hand gently rubbing the armor over his chest. A dull ache throbbed beneath the plating. His face, smeared with soot and oil, contorted into a grimace of frustration and pain.
"Damn it, that hurts," Eric complained internally. He remembered back when he worked in the manufactorum; a coworker had carelessly thrown a door open, smashing it right into his face and chest. His forehead and chest had ached for days. And now, he had to suffer chest pain just from tripping and falling? Not to mention the time he fought Lieutenant Grey and took a punch straight to the chest—back then, he hadn't felt a thing! He had no idea what his chest was going to have to endure next.
He couldn't understand why falling hurt so much. His bag wasn't that heavy. The iron armor had some weight to it, sure, but it shouldn't have caused this much pain. Maybe he really was as heavy as Colonel Drago claimed. Even though Eric didn't know his actual weight in this new body, he figured it must be true. If a massive, muscular, 190-cm-tall man like the Colonel said he was heavy, it was probably a fact.
At the time, Eric had been completely displeased by the comment. He didn't even know exactly what the feeling was, but in that moment, he finally understood how women felt when someone called them fat.
Eric tried to push the thoughts about his new body out of his mind. He gathered his focus, forced himself to stop complaining, and continued his cautious trek. Only this time, he made absolutely sure to watch where he was stepping.
Because the next time he tripped over something, he might not be so lucky. He could stumble into an open shaft and plummet to the level below, or step right into a booby trap. Either outcome was a death sentence. Extreme caution was his best—and only—option.
As he walked, Eric gently rolled his shoulders to ease the soreness. Even though he had just promised himself to ignore his body and stop complaining about petty things, he simply couldn't help it.
"This body's only advantage is that I don't have to shave every day, right?" Eric muttered to himself sarcastically.
Since the day he opened his eyes in this dark future of the 41st Millennium—a universe that was equal parts gritty sci-fi and horrific fantasy—and found himself in the body of a rather beautiful woman... yes, his life had become exponentially harder. From the oppressive technology and brutal society, to the myriad of physical limitations, the sheer unfamiliarity of it all, and the countless new problems this body presented him with.
Take, for instance, the two lumps of fat on his chest that were currently the source of his annoyance. Eric honestly believed these organs were utterly useless to him. All they did was make him more susceptible to injury, get in the way when he needed to move quickly or adopt certain combat stances, and serve their biological purpose of feeding infants... Not to mention, they were irritatingly soft and sensitive.
He didn't even want to imagine how he would feel if he ever ended up in a situation like the characters in the adult novels he used to read. The thought of fingers caressing his... Eric gritted his teeth and mentally scolded himself for letting such degenerate thoughts enter his mind.
But at the very least, he still felt somewhat lucky that he could sleep on his stomach, even if it was a bit uncomfortable. Unlike some women, who couldn't sleep face-down at all.
And then there was the absolute worst part—the monthly suffering this body inflicted upon him. He despised it more than anything. During that time, his emotions were a chaotic mess, and he hardly wanted to step outside or see anyone.
But all he could do was complain in his head... or mutter quietly to himself. After all, he had been living in this female body for... over a year now. He had survived so many horrors that the man he used to be in the modern world could never have fathomed. There were certainly no aliens or Orks in his old life.
Suddenly, as Eric turned into another alleyway, he stopped in his tracks, staring at the sight before him. Normally, what he saw was an incredibly common occurrence, something he had grown entirely numb to. No matter what sector of the Lower Hive you were in, vagrants and chem-addicts could be found almost everywhere... except in truly inhospitable areas controlled by violent extremist cults or savage mutants.
Slumped against the grimy wall in front of him was a homeless man clad in torn rags, his body caked in soot and engine grease. The man stared blankly into space. He looked as if his soul had left his body, completely devoid of conscious thought, yet his physical form continued to function. And Eric immediately spotted the primary culprit responsible for the man's vegetative state clutched tightly in his hand.
Eric recognized it instantly. The item in the vagrant's hand was a vial of potent painkillers, a common sight in the Lower Hive of Kathion. It seemed they were more popular here than he thought. Eric knew these painkillers weren't officially classified as illegal narcotics. They were distributed to keep exhausted laborers awake and working continuously. However, if used carelessly, they were highly addictive.
And if someone abused them too much, they ended up exactly like this homeless man. Yet, spotting a vagrant heavily under the influence of this specific chem was a massive clue: it meant he was getting close to the apothecary.
Realizing this, a faint smile crossed Eric's face under his mask. At least he wouldn't have to walk much further. When he made the decision to detour through these dark alleys, he knew it would help him avoid the Iron Fang patrols, but he also knew he risked facing unknown dangers—getting lost being a major one.
