Disclaimer: While this fanfiction is tagged as a Warhammer 40k and Prototype crossover, the main character isn't tied to the storyline of the Prototype games. It simply borrows the gene-modifying superpowers from Prototype. The protagonist will have abilities similar to Mercer/Heller, with some extra buffs not found in the original—and maybe even a few nerfs here and there.
To: Inquisitorial Headquarters, Ordo Hereticus, Segmentum Obscurus
From: Arbites Command, Hive World Ophelis Prime, Planetary Precinct-4, Hive Spire 1
Message Begins:
"Rebellion escalating in Hive Ophelis. Governor implicated in heretical activity. Arbites command eradicated. Lower hive unrest beyond control. Unnatural forces observed. Immediate Inquisitorial intervention required. Emperor have mercy."
Message Ends.
Seal Verified: Arbites High Marshall Carthusian.
The arches of the inquisitorial bastion soared upward, vanishing into the gloom where distant lanterns flickered faintly. Cold metallic walls bore ancient, angular carvings, their lines frozen screams of vigilance etched into eternity. Each mark served as both a warning and a ward.
Machines thrummed steadily with an unyielding rhythm like tireless sentinels. In the distance, the rhythmic chants of Ecclesiarchy priests reverberated through the vast chamber. Each note was amplified into an endless prayerful echo by the vaulted ceiling. Servo-skulls glided past with spectral precision. Their dim optics glowed red, like tiny stars piercing the silent void.
Pipes coiled along the walls, occasionally sparking as though punctuating the oppressive mechanical stillness with sharp electric exclamations. The air was thick with the pungent scent of burning incense, mingling with the acrid tang of promethium and the musty dampness of ancient tomes. Every breath felt like a struggle. The metallic tang clung to the throat, a toxic sharpness, while the consecrated oils coating the machinery left a caustic aftertaste on the edge of perception, blurring the line between reality and consciousness.
The chill of the walls could be felt even from a distance. Deep prayers, carved into the metal, seemed to writhe across their surfaces, as though the etched words whispered into the air around them. The floor, scarred by countless footsteps and the weight of heavy tread, silently chronicled an unending tide of motion and an eternal vigil.
Staff clad in black and silver uniforms moved with mechanical precision. Their steps were deliberate, their motions exact. Heads bowed, eyes fixed forward. They exuded a disquieting obsession. These were not individuals but cogs in a vast Imperial engine, driven by faith, duty, and fear.
Quiet, clipped conversations passed between the clerks. Their words, sharp and bitter, vanished almost immediately into the unceasing hum of cogitators devouring endless streams of data. The dim, smoky light of luminescent orbs barely pierced the flickering glow of holographic displays. These spectral screens projected mercilessly vivid images: entire worlds reduced to ash, tribunals where heretics stood under the cold gaze of unyielding judges, and wars engulfed in flame, waged in the name of the Emperor, whose gaze seemed to pierce straight to the core of the chaos.
Reflections of holograms and light flared on the polished surfaces of terminals, like harbingers of fate. Adepts in utilitarian uniforms traced sacred runes across the screens with a cold precision. Their movements, exact and mechanical, betrayed years of relentless practice, stripped of all emotion. Encoded texts shimmered before them, revealing secrets understood only by the chosen few.
The station's atmosphere felt heavy. A thousand unspoken judgments pressed down on every surface. Halls stretched deep into the asteroid's hollowed core. Grinding gears and locking mechanisms carried a sound of absolute finality.
Behind thick doors, whispered oaths hinted at darkness. Muffled declarations suggested truths too dangerous for open discussion. The station's very fabric vibrated with suppressed rebellion.
In one of the distant halls, a human scream rang out — piercing, filled with pain. The sound, like a sudden flash of light in the darkness, was instantly swallowed by the soulless labyrinth of the station.
Podrick Talon gripped the parchment so tightly that his fingers turned white. The echo of his boots resounded against the cold metal floor of the corridor, filling the space with a hollow rhythm. Under the flickering glow of luminescent lamps, unsteady shadows danced along the walls, conjuring the illusion of living forms.
Massive carved reliefs of saints and martyrs gazed down from stone pedestals. Their impassive faces, with hollow eyes, seemed to pierce into the soul of anyone who passed beneath them. Above, servo-skulls glided with measured grace, as they clawed at the air, carrying heaps of data into the unreachable depths of the citadel. Scribe-administrators, hunched under the weight of their burdens, hurried past with drawn, haggard faces. The whisper of their hurried exchanges blended with the rhythmic hum of machines. A pair of stormtroopers in black armor, like living statues, marched in the opposite direction. Behind the reflective visors of their helmets, their faces remained devoid of expression.
The black-and-silver uniform marked Podrick as an Inquisitorial interrogator, though the title still felt alien to him. He was young, too young compared to those who had served under the Inquisition for decades. Senior colleagues barely acknowledged him, treating his presence as little more than background noise at the edges of their awareness.
