Ok so guys, it has been a couple years since I have been back.
To be honest, I did not think I would be back, more on that later.
Anyway, please enjoy this story, also I apologize if it seems like I skimming some details.
For the imperium side, or to be honest any side that is not the traitor legions, I kinda had to resort to the fandom wiki.
Anyway please enjoy.
How long had he been in this dark cell, seconds, minutes, hours, days, or weeks maybe? It was difficult to tell when he now measured time by a dripping sound from somewhere in the room, the strange cyborgs that would come to feed him some disgusting grey paste, that he was not even sure qualified as garbage let alone food, they had to feed it to him since his arms were shackled to the ceiling by thick chains and manacles, and the burning light that came from the door whenever the angry person came and yelled at him. Suddenly the door to his cell opened, the sudden pouring of light into the black room feeling like it was blinding him. Into the room stepped the same blacked robed figure, chin held high, nose scrunched like he was smelling something unpleasant, shaved head, and most curiously, at least in the prisoner's mind, his eyes and the skin leading up to the newcomer's forehead was replaced by metal and two red lenses.
The figure started talking, they had a raspy voice the prisoner noticed, in that peculiar language of his, although to the prisoner it sounded like someone took the worst parts of every language and crammed them together. The look of confusion on the prisoner's face seemed to enrage the robed figure, like all the times before. At this point the robed figure grabbed the prisoner's face and yelled again in his garbled language, shaking the prisoner a little.
"I can't understand you," the prisoner croaked out, his throat dry from a lack of water. The figure violently shoved the prisoner away and stomped around the room, muttering in his strange language. The figured then turned and started make chittering noises with his mouth. His mechanical eyes clicking and whirring as the lenses zoomed in and the metal plates seemed to draw together in a glare.
"I still can't understand you," the prisoner replied, his throat, eyes, and head hurting. This caused the robed one to growl and start shouting in a guttural tone. The prisoner just shook his head and looked at the robed man pleadingly.
"Please, just tell me what you want," the prisoner begged, trying to understand what was being demanded of him. At this last plea, the robed figure stormed out of the room, his frustration growing and realizing that he would get nowhere, and darkness once again became the entirety of the prisoner's existence.
Outside the Black Cell the robed man, known among the Imperial Inquisition as Inquisitor Malek Zeragos of the Ordo Malleus, stormed his way through the prison section of the Inquisition compound's confusing labyrinth of hallways and various offices. Finally, he arrived at a door that was trimmed in gold and made of red metal that he had not bothered to learn the name of. He angrily slammed on a button near the door.
"Who seeks entrance," a servitor asked, its robotic voice ringing through the vox speaker next to the door.
"Inquisitor Malek Zeragos," he stated.
"Reason for your visit," the servitor asked.
"Here to see Inquisitor Commandant Zephyrus Drakon in regard to the prisoner," he answered, growing irritated at this formality.
"We are the Emperor's eyes," the servitor stated, using one of the thousands of signs that needed an appointed countersign.
"Searching for those who would sow doubt," Malek responded with the appropriate countersign, already his voice being run through countless samplers to see if he were corrupted, an imposter, or under duress.
"Access permitted," the servitor stated in its monotone voice, as the door slowly slide open.
Shortly after the metal door slowly and quietly slide open revealing the inner sanctum of the Commandant, and he found himself staring at the chamber in envy. Trophies from dozens, if not hundreds, of different missions were arrayed in a pattern known only to the one who had collected them and sitting upon a marble plinth was, what the Commandant claimed anyway, the greatest prize of the collection, a pink and black ceramite chest plate with the Palatine Aquila embossed in burned gold, which the Commandant claimed to have taken off the corpse of a member of the Emperor's Children Traitor Legion. The room itself was lavishly decorated almost to the point of gaudiness, adorning the floor was an ornate silk rug that looked like it cost a Chapter Master's ransom, the walls, at least the ones that weren't taken up by trophies, were decorated with various portraits, some of the previous notable Commandants who had been given this office and others depicting Zephyrus Drakon either holding a trophy from the wall or standing atop some of the larger pieces, the furniture looked to be richly made from exotic woods and fabrics, and the desk alone looked like it had cost the entire daily domestic product of a planet wide manufactorum.
