Well, been a while since I wrote something. In fact, it's probably been a while since I wrote something for fun instead of writing an essay for college applications or AP classes, but I digress.

Since I can't really think of a good summary for this addition to fanon that will probably be skipped over in favor of the much more well-written fanfiction, I'll leave all the Author's Notes text for the footnotes. So, with all honestly, I hope you all enjoy this story!


Low rumbles shook the metallic ground, with faint explosions dotting the silence; orange explosions lit up the dimming battlefield, shining upon the underbelly of the darkening storm clouds. Bright lights, almost like starry pinpricks, dashed about the field of battle, impacting the black-plated armor of the Emperor's Iron Hands or the sickly green-and-gray bodies of yet another Tomb World's Necron Forces. To most of these individuals, from the "individual-in-name-only" Necron Warrior to each unique Iron Hand Space Marine, this battle would be their last before their soul was sundered from their iron bodies.

To Vargard Obyron, it was a mildly amusing spectacle while awaiting further instruction.

Vargard Obyron, a Necron of high regard, stood regally amongst the rocky high ground seated upon the fringes of the battlefield. His metallic body shone a dull light, one that would remind oneself of the void before passing; a sickly green glow shone within his barren eye sockets, with a small metallic ball of sensors emitting the intimidating glow. With his green-colored and metallic regal shawl whipping itself around in the dirty winds of battle, the merciless Vargard oversaw the back-and-forth of the battle. Glancing his eyes to the Iron Hands, he saw how several individuals braved even the might of the soulless Necron Destroyers in close combat; upon laying eyes on the Necron forces, he saw a squad of nine Warriors rise up once more and eviscerate an Iron Hand, too caught up in his arrogance to realize – or even remember – about the Necron's Reanimation Protocols.

The Vargard let loose an ominous hum, hauntingly reminiscent of a chuckle. Turning his back on the stalemate of a fight, Vargard Obyron faced a squad of ten elite troops. All ten of his troopers would merely look the same from anyone else's eyes; Vargard Obyron knew better than to forget these individuals, however. Unlike the lesser Necron Warriors, the Vargard could tell each one of these beings apart through sheer analytical prowess: every cut, every scratch, every lasting dent that was not fully fixed from any previous reanimation served as personal identity to these creatures. Each of these bronze-plated metallic ghouls – rivaling Obyron in height, and wielding a glowing green one-edged sword in their right hands and a glowing green reflector shield adorned with bronze on their left – stood rigidly, emotionlessly, and patiently as the Vargard scanned each and every one of them down for faults.

"Cuts and scratches: superficial damage. Denting on three faceplates: only one is extreme enough to affect fighting if we happen to be surrounded. Otherwise acceptable condition," Vargard Obyron relayed to himself mentally. "Chances for victory theoretically high. Hyperphase swords repaired as close to their original state as could possibly be made, dispersion shields tuned in to deflect even an Ordinance strike from a Monolith's stray Particle Whip…"

Obyron cast his back to his loyal allies, looking upon the remaining eleven Iron Hands fighting the seemingly endless Necron forces. "…and yet these humans fight onwards, with little regard for their lives so long as they go down fighting for their almighty God-Emperor. Disgusting dogma, yet its effectiveness does dull the chances of success more and more when organic adrenaline is taken into consideration."

Vargard Obyron watched on as a Necron Destroyer grabbed an Iron Hand Space Marine by the arm, intending to rip it clean off. It did its job too well; the blood and gore spewed out violently, covering the Destroyer's visual sensors. A metallic fist punched through the head of the Destroyer soon after, effectively disintegrating the entire skull in one go; the wounded Iron Hand immediately took a direct hit from a heavy gauss cannon. Obyron stared as the Iron Hand stumbled, let off a couple potshots in an effort to spite the Necrons, and let his soul become severed from his mortal body as the gauss ate away at the gaping hole in his chest; with each layer of molecules being eaten away every second, from the metals of his armor to the flesh on his bones, Obyron deduced it was a quick, but excruciatingly painful death.

Obyron adjusted his mental calculations accordingly, and saw a slight increase in success-to-failure rates in the battle strategy presented to him by his own master earlier. Turning to his fellow Necrons standing loyally behind him, Obyron released the dreadful, near-monotonous tone of Necron speech.

