Well, well, well, well! Dear esteemed reader! Before we start our epic journey across the blood-drenched battlefields of the far future, I believe I have a few questions to ask:

Do you have an interest in either Warhammer 40,000 or Star Wars?

Due you enjoy reading epic scenes of ultra-unrealistic violence and gore?

Have you been enraged these past years at the fringeness of the Warhammer 40k franchise?

Have you had a primeval desire, after reading Darth Malleus's lore-defiling Two Galaxy's Saga, to see the shit completely beaten out of that pansy, dickless universe known as Star Wars?

Congratulations! Then, this story is for you!

For far too long, I have lurked the halls of the Internet, and facepalmed myself at the mutilation of my beloved franchise. For far too long, I have seen idiots and noobs paw their greedy, filthy hands at the hallowed grimderpness that is 40k. So, one day, I decided: By the Emperor, why should I, the Epic Paragon of Manliness, stay my hands when heretics and xenophiles utterly butcher Warhammer 40,000? Why, indeed?

No, this is not an attack on Darth Malleus, nor am I a Khornate daemon summoned from the blackest pits of the warp. In fact, to the risk of attracting the daemons of foul Slaanesh, I quite enjoyed that story, and aside from some of the more ludicrous parts of the plot and a few grammar errors, I found it quite….acceptable.

Except, of course, where Darth Malleus completely and utterly butchered 40k fluff.

No, Darth Malleus, if you are out there reading, this is not an attack on your person. I respect you as an author, and I feel for you as I saw more rabid bulldogs of our fanbase unleash their howls of rage at your direction. It is a shitstorm even I, being the paragon of manliness that I am, am afraid to brave. BUT!

You have utterly, completely, and almost irrevocably defiled the elements of a universe I truly loved. You have no idea of the painful weeks and months I have spent, weeping tears of blood at this horrid mutilation and castration of what was to be single most badass universe out there. While I respect the fact that you are an excellent established author, having an impressive 900,000 word count to your credit, this horrendous evil you have wrought is simply unforgivable. Prepare to experience my pain.

Prepare to watch Warhammer 40,000 completely dominate Star Wars. Prepare to watch what is the proper presentation of events! Prepare for the utter buttrape of proportions never seen before!

This is Darth Malleus's Two Galaxy's Saga, as reinterpreted by the Epic Paragon of Manliness. BEHOLD!

WARNING:

Hardcore Star Wars lovers need not continue. If, however, you ignore this warning…well, let's just say, I'm all fired up and pumped for a debate shitstorm—I think I've got my flame-retardant suit right here….

Oh yes, and, the picture is CaptVovan's, titled Your Emperor Is False, from deviantart. I take no credit for anything.

This is a presentation of events as they truly should be: where Star Wars is shown its place, where 40k is presented as badass as it actually is, and where everyone in the grim derpness of the far future dies a horrible, horrible death.

The story begins at the same time as Chapter 1, except on the 40k side. I am not, by any means, an extreme expert on Star Wars (though I do believe I know enough), so I will leave the canon of Two Galaxy's Saga intact for the events of Collision Course. By Chapter 2, however, when 40k starts to really come in, it becomes clear that Darth Malleus clearly has no idea of even the most basic tenets of 40k; for one, no decent Battleship Captain would have a name as mundane as "Rooseland", nor a ship name as pathetic as Daemon Slayer. The number of battleships, logistics, etc, will all be the same, except the names/personalities/badassitude changed to reflect actual 40k canon. Thus, the Let The Galaxy Burn! Edition shall start here.

Just in case you haven't read the story, here it is:

s/3238754/1/Two-Galaxy-s-Saga

Collision Course, or, in the Galaxy Burns edition, Hand of Retribution

The skies above Magos IV burned. Space roiled and twisted, and plasma storms erupted upon the planet as the intense energies unleashed between the dueling armadas twisted the magnetosphere of the world.

To the fearful citizenry watching below, the warships were so large that even individual details could at certain times, be discerned by the naked eye. Some of the warships looked to be gigantic cathedrals, bedecked with snarling saints and winged eagles, screaming their hatred into the void, while their enemies were bloodied beasts, with features so vile that those who saw them were left almost paralyzed with fear. To them, it must have seemed to be a clash between the Gods; chariots of divine wrath soared through the heavens, bringing their weapons to bear against their enemies, vast, snarling daemons summoned from the depths of hell. Little did they know how close they were to the truth.

For far above, the battleships of the Imperium of Man were battling their nemesis, the fell forces of the Ruinous Powers, men and women who had sold their souls for power to daemons better left unnamed.

"Void shields one and two down!"

"Hall sections one through thirty-four struck! Hull integrity at eighty-seven percent!

"Incoming wave of fighters, prow-port side! All gunners, ready!"

Lord Admiral Ezekyle Tiberius Havelock paid the screams and announcements over the vox-coms no heed. Whereas his subordinates were only men, and still needed their flesh-senses to know what was going on within Retribution-class Battleship Imperator Invictus, Ezekyle had no such needs. A fusion of machinery and man, Ezekyle had been permanently hardwired directly into the ship itself, allowing him to coordinate and control the eight-kilometer battleship with nothing but his mind. When he raged, the guns spat death, and when the ship was struck, he felt the Machine-Spirit's agony. He had no need of such reports, read coldly from a terminal; the Machine-Spirit whispered to him directly, and at times, they even became one.

+Lord!+

Ezekyle raised a mental eyebrow. One of his sons had sent him a sympathetic neural message?

For even for a man as augmented as Ezekyle, handling the entire ship was too much. The venerable Machine-Spirit of the battleship necessitated; no, demanded to be attended by not just one soul but an entire retinue of souls. He almost smirked at his title of Lord. Most people believed him to be the supreme power on the ship—that was blatantly untrue. It was the battleship herself, Imperator Invictus, that was the master. He and all his sons were wired together, directly into the ship. As Lord Admiral, Ezekyle controlled all the main functions: engine output, Nova Cannon usage, shield activation, but his sons controlled the rest of the ship; communications, scanning, even bulkhead activation. Jereus, master of communication and navigation, had just pinged him.

+This is Jereus. The High Augarator has just divined a psychic anomaly brewing in coordinates x-8,790, y-3,306, z-6,039 and c-0,935. Permission to divert 0.01 percent of engine power to scan that region of space in an hour?+

Ah, psykers, Ezekyle thought to himself absentmindedly, even as his autonomic system automatically engaged and destroyed an entire wing of Swiftdeath Interceptors. Most in the Imperium saw them and their ilk as a terror, an abomination to be destroyed, but Ezekyle knew that merely to be the product of a healthily narrow mind. For Lords as he, things were not so black and white. Truth to be told, if an Inquisitor had been onboard, he would most likely have been executed for allowing the battle-psykers he employed to be so actively drawing upon the powers of the Empyrean during an encounter with the fell forces of Chaos, but he was confident the…measures he had employed were sufficient. After all, an entire division of Armsmen were kept right next to the Psykana Tower, ready to blow it to smithereens should anything untoward happen.