But now, he was closing in on his objective. He only had a short distance left to cover. Eric checked his surroundings before slowly and silently creeping past the comatose vagrant, careful not to make a sound. His eyes remained locked on the man the entire time.
Carelessness in a place like this led to a quick death. And even that was considered lucky.
Who knew? The vagrant might suddenly wake up and go into a violent chem-frenzy, creating yet another problem for him to deal with. Once he had put a safe distance between himself and the addict, Eric realized he needed to handle his basic needs. He had to eat.
It took Eric a while to find a space secure enough to sit down and eat in relative peace. He took off his crude iron helmet and set down his bag. Reaching up, he unbuckled the straps of his chest armor and set the heavy plating aside.
"That feels so much better," Eric murmured softly, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders. He finally felt free from the oppressive weight pressing down on his shoulders and chest. He opened his bag and pulled out his canteen and rations.
His meal was, as always, Corp Starch. It was the only food he could reliably source right now.
He ate the starch quickly, washing it down with water. As he chewed, his mind raced with his formulated plans and the endless possibilities of what might happen in the near future... This assassination was going to be his first actual mission as Vann's personal operative and assassin.
Eric knew that if there was a first time, a second and a third would inevitably follow. He didn't want to kill people—he didn't want to kill anything—but he was forced to do so for his own survival. Perhaps he could comfort himself with the thought that the credits he earned from these assassinations would be enough to cover his living expenses and buy the things he actually wanted.
But if he accepted that, he would be no different from a mercenary who killed for money... He sighed softly, letting out a quiet, self-deprecating chuckle at his own anxiety and overthinking. Why the hell was he agonizing over morality right in the middle of a mission?
Technically, he had the right to think about these things. He had the right to weigh right and wrong and reflect on his own conscience.
But regardless of his feelings, he had a mission to complete.
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On a Planet near the Edge of the Eye of Terror
The planet known as Kael was situated near the edge of the Eye of Terror—a nightmare region where the Warp and realspace overlapped. Time and the laws of physics held little sway here.
This world was a gathering place for xenos, corsairs, and various factions of Chaos Space Marines to trade and barter resources. The primary commodities were slaves, weapons, sustenance, ancient relics, and materials required for dark rituals. The main hub of this illicit commerce was a mid-sized orbital fortress stationed above the planet.
The planet itself was ruled by a Chaos Space Marine warband known as the Doom Skulls. These Heretic Astartes had dedicated themselves to the Blood God, Khorne. Their warband's iconography featured rows of severed skulls adorning their banners. No one knew their true origins. Some whispered that they were once loyalist Space Marines who lost their faith after witnessing the true, rotting core of the Imperium, turning their backs on the Emperor to embrace the brutal, absolute truth of the Blood God. They were also the undisputed masters of the orbital fortress.
They were a ruthless warband, renowned for their devastating prowess in close-quarters combat—a hallmark of Khornate Space Marines. Once on the battlefield, they would descend into a berserker frenzy, charging forward to slaughter everything in their path, occasionally even their own allies, all to claim blood and skulls as offerings to their patron god. But they weren't mindless beasts all the time.
During periods of relative peace, a portion of their forces managed the administration of the planet—or at least, did so to the extent that Khornate Marines could. Their primary administrative duty involved defending Kael from other Chaos warbands who sought to conquer the world for various reasons, be it to monopolize the orbital trade or to secure a strategic foothold. The Doom Skulls heavily taxed anyone who came to trade.
Their demands varied, but their overarching policy was simple: they took whatever valuables they desired in whatever quantities they saw fit. If any Chaos Space Marines from another warband, or any trader for that matter, broke their laws or refused to pay the tithe while aboard their fortress, the Doom Skulls would slaughter them on the spot and seize all their assets—including slaves and the very voidships docked at the station.
Today, life on Kael and its orbital station proceeded with its usual, chaotic normalcy. Pirates, xenos, and Heretic Astartes mingled and traded aggressively within the fortress.
In the command sanctum at the heart of the orbital fortress, Derax the Doom Angel, the warlord of the Doom Skulls, clad in massive Terminator Armor, was holding a war council with the high-ranking champions of his warband. The topic of discussion was whether to join the massive campaign at Cadia, answering the summons of Warmaster Abaddon.
The atmosphere in the council chamber was incredibly tense. Almost everyone present was violently in favor of joining the Black Crusade.
Many were practically vibrating with bloodlust and excitement. This war was going to be apocalyptic in scale. Many viewed it as a holy crusade that would result in oceans of spilled blood. The larger the slaughter, the more fighting there would be, meaning infinite blood and skulls to harvest for the Blood God.
"SILENCE!" Derax roared at his champions, slamming his left hand—equipped with a massive Power Fist—onto the war table, shattering half of it into splinters. The high-ranking Chaos Space Marines, who had been loudly arguing and displaying their eager bloodlust, instantly fell dead silent.