"Lychguard of the Ogdobekh Dynasty, our victory is near assured," the Vargard began. "Give them no hope, for you shall receive none. Sunder their souls to whichever higher being they praise to, be it their corpse on the throne or the vile avatars of the Warp. Our brethren are awakening underground: we shall greet them with the corpses of the damned, we shall have them join us, and unity will be another Tomb World closer to being achieved."

The Lychguard stood silently, with their only motions being a small sway from explosions to a twitch from an internal glitch. Vargard stared each one of his Lychguard down, before he felt a tug in the back of his own mind, as if a voice was calling out to him.

"It is time."


"May the Emperor guide us!"

A single battlecry, shouted to the heavens by an Iron Hand whose name will be forever lost to time, would not be forgotten by the ten Iron Hands who stood on the field of battle that faithful day. With the Emperor's blood rejuvenated between them, a new holy power filled their minds, all echoing the same sentiment: the Emperor will guide you.

The Iron Hands looked forth at the oncoming Necron horde for but a split second, witnessing shambling Warriors and the more stable Necron Immortals advancing upon them. A volley of green gauss rounds and blue electricity from tesla carbines came forth upon them; the Iron Hands charged forth, the Emperor's willpower giving them the strength to endure such a brutal rain of death, despite the scorch marks now eating away at each of their white markings adorned upon their armor. For the Emperor, His glory comes first before one's own individuality, and the Iron Hands embraced such an idea with newfound abandon.

The Iron Hands, willpower evident in their very presence, began cutting a swath through the Necron forces. Warrior upon Warrior fell, their bodies stomped on callously by the assaulting Space Marines. Necron Immortals suffered a similar treatment, with their metallic bodies meeting the same fate as their lesser Warrior counterparts. The Iron Hands let out a roar not unlike an Ork Waagh! cry; to them, they believed they were invincible.

Three beams of white electricity, the same size as a shot fired from a Necron Warrior's gauss flayer, entered the mouth of a roaring Iron Hand. His flesh was seared open, his throat was cut, and his roar of invincibility was replaced with what could only be described as an abject gurgling-slash-cry of pain and terror. A cold feeling started to make its presence known on the Iron Hand, with his skin starting to freeze up in what seemed to be an accelerated form of frostbite, for lack of a better term. The nine uninjured Iron Hands stared at their soon-to-be-fallen brother, his blood freshly pouring out of his neck, cascading down his armor to the ground. The Iron Hand fell to his knees out of a sudden weakness; with his failing strength, he looked to the sky to hopefully see the Emperor's hand reaching out to guide him to safety by His side.

Blocking the dying Space Marine's view of the clouds, however, was an alien vehicle similar to a chariot of sorts; two Necrons of unknown make and model were rapidly typing at an interface the dying Iron Hand could not see. A third, regal Necron stood up in the seat of this flying chariot; it had a bronze-plated skull, a silvery and sleek body, the same sickly green light behind its optical sensor spheres near all Necrons shared, and a metallic green cape fringed with bronze-colored metal flowing behind it. The Necron, wielding a green-, gray-, and bronze-colored staff, slammed its base onto a flat piece of metal aboard the chariot, before doing an act that left the other nine Iron Hands stunned.

He started laughing.

"I have came, my Lord," Vargard Obyron stated in a plain yet menacing tone. The Iron Hands, shocked by the Necron's sudden bout of emotion, looked on in surprise as Vargard Obyron and his squad of ten Lychguard seemingly appeared out of thin air. The Vargard took one look at the situation up close – nine uninjured, confused, and soon-to-be-attacking Iron Hands, and one pitiful Iron Hand on his knees almost right in front of him – and made his first move. Vargard Obyron reached upon his back and grabbed at a handle, pulling it out from behind him as fast as he could. The injured Iron Hand watched in abject terror and curiosity as the Vargard unsheathed his Warscythe, a weapon that was simply a blade on a stick (albeit with the blade part glowing green).

In the span of seconds, Obyron swung his Warscythe and decapitated the Iron Hand in one fell swoop. This only made the royal Necron laugh louder.

