As you may have guessed from the title, this is the most ludicrous warhammer 40,000 crossover fic ever devised by anyone. It will include as many universes as possible, even those that the author knows virtually nothing about (and I will pretend to know as much about 40k as many crossover writers.) It will include as many crossover clichés as possible. It will include as many jokes as possible. It will be as insane as possible in almost every single way.

Now that the mission statement is done, lets get to work!

(Note: I own nothing. GW, George Lucas and so on own all the copyrights. Well, almost. I own the original characters.)

Chapter 1: By What means does the insanity begin.

The two tech priests sat at their work station. Incense filled the air-or at least, that's what they told the master they were sniffing out of that little ornate gold pipe of theirs-and its heady scent filled the nostrils of all nearby with the strange desire to-

"'tis a most queer scent, bothers."

A third red robed figure, this time an Enginseer of the 76th Transiberian Foot, had noticed. He now changed to the mystical language of the tech priests, forgotten to all but a few, once used by scientists in the most ancient days of yore.

"WTF?"

Both tech priests looked up in precise unison.

"Noob," one muttered. The other nodded its quiet agreement, before taking another sniff of the Holy Omnissah's Incense for His Blessing. The Enginseer, after a brief moment, joined in.

It must be confirmed that men of such great calibre as these specimens are the ones manning the mighty war engines of the Imperium, and are leading our great star fleets to glory.

Meanwhile, in the hold…

Sergeant Broot had never understood why he had been given such a ludicrous and ridiculous name, but (upon joining the Transiberian Foot), he found consolation in the fact that all his fellows appeared to have even worse ones. "Right, lads," he said, wondering why he had suddenly developed a cockney accent. "Listen up. D'you remember why we're here?"

"Info dump alert," someone muttered.

"Who said that?" And what was that guy talking about? No matter. "We're here because the Cogboys, in all their infinite wisdom, have decided to take over an Emperor Forsaken Mudhole by the name of…well, it seems to be called Emperor Forsaken Mudhole. No matter. The Cogboys found it, and we're going to take it over in the Emperor's Name!"

There was, of course, a cheer (you get that quite a lot after inspirational speeches that are actually rather rubbish. Good old . But, moving swiftly back to the story…)

"Quite right," said a voice. The squad (for that was how many guardsmen who were sitting in this particular dormitory, which must now be described as dark, dank, metal walled, ill lit, smelly in at least eighteen different ways, and generally unimaginative) all turned, for it was the familiar voice of Father Comstock that they heard.

Father Comstock was the company chaplain, and he was fairly proud of his post, despite his vows towards modesty and humbleness. This was for three reasons. The first was that he had started life as an illiterate peasant, and had worked his way through the hierarchy of the Imperium to become a priest-a literate, pious priest moreover, willing to die for God Emperor and Mankind, capable of raising a sermon to fill the hearts of men with a Firey Zeal and Incredible Valour. The second was that he liked the way that, whenever he did this, a mysterious sunbeam would always pierce through the clouds (even in hive worlds that had no natural light), soldiers' weapons would take on a White Hot Holy Glow, and he did rather like the colour when that happened. The third was that Imperial Priests hardly ever appear in fanfics, and that this mere reference was more than enough for him. (It remains a mystery why this is; probably because the writer can't be arsed to make the guard look like anything other than the US Army in SPAES LOL!)

But, once again, I digress. Not for the last time.

"Father," Sergeant Broot muttered, removing his characteristic beret and bowing his head. The other squaddies did the same.

"Bow not, my sons," said Father Comstock, hitching up his cassock skirts so as to sit down with them on the (very long) bench. "For the worst is not yet at hand."

"You know, Father," said Sergeant Broot after a moment, "that makes absolutely no sense."

"Most assuredly not, My Son," said Comstock, smiling beatifically to himself. (He was, for the sake of description, dressed in the aforementioned brown cassock, and had an atypically long head of hair black hair that was bound back in a queue.) "But it is… expected of me."

"Expected?" That reminded Sergeant Broot of something. "Father," he said, "may I seek guidance from His representative on the mortal plane?"

"Why, of course," Comstock replied.

The rest of the squad filed out dutifully, as they so often do in this situations despite being all nice and comfortable, with their books and narcotics and porn slates and much else besides all in their favourite positions…

And so it was that Comstock and Broot sat alone, in the great, dark, vibrating (stop giggling) hull of the ship.

(Which is called the Explorator Imperatus, because all ships must have Latinised names in these things, and is in a fleet of eight other such exploratory vessels.)

"Father," Sergeant Broot began, cautiously, "this may be a bit difficult to explain."

Comstock nodded, and sighed. "Fear not, my son," he said comfortingly, laying a wrinkled hand on Broot's shoulder; he had seen so many cases like this. "There is nothing sinful in desiring the company of men over the female sex."

"No, no, no!" Broot said hastily, leaping away from the clergyman. "It isn't like that at all."