For Ezekyle though, he felt their abilities far outweighed the risks, for psykers were touched by the Warp, an eldritch realm that knew not the constraints of time. While the majority of them could only see visions of things just before they occurred, the most skilled of them could obtain targeting solutions of ships before they even entered realspace…and the High Augarator was not merely "skilled". There had been many a time when an Ork Kill Kroozer or Kroot Warsphere had Warped into a system, packed with the greatest of stealth technology, only to be blown to pieces mere seconds after they had reached their prize, because the Augarator-psykers that Ezekyle kept had divined their appearance hours, or sometimes even days, in advance.

An explosion of ringing pain snapped him out of his reverie, as another Lance strike scored a direct hit upon the prow. Ezekyle immediately refocused on the task at hand.

+Permission granted. Ave Imperator Omnissiah! Deus Vult!+

Ezekyle took direct control of the main intercom systems. For the first time in hours, the halls upon the ship fell silent, as the babbling of orders and ringing of klaxons ceased abruptly. Across the Imperator Invictus, every ear turned to hear her Lord speak. Ezekyle closed what was left of his eyes, letting his anger and hatred at the enemy grow. His voice rang out deep and commanding across the entire battleship.

"For the Emperor! For Mankind! For Terra! Do your duty!"

The engines activated. Imperator Invictus's Machine-Spirit snarled, as a wave of aggression spread through her. She broke from the line of cruisers and frigates, and charged at the closest Chaos warship.

Ezekyle opened his eyes, brimming with tears of rage.

"Target and deny! By our deaths, shall they know of us!"

Glorious battle recommenced.

Across the void of space, the golden yellow of lance strikes, violet-blue of plasma rounds, white of atomic explosions and the almost invisible silhouettes of thousands upon thousands of dulled, blackened interceptors duelling rendered the silent warzone almost alive, as chaotic as any battlefield upon the ground. The battle was still fresh, but a day old, yet for any seasoned veteran, it was clear an important milestone had been reached: the most powerful warship of the Imperial armada, a Retribution-class battleship by the name of Imperator Invictus, had two of its five void shields overloaded. The Chaos warships, sensing weakness, began to advance, risking a higher percentage of missile hits to concentrate fire upon the Invictus's (relatively) vulnerable prow. Most commanders would have retreated, better to survive, to drag on the battle for a bit longer, in order for any small chance at victory.

Lord Admiral Ezekyle Tiberius Havelock was not most commanders. He looked upon the enemy, not with his weak, almost atrophied eyes, but with the thousand of scanners and pict-recorders attached to his warship, and felt not fear, but impatient zeal. Every second a battle dragged on was a waste in his opinion; the quicker the battle, the more battles one could have; the more battles one had, the more heretics and idolators one could slay. It was a simple equation in his mind.

"Armsmen! Prow! Ready to repel! Engines! Overload! Two-hundred percent thrust!"

His vox-orders exploded at a furious pace, almost staggering in their speed. Battle in space was not like the ground: whereas on the ground, mistakes could be made, losses afforded, in the cold vacuum, every single error could be the last. To be Lord Admiral demanded an incredible mind; ability to micromanage, be aware of the going-ons within his own ship, and ability to macromanage, to communicate with the rest of the fleet. He mentally switched channels, and encoded it with his own unique house battle-cant. It was lucky that all those he fought alongside today were old friends—otherwise, he may have had to resort to Astropathic communication.

[Castus! Azathal! Karial! Follow me with your Grand Cruisers to glory! Ulladon! Derivar! Pastroclus! Quorloral! Flank the enemy with your cruisers! Cut off their means of escape! Scintia! Yslavor! Dragovich! Ozerval! Tretovas! Encircle them with your frigates from above and below! Show no mercy! Basquor, ready! Load your nova cannon! Explosion ordnance! Ready it, by all means, to fire! All hands! This is the decisive blow! We break them now!]

He immediately received hails and confirmations, as each executed their orders. Still, there was doubt; this was not standard naval protocol.

[Lord Admiral,] Castus hailed, [I question this course of action. The battle is young; we need not take such risks. What are you planning to accomplish?]

[Pax, Castus. I merely tire of this battle; the miserable piece of dirt below would not even be noticed for another century, even if it were lost. Still, it is our duty to protect the domains of man; this we cannot do if we dally here! Now, waste no more time; concentrate on the battle to come!]

The exchange took less than 0.1 seconds. Still, it was enough for the enemy to take advantage of. Ezekyle's head whirled as the familiar feeling of warpcraft swirled around him. Blood leaked from his vacant eyes. He snarled; he knew this feeling. This was inevitable; with his void shields down, his enemy could take advantage of the ship's dimensional instability. The Lord of the Invictus gave a furious roar:

"Armsmen! Ready! Enemy teleportation incoming!"

"Armsmen! Ready! Enemy teleportation incoming!"

Dariel Mithras almost shook with the force behind the captain's roar, resounding across the entire hull. A part of the Invictus defense personnel, Dariel had been conscripted from the lower class laborers that toiled in the belly of the ship. Chosen for his size and strength, Dariel was nevertheless eager to fight for the glory of the Lord Admiral; yet, to his horror, due to an obscure decree laid down centuries ago, he was forbidden training and had simply been handed a shotgun and taught how to use it. He hadn't even been spared his duties; if anything, he worked harder than ever before. His life had taken a downward turn since then; everything he knew had fallen apart. When he had tried to speak to his parents, his girlfriend, a provost had detained him, and told him in no uncertain terms that should he try to make contact with his old friends and family, then he, and all the people he knew, would be taken away and shot. Everything he had learned about defense service was a lie; there were no better postings, better meals, no better life. His whole life was destined to be offered up upon the altar of battle to an indifferent god; he was ultimately, expendable. Dariel was terrified, demoralized, and filled almost with a bitter hatred towards the ship he had once loved.

Yet, he kept on his bravest and most determined face. The massive, whirling chainsword behind him was doing its job, alright. The sound of contemptful chuckling echoed.

"The enemy approaches, at this hour of death. Deny him! Spite him! Spit upon him! Faith and fire! Fury and wrath! Offer to the Emperor your lives, for salvation demands sacrifice!"

Dariel and those closest to him looked nervously at the preacher standing behind them. Dressed in armored robes, he wielded in his right hand a giant eviscerator, holding in his left a battered hotshot laspistol, whittled into the shape of a crude Aquila. Over eight feet tall, the bald, massive priest towered over every single one of them. His expression was filled with contempt, every single muscle tensed to kill. His eyes bored into Dariel and the others, almost daring them to run. The priest's lips curled into a sadistic sneer, and he hefted the eviscerator up with one hand, as if it was a toy.

"For He who gives, will also take. For if it is not Chaotic blood that this weapon tastes today, then it shall be those that have denied Him through cowardice," he finished.