"It has been exactly one week, three days, eight hours, twenty-eight minutes, and thirty," the figure at the desk stated before looking at the chronometer on the desk, "-six seconds since you began interrogation of the prisoner. You promised me results in two standard weeks."
"I am here to report on what progress I have made thus far," Malek stated, trying to hide the irritation in his voice at the man sitting at the desk.
"There is no need," the man said looking up and revealing his brown eyes and salt and pepper beard, "I witnessed the whole thing."
It was then the man tapped a button on his desk, activating a hololithic projector which then began playing a pict of the interrogation as it was.
"What is your name," the hololithic Malek demanded, only to be met with the strangers raspy, unknown language.
"What is your name," the holo-Malek spat, violently shaking the prisoner, only to be met with a look of confusion.
"From what craftworld do you hail," holo-Malek demanded in the speech of the Eldar, the frustration in his voice shining through in even the melodic Xenos language, again he received the same response.
"What is your warband," the hololithic version of him shouted in the native language of the Orks. This time the prisoner seemed to be pleading if the tone of his voice was anything to go by. It was at this point Inquisitor Drakon turned the hololithic projector off.
"Clearly," Inquisitor Drakon said sarcastically, "you are very close to getting results."
This caused Inquisitor Malek to ball his fists in frustration, the slight being obvious to anyone with a functioning set of audio-receptors.
"I have tried every dialect of gothic I can speak; I have tried Eldar speech, I have tried Ork speech, and even the battle sign of the Adeptus Astartes," Malek replied, "he has responded to none of it. Besides what could possibly be so important about him that would warrant even the most minute usage of our resources?"
Several seconds after the question was asked a pict feed showed the prisoner falling out of a tumultuous mass of clouds that shot out red bolts of lightning, and slamming down on the stone floor, with enough force to cause small cracks to form. It then showed the prisoner, slowly dragging himself from the point of impact and a squad of Imperial guardsmen finding and hitting him in the head with the butt of their laz-rifle. Before the pict switched to show a scrawl of physiological data.
"Do you take me for an Apothecary," Malek sneered, glaring at the sequences of meaningless data.
"Your incompetence only compounds itself," the Master-Inquisitor stated, "this being fell out of the Immaterium."
"Then he should have been executed upon this being found out," Malek spat out, "obviously he is tainted by the Warp and needs to be dealt with before he has chance to spread his taint."
The elder inquisitor sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose, before once again pulling up the scrawl of data.
"If you had bothered to study under an apothecary, for any length of time," he said matter-of-factly, "you'd find that despite the fact our prisoner fell out of the warp," Inquisitor Drakon then highlighted a particular section of the data scrawl, "he has no trace of warp taint."
"How is that possible," Malek asked, his tone betraying both disbelief at the fact something like that was even possible and an accusation.
"That's what certain parties amongst the upper echelons of Imperial society would like to know," the elder inquisitor stated, "think of it, exposure to the warp would no longer be a problem for us. We could finally take the fight to the Despoiler and his legions in the God-Emperor's name, thus ending any threat that could possibly come from the Immaterium."
Malek began digesting this information and concluded, that given what he knew about his superior, was all too probable. Inquisitor Zephyrus Drakon would turn any samples taken from the prisoner over to the Adeptus Mechanicus, who then would start looking for why the subject hadn't shown any obvious signs of taint from the Warp, once that was found out they would then try to synthesize a countermeasure, then his superior would in all likelihood march into the Warp and try to take the head of the Despoiler, and then should he return having accomplished such a great task he would be elevated to heights reserved only for the God-Emperor. Malek internally sneered at the thought, to have such glory and acclaim, likely Inquisitor Drakon would be counted amongst the Emperor's favored and be made a Living Saint, elevated to the highest pantheon of Imperial servants.