"We will not join this war. It would cost us our grip on this territory and this planet! And I will never follow Abaddon. He is nothing but a shadow trying to walk in the footsteps of his failure of a father, Horus. I believe this crusade will end in failure, and we will gain nothing but ash and losses," Derax delivered his ultimatum.
Several champions openly displayed expressions and gestures of fury and defiance. Derax knew exactly what his subordinates were like. They craved slaughter. They hungered for blood and skulls to offer their god. But they lacked the tactical foresight to consider the consequences of abandoning their stronghold for a massive war.
This was exactly why he frequently had to hire and source competent, traitorous mortal administrators from the Imperium to manage the warband's logistics.
"My Lord, you cannot do this! We must join the Crusade! A war of this magnitude is a holy slaughter! We will kill, we will bleed them, and we will claim mountains of skulls for Khorne! I openly challenge your decree!" roared Faz, a Chaos Space Marine who held the title of Master of Executions, his voice dripping with insubordination.
"I said NO! And I will not repeat myself. We have been arguing in this council for days... or perhaps hours. I suggest you all disperse and tend to your own duties and desires. It will be far more productive than sitting here. Furthermore, several days—or hours—ago, I heard rumors of a Hive World that is just recovering from a devastating war. Its military forces are severely depleted. The planet doesn't even have an orbital defense fleet to protect it from corsairs... The world is called Opel III," Derax offered, trying to redirect his subordinates' bloodlust toward an easier, more profitable target. Even though he knew trying to reason with Khorne Berserkers on the edge of a frenzy was a fool's errand.
"I cannot accept your cowardice or your suggestions! I demand— BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!"
Before Faz could finish his sentence, Derax raised his Storm Bolter and unleashed a point-blank burst into Faz's chest. The mass-reactive bolt rounds, possessed by minor warp entities, detonated violently, blowing the Master of Executions' head and upper torso into a shower of gore and ceramite shrapnel.
"Does anyone else wish to voice their objections?" Derax growled, his gaze sweeping over everyone in the blood-spattered room. Not a single Chaos Space Marine dared to move or speak, terrified that they would be the next to die by their warlord's hand.
"Good. Now disperse. Anyone who has the time, prepare your boarding forces and make for the ships heading to Opel III," Derax lowered his weapon and let out a heavy sigh. He knew that leading these blood-crazed lunatics was an incredibly difficult and exhausting task. But regardless, the territory, wealth, and influence he gained made it all worthwhile.
Suddenly, the heavy blast doors hissed open, and a lone figure strode into the sanctum. The figure was a Space Marine clad in a suit of armor Derax had not seen in millennia—a suit of ancient, black-and-green Cataphractii Terminator Armor, proudly bearing the heraldry of the First Legion.
Derax recognized him instantly. The Space Marine standing before him was a Fallen, a Dark Angel from ten thousand years ago, who had somehow survived by being sucked into the Warp and spat out into the present era. The Fallen's ancient armor was visibly battered and worn. His left arm, from the elbow down, had been replaced with a crude cybernetic prosthetic. A plasma pistol was mag-locked to his right wrist, and in his right hand, he held a Power Sword that looked distinctly like it had been stolen from a mortal officer. Numerous sword hilts were chained to his chest plate, displayed like macabre trophies.
And then, this Fallen spoke words that made Derax want to throw his head back and laugh out loud at the sheer, unadulterated stupidity of it all.
"I am Arcas Vitarius of the Dark Angels Legion. Knight of Caliban, Bearer of the Truth, Blademaster, Conqueror of Cutf, Kingslayer, Subduer of Ragdan Prime. One of the chosen followers of Luther. It is a pleasure to meet you," Arcas introduced himself, offering a slight, formal bow.
Every Chaos Space Marine in the room felt an immediate, violent surge of irritation at the Fallen's polite, formal demeanor. Some had to physically restrain themselves from charging forward and burying an axe in his skull.
"Lord Derax, the Doom Angel. I expect you to heed my request. There are only two choices before you. You and your entire warband will join the Crusade at Cadia... or your head will be hung from my belt as a trophy," Arcas stated in a flat, even tone, raising his Power Sword into a dueling guard.
"I refuse your offer. But I will not refuse the opportunity to claim your head and your armor for myself," Derax replied without a moment's hesitation. He raised his massive Power Axe and began to advance on the Fallen. Who would pass up the chance to claim such an ancient, powerful suit of Terminator Armor?
The surrounding Chaos Space Marines immediately stepped back, clearing a path for their warlord.
Without another word, the two massive warriors charged at each other, and a brutal, drawn-out duel began.
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Author's Note: It seems Eric might be luckier than he thought... well, assuming Arcas actually manages to win, that is.