Uh…well…let's see where this goes.
I don't own 40k. You hear that, GW? This is a fanfiction. Fanfiction. Not real. Though if you guys do copyright strike me and take it down then this crossover becomes canon and you canonize everything that is going to happen in this fic.
Oh, and I don't own Re: Zero either. If I did I would probably handle some of the characters differently
Now…let us begin.
"It is the 41st Millennium. For more than a hundred centuries, the Emperor of Mankind has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Terra. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods and master of a million worlds by the might of His inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the vast Imperium of Man for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day so that He may never truly die.
Yet even in His deathless state, the Emperor continues His eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the Warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's will. Vast armies give battle in His name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes; the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless Planetary Defence Forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the Tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat to humanity from aliens, heretics, mutants - and far, far worse.
To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times.
Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be relearned.
Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war.
There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the hideous laughter of the ever-thirsting gods."
Saint Satella and the Lamenters
Arc 1: My Armour is Contempt
102. M42: Veskem Sector
"From Blood Born; to Blood Evermore Consigned."
Chapter Master Malakim Phoros observes the navigation chart presented to him, the phrase coming to the forefront of his mind. Often he has ruminated upon these words, wondering what foul prophet had spoken them first and what madness had possessed that person to bring them into the world. Many a time he finds himself wandering ever so far into the fickle territories of conspiracy and secret, straying ever so closer in his quest to understand the nature of his curse. The curse that, despite his best efforts and the Saint's blessed protection, causes events such as this to occur
"Explain yourself," the Lord of Ruin's tone is measured, his words calm and collected, yet the man kneeling before his command throne shifts uncomfortably, no doubt picking up the slight edge in the tone of the ancient warrior. Long had Erasmus Thaum, Chief Navigator of the fleet, served aboard the Chapter Master's ship, and he has grown wise to the shifts of the Space Marine's mood, perceiving every change of his tone, much like a Commissar perceives the morale of his troops. Thus, it is not difficult for Erasmus to discern that, despite his outward calm, Malakim Phoros is now livid with fury, his anger tempered only by his centuries of discipline and self-control.
The Navigator swallows, all three of his eyes trained dutifully onto the polished plasteel floors of the Battle barge's command bridge. "There's…been an unprecedented occurrence. Something appears to be–" he pauses, attempting to explain that which the human tongue was never meant to describe, "-some sort of rift that interferes with our advance into the Vulgas system."
The Chapter Master growls, feeling his anger rise to the forefront at the frustratingly vague answer. "What kind of rift," he asks, his voice cold and even, like the steel of the starship's hull. Malakim Phoros had anticipated some sort of obstacle or warp tendril to impede their path; however, based on the hesitation of the Navigator, it is now becoming clear to the Space Marine that there is something else afoot here, something potentially even worse.
Scowling internally, he crushes the heretical thought, banishing it before it can take further root. No. He would not allow such ephemeral doubts to hinder him. Not now, not ever. Muttering a prayer to the Emperor, the Chapter Master steels his conviction. For he is His son, the bulwark against terror. And he would see to it that wherever heresy did dare to grow, he would tear it out by its filthy roots and send it back into the void.
Kneeling before him, the Navigator swallows again. "Th-that's the issue, my Lord. I do not know. If it were some encroaching of the Immaterium, I would have been able to lead us around it, be it warp storm, rift, or even some misbegotten tendril of the Throne accursed Cicatrix Maledictum." He pauses, taking a deep breath to compose before forcing himself to continue.
"Except…it is none of those things. Whatever this rift is…its signature doesn't match anything that I have ever felt before." Erasmus looks up, all three of his eyes staring at the Space Marine with an unsure, almost worried look. "I do not know what to make of it."
"What exactly are you suggesting?" the trans-human warrior asks, his teeth clenching at the Navigator's insistence on skirting around the root of the problem.
"I–" The abhuman pauses, clearly choosing his next words with care. "I believe we should halt, or at least change our course," he admits finally. "I believe we should send out an Astropathic signal to the rest of the fleet and advise them to stand by until we can analyse this phenomenon with greater detail."
"In other words, you wish to cease in our quest." Phoros's words are quiet, yet the psyker flinches, so great is the sense of danger within them. "You would have us abandon the Vulgas system to its fate and condemn the lives of those that dwell upon it?" A palpable wave of anger emanates from the Emperor's finest, and despite having spent decades of his life fearlessly staring into the depths of the nightmarish warp, Erasmus Thaum feels ice in his stomach.
"Choose your next words carefully, Navigator," says the Space Marine, his words far colder than even the void of the cosmos. "Lest they be misconstrued for heresy."
Erasmus pales.
"Forgive me, m-my Lord" he stutters, a cold sweat on his brow. "I-I merely wished to warn you of the danger of treading on something so unknown. If we continue on our course, or even choose to make a warp-jump in such close proximity to this…shadow, then we have no way of telling what the result will be."