He could not allow this, if Drakon achieved all of this them it would make it impossible to rise past him, it would also be heresy against everything the Ordos Malleus stood for but that was beside the point. He could not, would not allow the senior Inquisitor's plans to come to fruition. But at the same time, he could not openly oppose the senior inquisitor lest the elder man most likely would have the junior inquisitor branded a heretic at best or use any means at his disposal to cease any chance at rising through the ranks at worst. So, it would fall to more subtle methods. Nodding to himself the younger inquisitor left room, after all he might not be able to kill the prisoner outright without drawing the ire of his superior, but a dagger could often accomplish what a mace could not.
One days, twelve hours, thirty minutes, and eighteen seconds later…
He hurt all over, even sections of his body that he thought did not feel pain were hurting. His jailer had returned he did not know how long ago, with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Unlike all the other times though, he had not yelled, beaten him, or done anything other than stand in front of the prisoner with that grin on his face. After an unknown amount of time there were sounds outside the door, what sounded like bodies thumping against the floor, followed by the door grinding open. After the door opened a woman covered in what looked like a full body black leather suit, a full-face mask of the same material covered her head with only a hole in the back to allow her hair through, and hole cut for the mouth, showing that it was crudely stitched shut. She then threw a canister at the, releasing a sickly green looking gas that quickly enveloped his jailer, before their body thumped to the ground. Then the woman turned dead eyes upon the prisoner and drew one of the many blades sheathed at her back, before stalking towards him. He tried to scramble away from her, but the chains and manacles kept him moving too far. Once she was close enough the woman slowly, painfully dragged the blade across his chest, causing a wound to open in the tattered fabric and flesh alike, bleed, and him to cry out in pain.
In the Hallway…
She did not know why she was headed this way in particular; any other hallway would get her to the lead inquisitor of this sector when she saw them. Bodies wearing the uniform of the God-Emperor's Holy Inquisition laying on the floor with pools of blood steadily growing. Such a slight against the inquisition could not be allowed to stand. She entered the room the bodies had guarded and readied her sword. Upon entering the room, she immediately took stock of the situation, which told her that someone in Inquisition vestments was collapsed on the floor, a Death Cultist glaring at her and holding a vial half full of blood, and a prisoner hanging limply by their chains.
"Begone heretic," she shouted defiantly as she charged upon the cultist. The response to t his was for the only other conscious person in the room to pull one of her many knives from its sheathe and ready it to defend herself, and maybe draw some blood at the same time.
Meanwhile the prisoner looked at the fight through half-lidded and tired eyes, swearing he saw an angel in gold armor and with mighty feathered wings holding aloft a mighty sword, fighting a demon in black.
Ok, so confession time, I originally had no intention of returning to writing fanfiction.
I was disheartened after seeing that some of fanfics I, at the time, was passionate about were not gaining the traction I liked, was burning out on ideas, stories were becoming jumbled messes, and I wanted to do my own original story.
Then I went back and read the stories I thought deserved better and I cringed when I remember why I wrote them. You see as I was reading them, I remembered that I wrote them without the intention to really entertain, but as shameless self-advancement.
Anyway, sorry about that. Also, if you guys want I can like maybe put a paragraph from what little bit I have written. Also a friend and I had been talking about starting a YouTube channel, but between our jobs and being unable to find someone to do channel art that plan stalled so, just let me know if that is something you guys would be interested in seeing.
Before I go, no the OC will not be god-like, at first, he wants that status he will need to go through fire and death. So starting he will just have a higher than normal resistance to the Warp and like one other thing that will be made clear later.
Anyway that's all I got today, Ave Imperator brothers and sisters, may you be safe in the God-Emperor's light.