Acolytes clustered around a cogitator terminal. Their murmurs blended prayers with data analysis. Among them stood a frail woman with augmetic eyes. Her face turned briefly in his direction, her cold, businesslike gaze piercing through him before she returned to her work, as if his existence wasn't worth even a moment of her attention.
He kept walking, feeling the rough surface of the parchment scratching his palm. The edges of the document were worn from frequent handling, as though its importance had passed through countless hands. The words on the paper were sharp, almost as if hammered into it: planetary rebellion, governor's betrayal, Arbites slaughtered. It seemed like a routine insurrection, soon to be crushed by Imperial might. But something about the report's tone troubled him.
Podrick passed an open doorway where a tech-priest muttered binary prayers over a console. The scent of burning incense mingled with the acrid tang of promethium, thickening the already oppressive air of the corridor. From the depths of the complex came a muffled metallic hum—the mechanical drone of servitors, the emotionless executors of the Machine God's will.
A man knelt near a shrine. His lips moved in silent prayer. He clutched a worn aquila pendant as if his soul depended on it.
The message arrived unexpectedly, breaking the routine of data processing. Podrick remembered how the courier appeared like a shadow in the doorway, extending a sealed missive adorned with intricate sigils. At the time, Podrick was busy with the usual review of data-slates, but the seal on the parchment immediately caught his eye. The courier said nothing, yet there was a tension in his gaze that felt too sharp for an ordinary dispatch. That silent, unspoken urgency lingered in Podrick's mind, leaving him with the unsettling sense that this task was not one to be completed without becoming entangled in something far greater.
The insurrection seemed like the kind he'd read about countless times — chaotic, messy, but ultimately predictable. The kind of a problem Imperial Guard regiments crushed with routine efficiency. It seemed as routine as the lines in thousands of reports flipped through by Inquisitorial interrogators. One phrase from the Arbites' final transmission stood out: "Unnatural forces observed. Emperor have mercy." It could have been a dying man's delirium. But Podrick's instincts suggested otherwise. A shadow of something darker, ancient as sin itself, lingered behind those words, making it impossible to dismiss the rebellion as a mere outburst of defiance.
He tightened his grip on the parchment, as if touch alone could yield the missing answer. His gaze darkened, and his thoughts turned to the path that had brought him here, to this endlessly cold corridor. The Schola Progenium had forged him into the perfect servant of the Imperium—dispassionate, disciplined, bound by the iron will of law. His mentors had admired his analytical mind, his swift mastery of doctrines and statutes. The history of the Imperium and the tenets of the Ecclesiarchy were etched into his memory, as indelibly as prayers carved into the walls of temples.
Other students excelled in physical combat. Some mastered the dogged regurgitation of catechisms. Podrick had a different talent. He uncovered patterns. He pieced together information fragments with remarkable skill. He rose swiftly through ranks. Visiting dignitaries noticed him. The Inquisition eventually selected him.
He should have felt proud. The achievement weighed differently. A silent gap separated him from his peers. They celebrated his ascension as a Schola triumph. But Podrick saw the truth in their eyes. Pity mingled with relief. No one envied his fate. Working for the Inquisition was not a reward. It was a burden few survived with intact minds.
The cold, soulless halls felt alien, severed from the world he once knew. The structured, confined past — when every truth had its place within a perfectly ordered system of knowledge — now seemed like a distant dream. His mind, trained to razor-sharp precision, cut effortlessly through veils of half-truths and intricately woven lies. Yet his skill brought him no solace. Each new trial only deepened his unease. He might fail. And the failure would be catastrophic.
Each step brought him closer to Inquisitor Grim's office. Waves of doubt crashed against his resolve. He remembered his mentors' faces. They had reassured him. His skills would serve the Emperor well. None had prepared him for this reality. The unrelenting pressure. The cold indifference of his colleagues.
For all his knowledge of the Imperium's machinery, he felt small. He was a cog waiting to be crushed under immense weight. Podrick drew a breath. He pushed the thoughts aside. Whatever lay ahead, retreat was impossible.
The corridor took a sharp turn, revealing a reinforced door marked with the crimson sigil of the Ordo Hereticus. Podrick slowed his steps, his breath growing heavier as an invisible weight pressed against his chest. Anxiety gripped him at the mere thought of facing Inquisitor Grim. That figure, cloaked in terrifying authority, tolerated no weakness. Podrick paused before the door, forcing himself to gather his thoughts. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, echoing like a drumbeat. In that moment, everything he had learned, everything he had become, stood on the brink of being tested.
The door hissed open with a metallic exhale, as if the station itself had drawn a breath to admit Podrick into the sanctum of Inquisitor Grim. The room was spacious by the station's standards, yet it exuded no warmth. Towering shelves lined the walls, crammed with ancient tomes whose cracked spines and faded High Gothic inscriptions held the secrets of centuries. On the black, polished desk lay neat stacks of data-sheets, while the faint glow of runes on the edge of a cogitator screen flickered softly in the dim light.
The air carried a complex blend of scents: the mustiness of old parchment mingled with the sharp tang of machine oil, while the heavy aroma of incense burned in a brass thurible suspended in the corner. Above the desk loomed a massive silver aquila, both judge and sentinel. Its oppressive presence served as an reminder of who ruled here — the Emperor and His laws.