The Chapter Master narrows his eyes, hearing the particular phrasing. "Shadow?"
"Y-yes, my Lord," the Navigator's voice is unsure, clearly aware of the dangerous position he had put himself in with his previous words. "I have attempted to discern its nature, yet it's so inherently foreign that I cannot even begin to comprehend it."
"Tyranids…" hisses Phoros, his eyes glaring at the hololithic display and the strange cloud of swirling darkness that writhed in front of the five red dots representing his fleet.
Yet Erasmus shakes his head. "I do not believe so. While it is indeed different from the warp, it is also distinctly unlike the presence of the Great Devourer."
Two dark blue orbs train themselves onto the Navigator, boring into the three-eyed abhuman, yet staring into something far beyond him. For a moment, Phoros says nothing, his mind lost within painful memories filled with chitinous shells, cries of anguish, and the screeching of the xeno horde. He allows himself only a second of reminiscing.
It stretches on into infinity.
"You are certain then?" His own voice wrenches him back into reality, and he clenches his fist in anger at allowing himself such a moment of weakness.
"Yes, my Lord," the Navigator nods, his three eyes dropping once more, unable to hold the Lord of Ruin's gaze for more than a single moment. "I-I have taken the liberty of brushing my mind against it, and despite its…unnatural feeling, I experienced no pain, no hollowness like one does when in the presence of the Hive Fleet."
Malakim Phoros gazes once more at the writhing cloud. It had not moved, grown, or extended any tendrils. For all intents and purposes, it appears to be simply that. A relatively small nebulous cloud of…something.
But Malakim Phoros knows better than to trust appearances.
'Miasma.' The word jumps unbidden to the front of his mind, and he frowns, tilting his head slightly. Why had he thought of it that way? The old Space Marine has long since learned to fear and hate the unknown, the unexplainable, the alien. It had been drilled into him ever since he was a mere Neophyte.
And yet…
"You say it felt foreign? I will ask once again. Explain yourself."
Erasmus flinches, stuttering out an answer. "I-indeed, my Lord. When I extended my mind to attempt and gaze upon it, I felt like I was drowning. It is unlike the warp at all, my lord, for the warp is nothing if not…turbulent. It is full of conflict, unspeakable things and hideous beings, but it is never monotonous. Yet, whatever this is, it could not be more different." As the Navigator speaks, his voice slowly grows ever more excited and passionate, even as his master listens intently.
"This shadow, this…cloud, whatever it is, is almost the exact opposite. It is not turbulent at all. It is filled with but two or three emotions, and those intertwine so fluidly that they form almost a single being. It felt less like the immaterium and more like an endless well of sorrow."
"Sorrow?" Malakim Phoros's voice is quiet, almost thoughtful.
"A sorrow so vast, so incomprehensible that some of the Astropaths under my command had been struck unconscious by the power of the emotion." The chief Navigator confirms, his expression becoming grave. "There's something else as well, something that writhes beneath the sorrow. The second emotion. It is…" the Navigator shakes his head as if trying to clear his mind from a painful thought. "Dark."
There is another moment of silence. Then, hearing no rebuke, he continues speaking. "It felt bitter. Full of resentment." He pointed at the hololithic display, and at his prompting, the centre of the cloud changed, turning pitch black in comparison to the merely dark outer layer. "It wallows in desire and spite as it curses the world around it." He looks up, his three eyes swirling with raw emotion.
"My lord, It reeks of jealousy, of Envy."
"Envy…" repeats the Space Marine, his eyes not moving away from the graph.
"It is because of this that I recommend we–" the Navigator begins again but is interrupted by the whirring of a Servo-Skull as it approaches the command bridge, a small hive of mechadendrites trailing behind it like ice behind a comet.
++My Lord.++ It's mechanical voice drones, red augmented eye pulsing in conjunction. ++This unit is to inform: Brother Pleiades requests an audience.++
Malakim Phoros turns his head towards the mechanical servant. In response to its interruption, he asks but a single question, yet it is filled with such a sense of quiet danger that despite it not being aimed at him, Erasmus Thaum shudders.
"Why has he not reported his request via Dataslate?"
The Servo-Skull, unable to process even the most basic of emotion, merely whirrs in response, its lobotomized mind searching through its limited databank for an appropriate answer. It does not search long.
++Brother Pleiades says that new intelligence has come to light regarding the Campaign for Vulgas Prime. Insistence that a personal audience is necessary. Priority: Loop.++
Malakim Phoros sucks in a breath. "Return to your station," he said quietly, glancing at Erasmus. "We shall continue this discussion later."
"But my Lord–" the Navigator tries.