"PFFFFT, BWAAAHAHA! AAAH, Obyron, Obyron, you never cease to amaze with your entrances!" the royal Necron boisterously shouted. "Appearing out of the shadows of pebbles, delivering death upon the opposing lesser in mere seconds…your unintentional dramatic flair makes my Necrontyr blood BOIL!"

"You need not be reminded you have no blood to have boiled, Lord Zahndrekh," Vargard Obyron stated plainly. "But the field of battle is no time for a comparatively trivial piece of data."

"XENO SCUM!" an Iron Hand screamed, charging Obyron while the latter was distracted.

"You will REGRET THAT!" a second Iron Hand screamed, also charging Obyron.

The two Iron Hands immediately punched Obyron right in his chest cavity; the forceful impact warranted a reverberating drone, not unlike the sound a gong makes after being hit. The two Iron Hands looked up after punching Obyron, intent to do so again.

One swipe of the Warscythe, and more blood was shed that day.

"Hahahaha, did that even DO anything to you, Obyron?" the royal Necron, Zahndrekh, chuckled. "Stupid plebeians…they dress well, with sleek armor I may add, but this is seriously pathetic! I've had more trouble with those blue-coated fools you associate with, to say nothing of those red ones you seem to hate oh so much!"

The eight remaining Iron Hands lifted their bolters and prepared to fire. In a split second, Obyron conveyed his own order to his Lychguard. Bolter fire immediately shot out; Obyron merely stepped back as his Lychguard raised their dispersion shields. Several bolter shots exploded on impact, doing little to no damage; several ricocheted off the shields to the side, exploding on the ground or in exposed rock.

The end result was all the same.

While not as much shots were reflected as Obyron had hoped, enough bolter shots were completely deflected back to the Iron Hands. Three of the eight died outright from their own bolter shots, and the rest sans one became stunned by the simple fact their bolters had their shots redirected at them.

"Firing tesla!" Zahndrekh shouted; the Lychguard stepped back as Zahndrekh then pressed his own series of buttons on the chariot. A cannon situated between the two minor Necron pilots charged up a blue electricity, and immediately fired. The five remaining Iron Hands had their entire bodies lit up by tesla; the lightning flew through their bodies easily, shocking them and cooking them alive. Two more died from this attack, while the other two became subject to spasms, leaving them convulsing on the ground until their bodies went limp; the last Iron Hand stood, with determination and hate burning in his eyes.

"Oh, so since YOU'RE the last one standing, I'm assuming you are this group's leader, hmm?" Zahndrekh taunted.

"Damn you…xeno scum," the Iron Hand spat out. "The Emperor will destroy you!"

"Oh, yes, I'm so sure your corpse king of golden lore will kill me," Zahndrekh sardonically stated. "I wonder how he'll do that? Maybe he'll die on me and fall forwards, and the resulting melodrama caused from his massive ego could suffocate me, yes?"

"DAMN YOU!" the Iron Hand screeched out. "THE EMPEROR PROTECTS US, AND YOU WILL PERISH!"

"Oh, calm down. I'm right here, I can hear you just fine," Zahndrekh chastised in a mocking and condescending tone. "Or do you think if you scream loud enough, your precious 'Emprah' will waltz on here to this fringe world just to give you a break?"

The Iron Hand could've screamed, but was never given a chance. Obyron's Warscythe struck sideways at the Iron Hand's chest level, severing him in two. The top half fell off immediately, landing facefirst in the blood of his brothers, while his lower half stumbled around for all of two seconds before falling.

"My Lord, just kill them instead of taunting them," Vargard Obyron flatly chastised. "Such an act is pointless."

"Obyron, he didn't answer my question," Zahndrekh reminded. "A plebian like him should answer to my authority when I am speaking directly to him! Opposition is utterly suicidal! The Necrontyr have faltered much more than I ever could have hoped…"

The stoic Vargard then felt a maddeningly familiar twinge in his body; the Vargard turned around to face Zahndrekh after the twitch had subsided. "My Lord, we were NOT fighting Necrontyr. The Necrontyr do not exist anymore."

"SILENCE THOSE WORDS WHICH YOU SPEAK!" Zahndrekh bellowed, overdramatically.

"If I could feel emotion, I would groan right now," Obyron stated to himself mentally.