Inquisitor Alastor Grim dominated the room from behind his desk. The old man's deep lines carved across his weathered skin like battle scars. A metallic augmetic lens replaced his left eye. The device whirred softly as it focused. His remaining eye held a razor-sharp gaze. Cold calculation lived in those eyes. The eyes of someone who had stared into countless abysses without flinching.
A high-collared robe of black and crimson draped his frame. Purity seals and Ordo Hereticus sigils adorned the fabric. His hands rested on the desk surface. They were scarred. Callused. One hand bore a crude augmetic replacement. Its metallic surface gleamed dully.
Silence stretched between Grim and Podrick. The inquisitor's augmented eye flickered. It scanned the younger man with mechanical precision. A servo-skull drifted closer. The mechanical construct seemed to scrutinize Talon as well. It retreated to its wall vigil.
Talon felt the weight of the inquisitor's gaze. Experience pressed against him. Expectation hung in the air. The look was not unkind. It simply allowed no space for weakness.
Podrick stepped forward. The sound of his boots echoed against the polished floor, cutting through the stillness of the room. His hands felt damp despite the chill in the air. He held out the parchment with stiff movements, willing himself not to betray his nerves. Inquisitor Grim took it without a word. The older man's scarred fingers brushed the edges of the report briefly before pulling it from Podrick's grasp.
Grim unfolded the parchment with methodical slowness. His real eye flicked over the words, while his augmetic lens made a faint, mechanical adjustment. He didn't glance up. He didn't need to. The weight of his silence said everything. Podrick stood rooted, hands clenched behind his back. Speaking out of turn seemed like a mistake. Staying quiet felt worse.
The incense hanging in the air left a bitter tang in Podrick's throat. Its lazy smoke drifted toward the aquila on the wall. The censer's chains swayed faintly, as if mocking the stillness of the room. Grim shifted in his chair. The old mechanism groaned, breaking the silence.
"Another rebellion," Grim said flatly. "Another governor with too much pride and not enough spine." He placed the parchment on the desk with careful precision. "Hive uprisings. Arbites overwhelmed. Disrupted trade. The same tired script."
Podrick swallowed hard, unsure if he was meant to agree. Grim leaned back, tapping with his scarred hand against the desk's edge.
"Weak governors breed weak systems. It starts with missed quotas. Then the lower hives get restless. The Arbites try to stamp it out, and by the time they fail, the Inquisition has to clean up the mess. It's always rotten by the time it gets to us."
Podrick shifted. His muscles tightened under the inquisitor's relentless words. He wanted to say something useful, something to prove he wasn't just another voice to dismiss. The detail from the Arbites' report lingered in his mind. Its strangeness gnawed at him.
"The Arbites mentioned something unusual in their final transmission," Podrick finally said. His voice felt too loud in the quiet of the room. "They described forces beyond their understanding. Something unnatural." He stopped there, unsure if he had said too much.
Grim finally looked at him, tilting his head as though weighing Podrick against the air he'd just disturbed. "Unnatural forces," he repeated. His voice carried no surprise. It carried nothing at all. "The kind of phrase men use when they're losing and looking for excuses. Or when they've stumbled onto something they weren't ready to face."
Podrick's pulse quickened. He wanted to elaborate, to say he felt there was more to this rebellion than the usual rot. Grim didn't let him. "Keep your imagination in check, Podrick," he said. His tone was cutting, but it lacked malice. "Instinct has its uses, but there's a fine line between sharp intuition and baseless paranoia. Treat this like any other rebellion until it proves otherwise."
Though his thoughts were churned, Talon nodded. His instincts screamed at him to dig deeper, but his fear of being dismissed — or worse, mocked — held him back. The inquisitor's sharp gaze lingered before he set the parchment aside.
"You'll join me for this mission," Grim said. His voice was calm but edged with finality. "Consider it your first field assignment."
Podrick blinked. These words landed harder than he expected. "You want me to…" His voice cracked before he could finish.
"Yes, you," Grim interrupted, leaning back again. The faint creak of the chair's supports felt louder than it should have. "You're here because you think fast. And you know more than enough. But none of that means anything if you don't learn to put it to use under fire. Theory is a crutch until you step into the real fight."
Podrick's throat tightened. He forced himself to speak. "I… I understand, Inquisitor." The words sounded thin, barely enough to fill the space between them.
"You're afraid," Grim mellowed out slightly, watching him with the same measured look he'd given the parchment. "Good. Fear keeps you sharp. Just don't let it stop you. Briefing is in four hours. Don't waste time."
The dismissal was clear. Podrick gave a short nod and turned toward the door. His boots struck the floor with clipped, uneven steps. The door hissed shut behind him, cutting off the room's oppressive air. He stopped in the corridor, swallowing against the knot in his throat. Fear gnawed at him, but another feeling stirred beneath it. He couldn't name it yet, but it wasn't going away.
Something waited in the darkness. Something the report had only hinted at. Something neither Grim nor Podrick knew. Something both were about to discover.