Dariel was not the smartest of men, but even he understood the message. Quickly, he turned around to avoid staring at those burning eyes, hunkering down behind their makeshift barricade of crates. He adjusted his grip on his shotgun, making sure it was loaded, even as the dark, mocking laughter continued. A few seconds passed, until Dariel realized something. He turned to the armsmen beside him.

"Wait, if the priest's not laughing, who is?"

Then the hallways exploded in blood.

There was no time. There was no way. Lord Admiral Ezekyle was a part of the ship. He could feel the Machine-Spirit of the Imperator Invictus crying out with revulsion at her defilement, by the filthy tread of the mongrel mutant footsoldiers of the forces of Chaos. But he simply could not devote even a fraction of his processing power to solving the problem himself, but instead, trust in those who had control. Even now, he could sense his other son, Careus, master of the decks, splitting up and isolating the soldiers, locking them down there, activating turrets here, and, in some extreme cases, even venting them all out into the void. Armsmen could always be replaced, after all.

So despite all his disgust, despite all his loathing, he turned his mind to the task at hand: the total, utter and complete annihilation of the opposing fleet. In this way, and in this way only, his enemies mirrored his purity of purpose; it was for this one thing, this semi-divine hatred for all their foes that Ezekyle almost felt respect for these fallen sons of Man. Even in damnation, they were still purer than the alien, beings that could never comprehend His Glory, in the power of their hate and their willingness to give all, for the glory of their gods.

And give all, they would—this Ezekyle vowed.

He sighted down the lead warship of the Chaotic forces, his nemesis—a Despoiler-class Battleship. Ezekyle was slightly surprised. The Despoiler-class had been first created back, almost at the time of the Dawn of the Imperium, just a few, short centuries after the bitter civil strife of the Horus Heresy. His lower lip curled. The builders and priests back then did not understand the purity of mankind's technology, and in their misplaced pride, rejected the teachings of the Emperor and his alter-ego, the Deus Mechanicus, and succumbed to the hubris of innovation. The Emperor, in his wrath, had called down a warp-storm upon them, and consigned the entire facility into oblivion. To his knowledge, only three models had survived. One was destroyed in glorious battle, redeeming its tainted bloodline with martyrdom; the other two succumbed and were overtaken by the forces of the Archenemy, proving for once and for all that it was a model unworthy of Imperial manufacture. A true spirit of the Deus ex Machina would rather overload its own engines and take the enemy with them then succumb to eternal damnation.

He didn't even bother to process its unique ident-sig; it was beneath him to know the name of such a weakling spirit. All he needed to know was that it was an enemy, and thus, it had to die.

[Basquor! Fire the Nova Cannon! Grand Cruisers! Prepare to launch broadsides!]

Unique among all the ships that Ezekyle had encountered during his long years of service, only humanity, and its…offshoots (for he hesitated to call traitors and heretics 'human') utilized broadsides in space warfare. The pernicious Eldar, for example, both light and dark (though equally evil in measure) preferred swift, striking ships, too cowardly to face their enemies in direct combat. The crude Orks were too stupid to build their own models; instead, they sailed in hollowed out asteroids or space hulks, only occasionally having the stroke of genius to copy mankind's holy vehicles in war. The Tyranids, one of the few alien races whom the Admiral felt any degree of…emotion in battle with, where monstrous, blasphemous conglomerations of flesh and viscera and deserved only to annihilated utterly. And other aliens, too many to count…all of them weak, all of them fools.

Imperial battleships were long, beautiful, boxy constructs, emphasizing the might and glory of the Imperium they served and the power of the God they worshipped. Upon the prow were mounted the lance cannons and other such extreme distance weaponry; facing the foe, the ship could watch gleefully as the enemies of man died screaming and gutted before them, before they had even managed to come into range for their first shot. Yet, it was up close and right beside the enemy, however, that the most damage was done. Mounted upon the side of each battleship where thousand upon thousands upon thousands of rows of missile bays, plasma batteries, lascannons and more. With one broadside, an Imperial ship could often launch millions of attacks in one overpowering blow, utterly obliterating the enemy. Most alien ships could only take one such broadside. Human ships, however, and by extension, those who copied them, could usually take more, but even then, it was a near thing. Thus, not even the power of Imperator Invictus and her smaller sisters, who were facing Chaos heretics utilizing unholy or outdated models of Imperial design, could take out a large portion of the enemy fleet in one go.

This was where the Nova Cannon entered the equation. The Nova Cannon was the most extreme distance of weapons, able to at the most extreme of ranges, strike entire Astronomical Units away. Essentially an incredibly massive torpedo, fired almost at the speed of light and containing the most potent warheads known to Man, the most powerful Nova Cannon strikes could obliterate small moons. Such massive power came at a price, however; one was when such a weapon was mounted, a huge amount of space was needed, space which otherwise could be used for other things, such as storing attack craft or even installing additional shield generators. The other was the sheer amount of energy required to fuel the thing. The projectile was so massive, and fired at such a high speed, that the act of firing it actually pushed entire kilometer-long battleships backwards, so great was the recoil. When it was used, power, vital power, power that went to shields, engines, weapons; all had to be diverted to feed the Nova Cannon's insatiable need for energy. For Basquor however, Lord of the Mars-class Cruiser Ares Titanicus, all this was worth the sheer killing power that the Nova Cannon allowed.

There was a flash of incredible light. Ezekyle, ready, had already dimmed all windows and scanners, but even then, the sheer amount of energy pouring from the Nova Cannon strike forced its way through and blinded him for almost a full second.

Electronic broadcasts were scrambled. Astropathic communication, however, was not.

+Strike! For the Emperor!+

Ezekyle, with three Grand Cruisers behind, charged into the midst of the stunned Chaos fleet, firing their broadsides, taking advantage of their downed void shields. The battle was still far from over, but a far more decisive milestone had been reached.

[The battle is ours! Forwards, brethren!]

Little did Ezekyle know how wrong he was.

Dariel hid behind a crate, clutching himself with shaking hands.

"Oh, divine Emperor, forgive me, I never meant to doubt, oh God, please…"

Life for the lower classes amongst the ship was nasty, brutish, and short. But even in the harshest of places, humanity thrived. Before his conscription, Dariel had a family. He had a shitty job, got drunk, and had more than his fair share of scars, but hey! It was life. He had a girl, and his parents had against all odds, managed to retire, and things were looking good. He kept his head down, showed up to prayer, and did his work. He lived, laughed, and knew joy.

Here though…there was nothing natural.

When the head of the armsmen next to him had exploded, showering him in cooked gore, Dariel had flinched away instinctively; it was that, that had saved his life for a second las-bolt had passed mere centimeters from his head. All around, red-armored troopers with snarling masks had appeared all around them, dripping with fresh blood and wielding lasrifles. Dariel didn't remember feeling sickened. He didn't remember feel anything at all, almost as if he was a servitor, as he raised his shotgun and returned fire. They had completely surrounded them, had them in a killing field of fire. People around him were being mowed down at an incredible rate, and only doing minimal damage in return, for their enemies' body-armor was proof against the weak shotguns the naval men had been issued. Instead, it was the priest who had saved them. For all his zeal, he was not a fool, and had called to them, singing hymns as he charged directly into combat at the enemy troopers. His armored robe was proof against their blasts and then he was among them, hacking and slashing with his massive chainsaw, like a scythe reaping corn.