"Obyron, these plebeians are foolish Necrontyr who oppose the unifying rule of us nobility!" Zahndrekh reminded, in a haughty, know-it-all tone of voice. "I am perplexed as to why they follow what I have heard is merely a skeleton on a throne, but rest assured: I will not have these heretics bringing danger and trouble to MY glorious Necrontyr army!"

"From what I can recall, they are known as Space Marines, my Lord," Obyron stated, although already knowing such a detail would not matter to Zahndrekh.

"Bleh, there are many of these 'Space Marines' existing out there, Obyron," Zahndrekh disappointedly sighed. "I just don't know what went wrong and where it went wrong, but I will find the leaders behind this crazy insurrection and prove myself as one of the true noble leaders of the Necrontyr!"

"You would be the first in your field to achieve such a title in a long while, my Lord," Obyron deadpanned. Zahndrekh, not picking up on the biting sarcasm, responded appropriately.

"Ah, that I would, Obyron, that I would. But we must first greet our new Necrontyr brothers from our newly-liberated Tomb World!" Zahndrekh cheerily announced. "Come, Obyron, we must make haste! I'd rather gain control now while there is hopefully some form of power vacuum and/or confusion occurring rather than having to wrestle the title out from under some stubborn Necrontyr Lord who insists his plans are better than the overall unity of the Necrontyr Empire!"

"My Lord, you need not add the prefix 'Necrontyr' to everything in which is Necron-related," Obyron mentioned, feeling some sort of semblance of annoyance. Zahndrekh merely crossed his arms and huffed loudly like an angered schoolgirl.

"I'll ignore that 'Necron' quip, but I'll tone it down a bit!" Zahndrekh growled. "As long as I don't end up in ANOTHER political scandal again. Seriously, last time I had to kill one of those opposing Lords over simple bureaucracy that he refused to acknowledge, I ended up discovered by our Warriors! Oh, Obyron, it was awful!"

Zahndrekh raised his hand above his head, almost swooning. "I couldn't bear the humiliation, Obyron! The Warriors saw everything, and I mean EVERYTHING! They wouldn't speak to me for DAYS!"

"I am aware of your plight, my Lord," Obyron plainly stated. "I was there."

"Ah yes, I remember now!" Zahndrekh gasped in realization. "You appeared after I had tackled the Lord! Always willing to be by your lord's side when he is in trouble…this is why I respect you as a true equal, Obyron! Although not as equal as me of course, but still pretty damn equal."

"Equality is in the eye of the beholder, my Lord," Obyron deadpanned again.

"Ah, I see what you did there, Obyron!" Zahndrekh laughed. "Good joke, my friend, good joke. We'll need your dry wit to break the ice down with our new soldiers down underground!"

With that stated, Zahndrekh disembarked from his flying chariot, standing tall with all his glory. Zahndrekh then turned towards Obyron's Lychguard group, motioning towards his chariot. "LYCHGUARD! Take my Catacomb Command Barge and inspect for any defects! I want it fully operational by the time this political meeting ends, in case more of those idiotic plebeians show up!"

The Lychguard, without a word spoken, went and began attending to the Catacomb Command Barge alongside its two pilots. Obyron, shaking his head, turned back to Zahndrekh. "My Lord, the pilots of your Barge oversee all of its faults in order to improve it," Obyron futilely tried to explain. "You do not need the Lychguard to-"

"The pilots may miss something," Zahndrekh interrupted, with his tone completely serious. Obyron merely stared at his master, nearly dumbfounded.

"Why would a group of elite bodyguards, whose sole purpose is to fight and defend the most important heads of the Necrons, know how to fix a Command Barge that is not even remotely related to what they were programmed to do?" Obyron questioned aloud. "Knowing you, Zahndrekh, the answer is probably…"

"First off, Obyron, its NECRONTYR. Not Necrons. Seriously, you need to get that verbal tic of yours removed through some way, shape, or form," Zahndrekh grunted. "Have you tried therapy?"

"Believe me, my Lord, I have," Obyron answered back.

"Secondly, the Lychguard may not have the same training, but they could probably use their soldiers' eyes to see faults pilots might not be able to see!" Zahndrekh explained. "Think about it! Pilots are used to their own planes, and what they perceive as unimportant could be a force that can negate their ability to work well in the future! Down to earth soldiers would be able to find something wrong if they looked hard enough with an untrained eye, Obyron."