"Return to your station now!" The Space Marine roars, causing all on the command Bridge to turn to him. The Navigator flinches before bowing and scurrying away, fearful of incurring the Chapter Master's wrath. Clenching his fist so tightly that the power armour itself groaned under the pressure, Malakim Phoros turns back towards the Servo Skull.
"Inform Brother Pleiades that I await his presence."
'Only the most parochial of beings think that stars twinkle. That is an illusion of atmosphere, an observation of one who has never travelled space.'
Brother-Sergeant Pleiades of the Fourth Company marches through the corridors of the Battle barge, 'Mater Lachrymarum,' the ceramite boots of his Mark X Tacticus Power Armour echoing through the halls of the mobile Star Fortress. The bleeding heart on his chequered pauldrons glints in the shadowy halls
It is time. All the paths have been witnessed, all choices analysed and processed. It has taken him over three cycles to come to the practical conclusion, but glory be to the Emperor upon His Golden Throne, he had finally been able to deduce what path to take to success. And now he will ensure that though that path is etched in blood, he shall tread it unflinchingly. In His name.
Gazing forward with resolute determination, the one-hundred year old Space Marine strides towards the command bridge. As has always been the case, his mind drifts, the genetically ingrained rhythm of his march subconsciously lulling him to wander into that realm between sleep and awake known as recollection.
The Space Marine has many memories. The Space Marine has only one memory.
Stomp. Stomp. Went the armoured boots, and with their every impact age-old memories dance in front of his eyes, fresh as the day they were seared into his genetically-eidetic mind.
The Space Marine has experienced many things. The Space Marine has experienced only one thing.
Stomp. Stomp. Tech-Priests, chanting Litanies of Actuation. Cherubim servitors singing psalms to the Armour's machine spirit. The Magos, sanctifying him in Binharic Cant as his body is placed upon the altar. The Rubicon. Ascension.
The Space Marine has met many people. The Space Marine has met only one person.
As he walks through the halls, he can feel the glaring eyes of the Aquila, its golden wings soaring upon the ornate walls of the Fortress-Monastery, the boring gaze of the Skull adorning the Imperialis. And as he marches beneath them, he can sense the emotionless stare of the statues denoting His undeniable glory, a line of text repeatedly scrawling over the Auto Sensors of his helm.
'Gloria in nomine Eius. Fides in nomine Eius. Victoria in nomine Eius. Ave Imperator.'
"Ave Imperator."
Stomp. Stomp. Went the sound of ceramite against marble. In the silent hall, the sound is like the blast of a krak grenade. And with every blast, battles from decades ago flash to the forefront of his mind. The screams of dying men deafening his ears. The ashes from the charred bodies clogging his nostrils. The Mountains of the dead illuminated by las-fire burning into his retinas. The copper taste of blood filling his mouth. The cries of his battle brothers searing his spirit.
The Space Marine remembers his long and full life. The Space Marine remembers only war.
Blinking away the haze of memory, he finds himself at the entrance to the command bridge. The old servitor manning the doors stares at him, its dead eyes sending static streams of recognition protocols into a brain scrubbed clean of humanity.
++Recognition-scan, completed. Chain-link objective, identified. Objective number zero-four, dash, zero-one, dash, one-nine-nine-seven, isolated. Task-urgency, assessed. Critical-urgency status detected. Activating-primary-protocols. Glory be in His name.++
With a slow hiss, the door begins to open, as the mind-slave cyborg that had once been a human, connects whatever shambles constituted the remainder of his psyche to the machine-spirit of the massive gate, and fulfills the one thing it is still allowed to understand how to do.
Not sparing the ruined, pitiful thing a single glance, Brother-Sergeant Pleiades walks inside, the gazes of the crew manning the numerous navigational and communication displays following him as he enters the room.
Paying them no heed, he makes towards the centre of the chamber, where his Lord is sat upon his command throne, unmoving as if he were not a living being, but a statue carved out of the finest of marble. Clad in his custom made Artificer armour, a cloak of royal purple flowing behind his warplate, he radiates an aura of authority. His face is noble, and yet austere, its sharp features naturally commanding attention, the curl of his lips almost statuesque in its perfect aesthetic beauty.
Stepping forward, Sergeant Pleiades places a fist to his chest in a sign of respect to his superior's venerable station.
"My Lord, Chapter-Master, I would speak with you."
A single grave nod indicates Phoros's attention.
And thus, as the Navigators chart their course and guide the Battle barge within the cruel dark of the cosmos, two demigods speak of the future.
'Only the most parochial of beings think that stars twinkle. That is an illusion of the atmosphere. The stars do not wink at us. They burn. They are unlidded eyes boring into us with their gaze.'
Chapter 1: Fight on…
"I am his son…"
"For the Deus Sanguinius…"
"For the Saint…"
"And In the name of the Emperor…"
"...Let none survive."
End.
I hope you enjoyed!