"Follow me, if you want to live!"

They had followed, terrified, hearing only bestial howls behind them. Then, the bulkhead doors had shut down, cutting off their pursuers. Out of the forty men, only seven had survived.

"We must regroup," the priest had said. "Elsewhere upon the ship, the enemy infests. This cannot be allowed."

One of the armsmen stood up. Dimly, Dariel remembered his name was Michael.

"No! I'm…I'm not going back there! We were sent here to die! We barely even killed any of them, and—"

The priest loomed over him.

"Are you deserting?"

Michael raised his shotgun against the priest. After a moment of hesitation, another three did as well. Dariel froze, unsure of what to do. The deserting armsman, Michael, swallowed and said in a trembling voice:

"Yes, and you can't stop us."

Tension boiled. The priest looked murderous.

For a brief, terrified second, Dariel was worried that the priest would strike Michael down where he stood, and continue with the rest of them. Instead, the priest laughed.

"Fair enough. All your souls are damned, anyways. Go where you want. He who still wishes to serve, however, follow me."

Dariel had no idea what had happened. Dariel had no idea of what he was thinking. As yet another armsman ran up to join Michael and the rest of the deserters, Dariel and the other armsman, who he had never met before, stayed by the priest. Perhaps it had been Dariel's sense of duty, but he doubted it. He had seen the skill of the priest, and Dariel had a sinking feeling that the only way he would live, if only for a few seconds longer, was if he followed the zealous madman. The priest nodded approvingly, the first time he had shown any emotion other than zeal and contempt.

"It seems even in the most unlikely of men, the seed that is courage may take root. Come with me then, as we sell our lives dearly to the Archenemy."

He turned around and stalked away. Dariel glanced at the other, unnamed armsman, and shrugged. They followed.

Lord Admiral Ezekyle smiled as he closed with the Despoiler-class Chaos Warship. He had it in his sights. He would savor its death. A shadow loomed at the side of his vision.

Hm?

An Iconoclast-class destroyer barred his way, interposing itself between the two much larger battleships. Ezekyle sneered.

"You wish so much to die? I shall oblige you!"

With a mental command, he activated the Invictus's lance cannons, pummeling the destroyer's vulnerable hull. Entire molten sections of the hull were blasted right off, yet its crew was filled with suicidal bravery and devotion and refused to move. Ezekyle laughed at this futile show of defiance, focusing every lance strike right in the middle of the destroyer.

[If you will not move,] Ezekyle cried, right into the external broadcasts for all to hear, [then I will smash through you!]

"All hands! Brace for impact! Engines! Three-hundred percent thrust! Divert energy from weapons! Splinter the bastard into pieces!"

Ezekyle was going to ram the destroyer, and split it in half.

An insane tactic, even by Imperial standards, ramming was only attempted in the most desperate of times. It took advantage of a battleship's incredibly armored brow, utilizing it as an impromptu battering ram. With the mass of eight-kilometers of adamantium behind it, traveling at half the speed of light, even the hull of the Imperator Incivtus could be used as a weapon.

"Die, heretics! Be cast screaming from the domains of Man!"

The hallway lights had been flickering on and off for the past few minutes. The first time it had occurred, all of them had jumped, even the priest, weapons ready to kill everything in sight. But as the lights flickered on, and off, and on, and off…slowly, the group adjusted. The priest, no longer jumpy by now, but impatient for action, was muttering to himself under his breath. It was during this time that Dariel spoke to his fellow armsman, just for something to say.

"Hey…uh…you. So, what's your name?"

The armsman gave him a dirty look.

"Seriously? At a time—"

The lights flicked off again. Dariel waited patiently for him to finish. It was only when the light came back on and Dariel noticed the armsman no longer had a head that Dariel screamed. Like a headless puppet, the man's body twitched as insane laughter poured from the walls. Incredible jets of crimson jetted out of the severed neckstump and the armsman's severed head continued all the while to laugh, even as it rolled across the floor.

"Ahhhh! Ahhhhhhhhh!"

Dariel screamed again, louder and shriller and than he ever had in his life and blinded by fear, hurled his shotgun at it, hitting in squarely in the chest with a sickening thunk. A mouth tore open on the man's chest and crunched down hard on the gun, sending metal spraying in every direction. Dariel wet his pants, and fell on his back. A monster slavered and advanced.

Crack! Crack!

A series of lasbolts smashed the monster back, eliciting a howl of pain from it. The priest had returned.

"Stand fast, armsman! For the Emperor!"

The monster snarled, multicolored drool leaking from its orifices, and picked up and hurled its head at the priest. He didn't even bat an eye as he slashed it in half in the air with his whirling chainsaw.

"With hate, I repel thee! With spite, I abjure thee! With rage, I reject thee! With faith, I deny thee!"

The priest was upon the monster.

The clash between the two seemed to Dariel like a battle between opposing forces of nature. On one side, a priest, a holy crusader of God; on the other was a truest monster, a daemon summoned from the deepest pits of hell. Both fought with savage abandon, rage and hate, and Dariel could only watch helplessly as the two battled.

Yet, to his utter disbelief, it had seemed the priest was winning!

"Oh merciful Emp—"

KACRANG!

The entire hall shook as the ship impacted something tremendous. The force was so great that it picked Dariel, the priest, and the daemon all up and hurled them bodily down the hall through hundreds of meters of hallways, horizontally.

Dariel could only remember rushing wind, then blackness.

The impact was tremendous. Even in the battleship's throne room, where the Lord Admiral had invested billions of Throne's worth of g-force compensators, the vibrations that ran through the entire hall shook his bones and shattered his arteries. Ezekyle bled profusely, yet he could feel even now the nanorobots within his system repairing him. He quickly ran a systems diagnostic, ignoring his own pain. The ship was all that mattered.

The Invictus had suffered damage. Despite his softening-up of the destroyer, the superstructure was still stable enough that in ramming, a full twenty-six percent of the Imperator Invictus's prow mass had been sheared away. The only reason, in fact, that the Imperator Invictus still had a prow at all was that the Retribution-class model, even for Imperial ships, had an almost ludicrously oversized prow, just for circumstances like this. Still, the way was clear and another enemy ship had been purged, for the glory of the Emperor. Her sister ships floated beside the Invictus, Grand Cruisers all, blasting death into the enemies' now unshielded forms. It was Imperial warfare at its greatest and most glorious.

+Lord! Anomalous readings! Massive energy fluctuations detected!+

Jereus brushed his mind against his, filled with emotions of confusion and terror. What?

[Ezekyle! It is a trap! Their void shields have been reactivated! We take their bombardment, blow for blow!] Castus's voice was strained.