"You can take my word for it that I am able to agree with that statement, my Lord," Obyron growled. "Although in your case, no one needs trained eyes to see something is horribly wrong."

"Oh, don't take such a hostile tone to me, Obyron!" Zahndrekh snapped back. "I am perfectly aware that my logic is sound here. If you are annoyed by my explanations, then perhaps you should stop asking me."

"I do try so hard to stop asking, my Lord," Obyron muttered. "It just never seems to stick."

"Well, all you need to trust in me, my faithful Vargard," Zahndrekh responded, almost in a 'so-proud-of-you' tone reserved for a father giving their child praise. "Tell you what, after this is over, why don't you and I throw a party? For the new Tomb World guests! We can have cake and ice cream and-OOH! Maybe if they have enough bluxion, we can create my famous Mush of Drazak flambé!"

A moment of silence permeated the land as Obyron comprehended the sheer stupidity, followed by the complete seriousness Zahndrekh had expressed. After a couple seconds, Obyron spoke up once more. "I would rather attribute 'infamous' to that statement, my Lord."

"I wasn't aware it would have attracted those ravenous 'Flayed One' Necrontyr that apparently everyone hates nowadays," Zahndrekh explained. "Still, you have to admit: feed those guys some Mush, and they follow you loyally! It must be because they recognize my status and power as both a leader of the Necrontyr and of an expert chef in my own craft!"

"I would attribute it to the fact you used corpses and Tyranid blood in your baking. Scratch that, 'baking' is too general a word to describe the horrifically vile abomination you created that day. Even 'eldritch summoning' is too general, Zahndrekh," Obyron chastised mentally. Zahndrekh simply turned around and started marching towards the entrance of the Tomb World.

"Oh, and one last detail: Necrontyr aren't 'programmed.' When the greetings are over, I'll schedule a meeting with a therapist within this new Tomb World for you. Now, come Obyron!" Zahndrekh stated, before raising his voice. "AND TO THOSE NECRONTYR WHO STILL BREATH ON THE FIELDS OF BATTLE! MEET ME WITHIN YOUR TOMB WORLD, FOR YOUR NEW OVERLORD HAS ARRIVED!"

With that boast complete, Zahndrekh retreated into the Tomb World, with several remaining Necron Warriors and Immortals following now that the battle has concluded. Obyron merely stood outside, before releasing what could only be described as an annoyed groan; heading inside, Obyron shook his own head, wondering what went wrong regarding Zahndrekh.


I have witnessed the continual destruction of the Necrontyr people when I was young and ignorant to this cynical universe.

I witnessed the Silent King accepting the offers of the C'Tan, and I was a part of the War in Heaven.

I was instrumental in assisting the Silent King in shattering the traitorous C'Tan for their role in damning our race within these machine bodies.

I was besides Zahndrekh before the Great Sleep took us to this era.

My name is Vargard Obyron.

And I can say, with all seriousness and certainty…

…Nemesor Zahndrekh has no fucking idea what he's doing.


And that's the first chapter complete! I plan to make this story up as I go along, although I do have some faint ideas at the moment.

I also am going to try to make each reference as close as possible to actual Warhammer 40,000 canon (circa sixth edition). For example, the descriptions for the Ogdobekh Dynasty Lychguard are pretty close to what I've seen in the Necron Codex I own, but I am not one-hundred-percent sure the Ogdobekh Dynasty is completely loyal to Zahndrekh and Obyron.

I also am not too familiar with most of the Space Marines (not even the famous Ultramarines or Blood Ravens), so I'll do my best to try and make any events involving the Marines as close to their canon portrayal as possible.

I should also put down some "chapter facts" or something here, just in case anyone wants some trivia for fun. In this case, I randomly chose the Iron Hands as the group the Necrons were fighting, right before I found out that apparently the Iron Hands and Necrons draw some parallels to each other.

Oh, and Obyron's appearance with the Lychguard by Zahndrekh's side was going to be different, but I'm gonna save that one for another chapter. Trust me, you'll know when it happens…

Anyways, see you next time, and I'll try not to have these lengthy Author's Notes from here on out. INFERNOX out!