Comstock raised an eyebrow. "It usually is," he said in a slightly strange tone.

"Well, it isn't this time." Broot was on the verge of reaching for his laspistol. "It's something… quite different."

"Oh?" Comstock put his hands into his baggy sleeves. "Please,

explain."

"Well," Broot began, "it's like I'm in a story."

"A story, my son?" Comstock almost laughed. "That cannot be true."

"Well… people keep doing things that make no sense, but look dramatic. Like Corporal Tynemann running at the Bezerker with his bayonet, shouting the names of the parents that it had killed, and he wanted to avenge."

"A brave man," Comstock muttered. "He will be with the Emperor, I am quite sure."

"Tynemann was a wounded man who had a few moments ago not been able to walk! And there was Lieutenant Trevisa-the woman who commands 9th platoon, sensible lass-who suddenly dyed her hair red and started saying that she was better than any man, and going all spunky, and firey, and-"

"I see," said Father Comstock. "I see."

"You… understand this, Father?"

"Yes. Quite possibly." Comstock cracked his knuckled in his sleeves. "You see, there are strange warp entities-neither good, nor evil-that call themselves 'authors'. The Chronicles of Father Fepp concern a Priest meeting one on his pilgrimage to Terra. Well, if one is to call meeting one staring through a Gellar field whilst at prayer… in any case, he described as a slightly pale, thin humanoid, with black stained fingers."

Broot was shaking his head even now. "Authors?" he spat. "Aren't they just a pretentious load of tossers writing about sex and bad combat novels?"

"These are no exception, my son. They sometimes attempt to manipulate the actions of those on the mortal plane. Fear not, for they are not usually that malicious-well, if you accept the fiend known as 'George AR AR Martin'. Being one of his characters is like a curse. Anyway, they are usually into writing what we would know as 'very badly'. And it would seem that we have been pulled into just such a situation."

"Why would that be, Father?"

"Well, it is obvious! There is no dramatic tension in this part of the story! The ship hull looks much like any other, which indicates?"

"It indicates…" Broot thought for a moment. "That this is a standard issue hull used by the Adeptus Mechanicus?"

"No, My Son! That the author has no idea what a ship hull really looks like, so he gets his stereotypical image of one!" Comstock was raving now, as if doing a sermon, and would have gone on had not Broot interrupted him.

"So is there any way out, Father?"

"No, My Son. There is not. We must pray to the Emperor above that the author does not do anything foolish. And I do believe that he just has." Comstock sighed again, even more weakly than before. "My Son, I have just had the sudden urge to follow you into battle."

That, Broot thought, really was a change. "Into battle, Father?"

"Yes. Despite my decided lack of front line expertise and advanced age the Author seems to think that I would be an effective or dramatic soldier. Oh well. I shall be fighting with my Holy Sword, blessed at the Cathedral of Saint Sadinitus, Holiest of Holies in the Divinitus Sector."

Broot whistled. "I've never heard of that before."

"Neither have I," Comstock muttered, "so I shall also be taking my shotgun."

And let us leave our two heroes now (whose words about "authors" shall play no further part in the plot), and travel some light years through space towards the world of Emperor Forsaken Mudhole. On it is a starship, and (despite my near total lack of experience with the series), it is to be called the USS Comrade George Washington.

As you can see, it's from the Next Generation era.

On board, its commander is speaking to his executive officer, the Token Vulcan.

"Sir," the Vulcan (He'Stan-presumably for the lulz-was saying), "you cannot be serious. How can you possibly consider sending out another security detail to survey this planet? Don't we have scanners for this kind of thing?"

The Captain pounded the table. "God damn it, He'Stan! I don't have time for your danged logical remarks! I'll take my shirt off with rage next time you say that again!" His anger was, in part, caused by the complex he had had throughout his life because of his name.

"In theory, sir," said the Vulcan He'Stan (clever, eh?), "it is a sound plan to scout the planet. After all, our sensors are extremely vulnerable to Plot Introduced Technobabble generators. But-"

"But they're redshirts who die when they get stung by god damned stinging nettles," said Captain Obvious.

Yes, that really is his name.

"Yes, sir. My thoughts exactly. Sending all these brave men to die is an undeniable waste of resources."

"That's enough crap from you," said Captain Obvious, tearing his shirt off and pausing for a moment to ensure that his manly chest was pointed at the cameras before continuing. "You see," he went on, "you Vulcans have no concept of glory. How am I to raise patriotic feeling in the soulless bastards at Starfleet HQ if I just sit down and scan everything? I have to make dramatic decisions to make them sit up and take notice! If I have to send men to die so as to reveal the weaknesses of our ground army" (as you can see, the author has had some experience with StarDestroyer), "thus saving all the more lives in the future, then so be it!"

"That," said He'Stan after a moment, "is surprisingly logical. But also totally callous! Can't we just do simulations of it with our advanced computer technology?"

"No," said Captain Obvious, and that was that.