Impossible! There was no way the void shields could be reactivated that fast! It was…

A dark mocking laughter echoed through the entire Imperial fleet. A voice that could have either been as deep as the rumbling of an earthquake or as light as the whisper of the wings of a thousand butterflies hailed the entire defense force.

"In the name of the True Gods, nothing is impossible."

Dariel had awoken to the sound of dripping fluid.

"Uh?"

He was on a bed of something soft, and his body ached all over. He groaned, squinted his eyes, then collapsed back on the soft surface, letting his vision adjust to the darkness. His hand touched something pulpy. Out of simple curiosity, he picked it up and looked at it.

It was a sack, with hard and squishy stuff inside.

"What…"

It was the pulverized head of the priest. Utterly deformed from the hundred-meter impact, juice leaked from its orifices and it was the consistency of egg yolk. The features, just recognizable, stared up at him vacantly. Dariel screamed again, the third time in minutes, and hurled it away as far as he could, sobbing helplessly. It exploded against a distant wall, and the sound of dripping intensified.

There was a low moan.

Dariel froze, every muscle tensed. Thirty meters away, a dim shape of a headless man rose, and began to stalk closer to him. Dariel whimpered, and began to find a place to hide.

No.

No!

It was impossible. It couldn't be done. There was no possible way. Yet…

The vox-traffic was incredible. Screams, roars, and cries of despair echoed for all to here, overlayed by cackling madness. Ezekyle was almost physically stunned at the magnitude of the error he had committed.

His friends, brave souls all, fought grimly by his side. Despite being outnumbered and outgunned, their own tactics used against them, they fought with the famed determination that Mankind was known for. Fire exploded across the void of space as now, the enemy launched their own broadsides against the Imperial fleet, and Ezekyle could only watch the signature burst of light as void shield after void shield overloaded, leaving the ships with only their armor to withstand the attack.

Castus's Grand Cruiser was the first to fall.

A Vengeance-class Grand Cruiser, the Ira Aquila had served the Imperium for almost the entire length of its history. Castus's family had been one of the very first explorators who warred to bring the Emperor's light across the galaxy, during the Great Crusade itself. Rewarded for their faith and determination during the aftermath of the Horus Heresy, the very first of the Castus line had been given the Grand Cruiser, better to deal vengeance against those who had betrayed their own. The ten thousand year old ship had roll of history longer than even Ezekyle's own Imperator Invictus, and after taking a double broadside from two Chaos cruisers, it could take no more. Finally, after ten millennia of loyal service, the Eagle's Wrath could rage no more.

The wave of explosions arced through the ship. A roar of helpless, impotent fury echoed from the doomed ship seconds before—

[Avenge me!] Castus cried.

It exploded, a light so bright that it would be mistaken as a supernova dozens of light-years away.

+Lord? Lord?+

Lord Admiral Ezekyle Tiberius Havelock squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking from them from the death of his friend, fear at their defeat overtaking him, as the notion that he could die finally exploded into his mind. This could not be true, he repeated, barely even feeling the pain of multiple torpedo impacts, as he retreated from this unbearable truth.

+Father!+

Agony seared through his head, a mental scream echoing through him mind, tearing through the grip of desolation.

For the first time in minutes, real, true emotion surged through Ezekyle's head. The psyk-sorcery of despair lifted from Ezekyle, utterly broken, as a sound, a sound far more terrible, far worse, far greater than any magnitude of physical or psychic torture the Archenemy could lay upon him was expressed in this single, horrible scream.

Ezekyle roared in grief.

"No! Careus! My son!"

The entirety of the Imperator Invictus was in turmoil. The machines were going haywire as Careus's death released them from control; his brothers were tormented with the pain-patterns of his demise, writhing impotently even as the meme-viruses uploaded by the teleporting saboteurs were wreaking havoc—

"No."

A physical weight of barely controlled rage descended upon the entire ship. The entire mainframe of the ship came to a sudden halt, and all of the pained brothers felt a grief far deeper than they could imagine.

For the first time in centuries, Lord Admiral Ezekyle Tiberius Havelock had achieved perfect symbiosis with the Machine-Spirit of the Imperator Invictus. The Machine-Spirit was him, and he was the Machine-Spirit. They were as one, and none could stand before their combined fury and wrath.

+It was about time, Father, that you awakened from your trance.+

Careus!

Ezekyle searched around mentally, looking for any trace of his dead son.

+No, father, I am well and truly gone. But all who have interfaced with the ship, all who have had their brain-patterns uploaded, shall leave a ghost of their personality-imprint upon it forever. Today, the Archenemy faces not just Lord Admiral Ezekyle Tiberius Havelock, nor his son, Careus Firezon Eraval Havelock, but every single soul that has interfaced—every single Lord Admiral, our father's father stretching all the way back to the Imperator Invictus's birth. There will be victory, for the heroes of the dead fight with us today.+

Ezekyle could feel the presence of multiple personalities around him; some familiar, some not, but all were united in purpose.

Ezekyle smiled, despite his pain.

"Let us spit in the eyes of the so-called True Gods!"

Dariel hid behind a crate, clutching himself with shaking hands.

"Oh, divine Emperor, forgive me, I never meant to doubt, oh God, please…"

He could hear the squelches of the daemon behind him. He could feel his soul screaming within his body at him to do something.

It was hopeless. What could he do? He was just a laborer, he hadn't even wanted to fight, there was no point.

The daemon stepped even closer.

Dariel bolted.

The daemon sprinted after him, laughing maniacally. Dariel ran, faster than he ever had, but it was gaining on him.

Twenty meters.

Dariel panted, his body burning.

Ten meters.

Oh, god, oh god, it hurt so much, it hurt—

Five meters.

Dariel rounded a corner and slipped on something, skidding across the ground. A large girder, disturbed by the pursuit, fell and blocked the monster's way. It roared, angered at being denied its prey, and began tearing at it. Dariel tried to get up and run, but his ankle was swollen, and he knew it wouldn't simply kill him, it would rape his soul and burn the very trace of his existence away.

He pawed around, desperate for anything, anything—

"Dariel?"

He froze. He knew that voice. How?

He looked around, despite the monster looming around the corner.

"Dariel?"

Despite everything, despite all the destruction, forward, just in front of him was a terminal was still active, still working. He limped over to it. It was a miracle.

It was Fiona, the girl he had left behind when he was conscripted. It was a recorded message, but—

"Why haven't you contacted me for the past six months? You promised after training time was over, you would come back for me. Have you simply forgotten?"

Dariel touched the picture, even though it was just a recording. He was speechless.

"You promised to be a real man, to protect the Lord Admiral and honor your promises. You haven't come back, I haven't heard from you, no one knows where you've gone. Is this it? Are you a liar, an oathbreaker? Can you still remember the Emperor's Pledge, which all of us were required to memorize as a child?"

Dariel whispered to himself.

"To protect, to serve, to—"

"I thought you loved me. I miss you so much. Everyone's told me to give up on you."

Dariel's heart froze. No…please…not when he was about to die—

"But I believe in you."

Dariel couldn't speak. The image froze, then broadcast again. Dariel's heart was still. Then, he felt grim, fatalistic determination. No one would ever know what transpired here, and his soul would be devoured by daemons, but the Emperor—

He looked around. Then, his jaw dropped.

Wait.

Impossible.

Almost as if fate was taunting him.

Almost as if life was mocking him.

Almost as if it was divine intervention.

Almost as if the Emperor had truly given him a second chance, to redeem himself.

For, under the glow of the viewscreen, Dariel spied the glint of the dead priest's Aquila pistol. Dariel whispered the last part of the Emperor's Pledge, it taking on a real meaning for the first time in Dariel's mind.

"…and so he who hath faith, shall bear witness to the divine."

[Avenge me!]

Castus's oath reverberated throughout Ezekyle's skull.

+Father!+

Careus's cry pierced through his heart.

Upon their blood, Ezekyle swore, he would enact his vengeance. The enemy fleet would undergo ten thousand years of suffering, for every single act of desecration they had committed.

"Forwards, men! For those who died! Let us execute their dying wish, by anointing them with the blood of our enemies!"

As a wave of religious fervor washed over Ezekyle, he felt the ghosts around him nodding their heads, the Machine-Spirit of the ship itself roaring its approval at what he was about to do.

[All hands! Disengage from the battles, save yourselves! As I began this, so shall I end this!]

He ignored his comrades' shock, at this order to retreat.

[Do not defy my legacy!]

With that, he rerouted all power from his shields into his engines, and pushed to their limits, and beyond, pointing his ship directly like an arrow at the Despoiler warship, aiming at the enemy's heart.

"What are you doing? Lord Ezekyle, if you continue this, the reactors will overload!"

He ignored the cries of alarm all around him. He had chosen his path, and would not be swayed.

"Today, we sell our lives to the enemy! By our deaths, shall they know of us!"

The daemon snarled, drooling bloodied ichor as it tore through the wreckage. The soul of its prey was near, and the hellspawn would not be denied its prey. Howling its delight, it bounded in, confidant that the killing of this mortal would take no more than a few seconds.

A massive slash across its chest hurled it back.

"The Emperor Protects!"

Dariel Mithras was upon the hellbeast, hacking and slashing with the priest's massive chainsaw. It was an abomination against nature, and his very soul cried out at his proximity to the monster. It gave a wordless roar, and thrashed wildly at Dariel.

Dariel crushed down his fear. Not today, he whispered. Today, he was fighting not just for himself, but for every other soul that lived upon this ship. If the monster was free—

The faces of the slain crewmembers, the dead priest, his parents, Fiona—their faces all floated before him, and Dariel knew he could not let this beast take one more step into the ship.

"I reject thee!"

The monster snarled, and knocked the chainsaw clean from his hands. Dariel gasped in pain as the edge of it caught his left arm, tearing chunks of flesh off. Involuntary tears ran down his face, and black spots danced across his vision, but it could not end this way.

"I abjure thee!"

Dariel body-slammed the monster, taking it down with him. Its claws raked across his face, and Dariel screamed. As he flinched, the monster caught and hurled him back, crashing him through various crates.

He looked up dazedly at the enraged horror, its gnashing maws dripping with blood. Rising to his feet unsteadily, Dariel used a crate as support. His left arm was ruined, but it was still functional.

Dariel knew he was doomed. There was no way he was going to win this. He began to laugh, almost manically, and held up his right arm, the Aquila pistol almost glowing the dark.

"Burn, fucker."

He fired, each shot blasting entire craters into the daemon—any shot would have killed a normal man twice over, but the daemon took the blows and charged.

It hurled its central mass forwards, mouth wide open, ready to devour him. Dariel attempted to dodge, but its mouth caught onto his left arm, and pulled. Dariel cried out in agony, as it bit into him and dragged him closer. The sight of the chunk of flesh that was his arm was too much, and Dariel's gorge rose, and he threw up, all over the beast and himself. By now, it had an iron grip upon Dariel's shoulder, and no matter how he twisted and turned, Dariel could not escape. Dariel sobbed, and raised the laspistol to his own head, ready to end the pain.

Then, he gritted his teeth and pointed it to his own shoulder, and fired.

The explosion tore him free, and Dariel stumbled back, his vision darkening. The redness that exploded all over his awareness threatened to shut him down, but one small corner of his mind protested and raged against his fate, and he stood upon his feet, despite everything. He panted heavily, he could barely think, and his was definitely going to die. But there was one last card he could play.

Laughing, a brutal gurgling sound, Dariel slammed his remaining hand into a control panel beside him.

"Freeze, fucker."

A machine arm jammed, then broke as it attempted to lift a barrel of coolant. It fell, right upon the beast, and shattered, releasing its contents.

Dariel didn't even feel the chill of the coolant as it engulfed him.

Dariel, duty accomplished, perished in death.

The Imperator Invictus surged at the Despoiler ship. Almost as if mocking her, it charged back. The Imperator Invictus's entire front prow buckled and folded back as both collided traveling at almost sixty percent the speed of light. The Imperator Invictus buckled and almost shattered, even as Ezekyle laughed, bleeding from every orifice, feeling the Machine-Spirit's pain, a long hard laugh filled with mad mirth.

"Fire the Nova Cannon!"

This was a maneuver that had never been accomplished in all ten thousand years of Imperial history, where one fired their Nova cannon point blank into the enemy ship. So fast was the round, it shattered right through the Despoiler's head, through its body, and detonated within.

It was no normal nova munition. Ezekyle had just created a singularity, a tear in time and space.

There was a bright flash of light. It was so bright, everyone within a million kilometers had to shut their eyes or go blind. When it cleared—

Out of the blue, in the midst of the raging battle zone, ten new ships of a design Ezekyle had never seen before appeared. From each of them burst a multitude of unknown frequencies and signatures.

"What?"

Most were shaped like triangles, each of utilitarian grey and bristling with weaponry, though to Ezekyle's eye, almost every one of them was an incredibly unimpressive sight, compared to the sleek design of the Eldar, the blasphemity of Chaos, or the glory of Imperial vessels—all except one. While the majority of them could barely be classed as even escorts, one was gigantic, domineering, almost 19 kilometers long. Ezekyle was almost impressed with this one, but even this show of might did not deter the Chaos fleet, even now disintegrating from the loss of its leader, their soldiers aggrieved and even more insane than they usually were.

An Infidel-class raider fired upon one of the smaller newcoming ships, its macrobattery arrays firing hundreds upon hundreds of ionized rounds specially made for overloading shields. For a second, Ezekyle almost thought these new ships did not have shields, until the explosions from the rounds cleared, revealing the ship to be entirely unharmed. It fired back with multiple strange lasers, but these where stopped by the Infidel's void shields. The Infidel sped by, and fired a series of boarding pods, which managed to actually reach the surface of the ship and impact—it seemed that their shield generators where not as good as the void shield technology utilized by the Imperium. Ezekyle almost felt bad for these newcomers', for they where about to face the insane minions of Chaos in close combat.