And let us spare a brief thought for the poor redshirt patrol that has just been sent out (and sneak in a description of Emperor Forsaken Mudball while we're at it.) They are stumbling, alone, through a moonscape of dull grey craters, with the chill of space coursing through their veins. They are hungry, and tired. Their commander, disoriented by the mysterious cries in the wind of "I pity the poor fool who steps in this territory" calls a halt, and posts sentries.

He is, of course, oblivious to the fact that he has stationed his men in the worst possible spot for an ambush; it is surrounded by thick dead woodland, in a bowl, with blinding starlight flashing in their eyes.

It is therefore of no surprise to the reader that the ambush really does happen, so I shall avoid going through the long and tedious process of building suspense.

"Ambush!" someone cries as the first volley of blaster shots rings out, just as a mass of white armoured soldiers charge out of the tree line, a robed woman at their head wielding a long, dangerous looking beam of light in one hand.

Now, of course, there is only ever one outcome when a mass of Imperial Stormtroopers (for it is they) charge into a new crossover fanfic, and these Trekkie Redshirts knew it. They fired their phasers for a little while, and obligingly ran at the Sith when she got close rather than doing the clever thing by shooting at her. Doubtless, if the author was a fanatical exponent of StarDestroyer type hyping up, he would spend whole paragraphs describing the uselessness of anything made by Gene Rodenberry (dirty commie as he is), and go on to bask in the warm glow of ecstasy that comes with the knowledge that your chosen sci fi fandom would pwn all others.

But happily, I am not such a tedious person. Neither am I unaware of the conventions of story telling, so I will finish by saying that the Redshirt commander ended up by lying on his back, with the Sith Lady's not remotely fetishistic spike heeled boot across his throat, and the not remotely phallic red lightsabre held to his face.

"Where do you come from?" came the appropriately terrifying but erotic (may as well say it clear) voice from inside the hood.

Even now, the commander knew what to say that would cheer up audiences when they knew of this.

"America!" he cried, humming the stars and stripes.

"No, seriously," the hooded thing (may as well go back to his PoV now) said. "Where the hell do you come from, little man?"

The Commander kept humming, very conscious of the lightsabre blistering his face.

"Fine," said the thing in the hood. "Trooper DH45, hand me my hitting stick."

"Your… what, milady?" the trooper asked nervously.

The Sith sighed in an erotic but terrifying way. (As they do.)

"Trooper, you know that last patrol of redshirts we slaughtered?"

The stormtrooper nodded.

"Well, one of them asked me to, and I quote, 'burn in hell'. Well, I captured him with a restrictive force power, as you do when a hormonal adolescent is writing this story, and asked him what hell was. He said it was where demons live to punish sinners, and that some were ugly with hooves, tails and suchlike, and that some were evil temptresses that cut off various unmentionables. Then I killed him."

The stormtrooper nodded. "So, left their victims begging for mercy, did they?"

"Oh yes."

"I know a man in 6th platoon who could do that," the stormtrooper said helpfully. "He kicks them in the bollocks and then feeds the remenants to a dog."

"Well, this 'Satan' apparently has a better sense for the dramatic than the man in 6th platoon. So." The hooded creature (it's the commander's PoV again, you see) turned its face towards the Commander once more.

"Do I look threateningly erotic to you?"

"Ah…" the Commander thought for a moment. "No, not really, if I'm honest. And why are you speaking English? And why's that guy speaking English?"

"The Force says so," the creature replied.

"The what-"

"It just does."

"Ah." Some technobabble. Captain Obvious did it all the time.

"Anyway. Do I look threateningly erotic?"

"No." The commander shook his head emphatically, unwittingly letting the lightsabre tip burn his ear a little. He yelped. "You'll have to show me your face for that, for starters."

"What the hell do you think this is? Some sort of Twi'lek strip joint?" The creature was now furious. "Now for the threatening part. A Sith NEVER removes her hood this early, never! She removes it later to look Darkly Beautiful to the Trekkie Starship Captain whilst she holds him immobile with some Force Shit."

"Is that some sort of threat?" the Commander asked, before howling in pain as the force was unleashed upon him.

Remember your training, he thought. Under telepathic attack. What do you do? Ahh…. Howl in pain! No! Look like you're concerntrating really hard, like you're constipated. Yes! And groan with effort, and come up with some pithy remark like…

"Get offa me!"

This didn't seem to help at all, he thought, as his life was slowly and agonisingly drained out of him.

Now that all the factions (when I say all, I mean many. More will come) have been established, it is now time to take a break, let my typing hand heal up, and prepare for Chapter 2 which will come in due course. Oh, and to abjectly beg for reviews.

So…

R AND R, U FAGGOTS! I WON'T WRITE ANOTHER CHAPTER UNTIL YOU GIVE ME 5 OF TEH KEWL REVIEWS!!11!!

That will do the trick.

(Oh, and suggestions for other worlds to put in will be appreciated.)