The other battleships had not been idle. While the two badly mauled surviving Grand Cruisers had limped away, licking their wounds, the Chaos Warfleet had turned around completely, focused on venting their rage against these newcomers. While the tattered Imperial fleet had wisely held back, the Chaotic forces, without the charisma and tactical acumen of their leader, had completely succumbed to a blood rage and upon being fired back upon by the newcomers, abandoned the fight with the no-longer retaliating forces of the Imperium.

Of the original eighteen Chaotic vessels, only thirteen remained, destroyed by Ezekyle's actions. These remaining vessels commenced a furious assault upon the newcomers, heedless of their obvious power.

Even as war was reignited, this was fine with Ezekyle. He was no longer paying any attention to the battle, anyways—there were far more important things to muse about, such as where had the Nova Cannon round gone? It was supposed to be Ezekyle's redemption for failure! The ship herself howled in humiliation, and Ezekyle felt doubt warring within. Honor dictated he reengage, yet—

Suddenly, all around the void, dozens of pinpricks of multicolored warplight exploded all across the battlefield. Multiple ships translated in realspace. A general broadcast was made to all ships within a hundred million kilometers.

[Ave Imperator! Cease and Desist! This is Inquistorial Battleforce, Epsilon-Theta-Kappa! All who are loyal to Him-On-Earth, lay down your arms and submit to the authority of the Inquisition!]

A special, secured channel had opened up for Ezekyle. Ezekyle opened it, almost numbed.

A grim faced man appeared onscreen. He sneered at the pathetic form of the bloodied Lord Admiral, unheeding of the battle raging round them. He spoke in Low Gothic, not even deigning to acknowledge Ezekyle's status.

"Lord Admiral Ezekyle Tiberius Havelock, you are charged with supreme incompetency. Not only did you manage to lose a Grand Cruiser, your reckless deeds have almost caused the destruction of an entire battlegroup. With the Power invested in me by the God-Emperor of Mankind, I strip you of your rank, and order you submit to Inquisitorial examination. May Imperial Justice account in all balance; The Emperor Protects."

Yup, no Star Wars appearances yet. I wanted to save up the good stuff, and I thought it would be better that I show up the awesome points of 40k first, rather than go directly to Star Wars slaughter.

This chapter is actually just a demonstration of how battles in 40k are actually fought. Most people simply don't understand the grand scale that 40k operates on. I find it actually kind of sad: so much of the franchise is focused on the ground battles, when in actuality, the space battles are just as exciting. I mean, just think for a moment at how the ships in 40k actually look: bedecked by statues of slain saints, covered in gold, bristling in weapons that can shatter continents. When such titans stride into battle, can't you just not help but feel a little excited? Space warfare in 40k is just as exciting, if not more, than battles on the ground. Sure, I can hear you saying, "but battles in space are just a couple of ships slugging it out over the course of days!" (yup, Star Wars fans, that's right, days. 40k not only has firepower that matches SW, but can take it as well, unlike Warsie battles, which take but a few hours. I'll talk about it more, later). Ultimately, space warfare in 40k is just like ground warfare in 40k—it's all a matter of attrition. Most capital ships, such as the Emperor-class Battleship mentioned above, have a multitude of Void Shields (in fact, I believe for unmodified Emperor-class battleships [a rarity] the default number is 4, give or take, depending on the captain's upgrades/modifications). Void shields are dimensional shields that block all light based weaponry and sorcery (including teleportation) but somehow allows projectiles (which is stupid, I admit) to pass through. Unlike in Star Trek or Star Wars, there are no "shield percents"; either it's up, or it's down. Attempting to whittle down a void shield is useless; if an attack isn't strong enough to overload it, for all intents or purposes, it might not have even been launched. Because of this unique property, and the fact that most ships have multiple, overlapping shields, and the fact that 40k ships are so heavily armored (up to tens of meters of adamantium, a super-metal, in fact. While void shields are the main line of defense, the hull is considered an essential secondary defense, because every single major battle will have your void shields go down), battles usually take days, as ships slug each other with continent cracking energy, all for that small, perhaps thirty minute window when the shields go down. Then, the enemy unleashes everything (and I mean, everything) they have at the unshielded portions until the shields go up and voila! One repeats the cycle.

Fighter warfare is just as exciting in 40k, too. Like I said, everything is about attrition. Sure, I can hear Star Wars fans saying, "Hey, a Star Destroyer carries thousands of TIE Fighters/Bombers/Defenders/Interceptors/whatchamac allits (or, in the New Republic era, X-Wings and their variants)! Since you've said that void shields allow physical stuff through, can't those fighters simply slip past and slaughter the shit out of a battleship?" They answer is: nope, they can't.

40k battleships also contain thousands, if not ten of thousands of fighters as well; all that eight-kilometer storage room has to be used for something, after all. The mainstay fighter of the Imperium is the Fury Interceptor. It is huge; it's about a half of the size of a corvette, which is a capital ship (albeit a small one), by Star Wars standards. 40k considers them fighters. If you don't believe me, let me tell you about the specs:

The absolute smallest Furies are forty meters, while the largest can reach up to seventy meters in length, just a bit smaller than half of a corvette, which is a hundred and fifty meters. They are designed to be able to be independent from their mothership for up to weeks at a time, and support a crew of four, not including servitors (which are zombie robot servants, basically). They have entire fixed banks of lascannons (a kind of laser weaponry slightly more powerful than a laser cannon from Star Wars, but weaker than a turbolaser), both forward and backward pointing, a swiveling, machine-gun like multilaser (a weaker laser than a lascannon, but having an incredible fire rate) mounted either at the tail or the nose and lots and lots of self-guiding torpedoes for anti-fighter combat (the Fury is usually used as an interceptor, rather than a bomber, though considering that it's almost half the size of a corvette, a small capital ship by SW standards, I can see them threatening [though not substantially] larger Star Wars ships). Remember, an Emperor-class battleship contains thousands of these, and that's not even including the thousand more Starhawk bombers (which are used for bombing raids against enemy ships, and contain a significantly higher number of higher yield bombs), the landing transports, etc.

So, yeah, just by looking at this, it seems Wars ships are screwed against Imperium of Man ships—but that's not it!

I can hear the most diehard of Warsies say, "well, what if we start firing shitloads of torpedoes? The interceptors are out there dueling, but they can't hit the torps, right?"

WRONG!

For one, there are engagement ranges. While Star Wars engages at a paltry few thousand kilometers away, or even (at the most extreme) ten of thousands of kilometers away, 40k ships typically engage at a hundred thousand kilometers away. By the time you shoot a torpedo, the battleship might have moved, or even detected and shot down them.

What? Detected and shot down?

The answer is yes; 40k ships have point defense systems. Aside from the big hitters like lances, plasma batteries and lascannons, every 40k ship has entire banks of these weaker, more short-ranged weapons that are used only for shooting down torpedoes and interceptors. Remember in the story, when Ezekyle shot down an entire wing of Swiftdeaths? That was it, though it's pretty unusual for a Lord Admiral to command those, as they consider it beneath them.

"Like hell," some of the more knowledgeable Warsie fans say, "but the Imperium also uses torpedoes! You've gotta be lying!"

Ah, you got me there. Torpedoes are not useless. The difference however, is the size and the sheer number the Imperium uses.

Star Wars ships shoot, like, a hundred missiles, and consider that a lot. 40k ships usually fire thousands, in big patterns, so much that the enemy can't evade or shoot down them all down. Also, there's the fact that the missiles are fucking armored. That's right, you heard me correctly: armored. In Star Wars, since it seems on the most part there aren't point defense systems, if a torpedo is fired accurately enough then boom! Instadeath!

Not so in 40k. In 40k, missiles is armored, so it can survive that huge barrage being shot at it—and get this, every missile contains a nuclear reactor; yup, atomic bombs are used as a throwaway weapon of destruction in 40k. But if even that isn't enough to convince you, then get your heads around this:

An average missile in 40k is two hundred meters long. A corvette is a hundred and fifty.

That's right. 40k considers fucking atomic nukes the size of small Star Wars capital ships to be chump change in space warfare.

Yup, that's my retort to Star Wars fans. If anyone wants to debate, review me: I'm always up for a good argument. Don't be afraid to flame! I accept all reviews, from "lols you suxx" to long, well written criticisms.

At least, it meant you cared.

To 40k fans:

I really wanted to do so much more in this Chapter, such as go into the backgrounds of the ship, how it works, and more, but the narrative simply wouldn't allow it. This is one great feature I really love about 40k: unlike in Wars, where most things are mass-produced, every ship in 40k is a product of years of love and labor. For example, although it isn't mentioned in the story, the Havelock dynasty has been commanding the Imperator Invictus for over ten generations, and mental uploads of all previous Lord Admirals are kept in a secure database, ready to be "resurrected" in times of need, to draw upon their collective experiences. Unlike a lot of other fictions I've read, 40k really allows you a great deal of freedom, because it's so big you can personalize small pieces of its history. I think this really allows the story to have this sense of "humanity", where the story isn't really about the big guns (though, of course, part of the appeal is) but about what humans do, in this grim, dark time.

It's not about, oh, Nova Cannons obliterating the fuck out of everything or Tyranids eating everything, it's how humans react to Nova Cannons obliterating the fuck out of everything, or Tyranids eating everything.

For in the grim darkness of the far future, there is more than just war. There are real people, too.

NOTE!

Personally, I dislike changing stuff, as it means the new people reading will not have any idea about the hell happened. So instead, I'll just write an update of new changes down here.

OK, first thing: after reading a review by Blinded in a Bolthole, who commented the original story (about 936 words) was too short, I extended the first chapter a bit. In a nutshell? If you liked anything storywise after the line "Glorious battle recommenced!", you can thank him.

Also, CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT! One reviewer, Battle Bruva Volks, commented that the fic was simply one of things being blown the fuck up and needed actual sympathetic characters for the audience to, well, sympathize with. So, with his sage advice with mind, I tried to give my characters some actual personality and show them reacting to stress, even if their reaction included more things being killed the fuck out of. So, Battle Bruva Volks, I hope one day you return and tell me whether or not I've done a good job—or not.

Thanks to a concerned guest who knows more of 40k lore than I, I was informed that yes, void shields can block solid projectiles, except they have to be over a certain speed, kind of like the Goa'uld personal shields from Stargate, for those 'gate fans out there. If you hurl a rock at a battleship, the shields will do jack shit, but fire a railgun, then the void shields will kick and lolnope it.

Also, apparently, I've disabled anonymous reviews or something, as the helpful guest mentioned above? His review doesn't show up on the review page, and I had to access my email account to read it. If anyone gives me a tip to fix this, I'll give them a kudos and review a story for you.

NOTE, PART 2!

Ohhhhkay, after reading through the story yet again, I decided I wanted to bump up the number of words to 10k+. Don't ask why, I just did, and this is probably going to be the last major change to Chapter 1, other than a few small edits. I also changed some of the weirder stuff that didn't make sense, such as how the Forces of Chaos would have a vortex torpedo, and stuff like that. General rule of thumb: I'll usually (but not always) edit every weekend, so don't consider a Chapter truly done until it's been up at least a week. I decided it was more important to actually get the stories up, then slowly correct parts of it, so you guys, my loyal fans, can read it just a little faster. Is it a hassle? Yup, and I'm kind of sorry for that, but that's just how the winds of inspiration flow.

Additionally, I went back to do some more research on 40k, after reading the huge wealth of helpful feedback—and to my horror, discovered I had a small mistake regarding ship-classes. Nothing too major; it's not something that I believe even super hardcore 40kers would notice, but since I thought I was writing a motherfucking purge fic, I better get my facts straight or be called out as an idiot. Apparently, I had gotten the Retribution-class battleship mixed up with the Emperor-class battleship—the Retribution's the one with the uber-huge prow that rams shit, and its original, most primitive prototype was the one that had the Nova cannon. The Emperor-class is similar, except it has a fuckhuge launching bay and a bazillion sensors that make it an incredible command center. So, I apologize for that mistake, even though changing it makes me kind of sad, as I wanted an Emperor-class battleship with the name of Emperor Unconquered. Instead, I have to make do with Retribution—hmmm, what puns can I use? Good thing is, at least now, the title of the chapter makes sense.

Also, I decided some of the names of the battleships were still too pussified, so I changed Omnissiah's Glory (appropriate only to the servitors of the Adeptus Mechanicus, anyways, even though the Mars-class is an exclusive Mechanici product) into Ares Titanicus, reflecting its hallowed roots as a son of Mars, yet preserving its own unique flavor. The doomed Grand Cruiser of the late Lord Castus was renamed from an extremely generic (though no less awesome) name of Fury of Terra to Ira Aquila, or Wrath of the Eagle. I feel this gives it more taste.

And, cool note; I just discovered Darth Malleus had written a rewrite of Two Galaxy's Saga, A Long Way From Home. Don't know how the story goes yet, but after reading the first chapter, I've decided to use this as the inspiration for my story instead: it is MUCH better written, and plus the attack force includes a Super Star Destroyer, which goes a long way in balancing out the power discrepancy between 'Wars and 40k. Like most of you have said, even I don't want to make it a total stompfest like 'Malleus did. After all, two wrongs don't make a right.

Oh yeah, and I almost forgot! Even though it doesn't look like it, even the Epic Paragon of Manliness needs some praise and reviews sometimes. As Battle-Brother Alessio Cortez of the Crimson Fists would say:

"Your reviews and favorites nourished me far more than any mere food and drink ever could!"