So, stumbled across That Which Must Not Be, a short What If? fic Zahariel whipped up, and all of a sudden, this idea for an AU of CC:CW came to me in a flash. The Omake practically wrote itself after that. Fair warning: this leans far more into Grimdark territory than CC:CW does. But then again, the what-if scenario this Omake is based off of manages to be even more Grimdark than the original WH40K canon, so that's kinda a given.
A Pyrrhic Victory (Ciaphas Cain: Warmaster of Chaos meets That Which Must Not Be)
Last year, if someone told me that at some point in the future I'd become a Champion of Chaos Undivided (minus Nurgle, somehow), Warmaster of Chaos, and the leader of a joint force that included—but was far from limited to—the shattered remnants of the Dark Angels, Salamanders, Ultramarines, Blood Angels, and Space Wolves, and assorted successor chapters of all of the above, the Primarchs of the three formermost chapters I just listed, a grabbag of warbands from practically every traitor legion in existence, and a combined force of Aeldari, Drukhari, and Harlequin Eldar that somehow managed to bring about the rise of the Eldar God of the Dead, all united against a morbid mockery of the Imperium of Man ruled by the Emperor of Mankind reincarnated as the Fifth God of Chaos, I would have called that someone a traitor and blown their head off with my laspistol.
Putting aside the heresy inherent in such a claim, I would have argued that it was downright impossible; I couldn't be a Champion of Chaos Undivided without Nurgle's support (it's called Chaos Undivided for a reason, people), none of the above legions would have ever tolerated the presence a Warmaster of Chaos, the same could be said of even the more pragmatic Primarchs, the combined Eldar force wouldn't even have abided the presence of their respective counterparts, let alone the presence of anyone else in that insane alliance, and The Emperor of Mankind was, by his very nature, the antithesis of Chaos and thus incapable of becoming a Chaos God.
And yet here I am, on the front lines of a battlefield, all of the aforementioned factions united into a single army gathered behind me and Vulkan, Roboute Guilliman, and Lion El'Johnson at my sides. And in front of me are the puppets of the New God, the Eternal Tyrant, the God-Emperor of Mankind Ascendant.
How He came to the conclusion that this was an improvement is beyond me.
The utter carnage that had dominated the last few minutes is winding down now, but it's still going. It's clear that the Imperial Guard forces were facing are losing badly, yet they keep on fighting, long past the point where even the most heartless and fanatical Commander would have seen the folly of this and ordered a full retreat. We've shattered the Imperial army that touched down on Slawkenberg, torn their mechanized infantry to shreds and slaughtered their men by the thousands, and yet they're still fighting. It's like these soldiers we're fighting aren't even human anymore; just empty automatons, like some of the Rubric Marines amongst the combined legion behind me, puppet soldiers enslaved to the whims of an uncaring general.
And then it hits me; that's exactly what they are.
Something in me snaps. I turn away from the window of the bunker I'm tucked away in, storming through the door. "Sir-" I hear someone—maybe Jurgen, maybe one of the Primarchs, I'm not even paying enough attention anymore to distinguish between my aide and one of the frakking Primarchs—calls out to me. I ignore them as I emerge into the trenches, make my way to the front lines, and heave myself up into the No-Man's Zone. The title of the area between the enemy's lines and our own isn't even remotely appropriate anymore; at this point, the barrages of enemy fire have petered out to the point that the USA Troopers are able to cross it more or less unscathed. I'd probably be fine even if I wasn't protected by something far more reliable than even the most durable power armor.
Pain flashes across the side of my face; I tilt my head to one side, right in time for a lasbolt to whiz past my ear. Another flash of pain, this time in my shoulder; I casually step to the side, easily dodging the incoming bolter shot. More projectiles come my way, and I weave my way through them all, counting on a free-of-charge gift from Tzeentch to protect me from harm. The Chaos Gods know that my protectorate is the only place they still have power anymore, and that I need all the help I can get if I'm to protect it from the Eternal Tyrant. And they also know that I won't accept their help if it comes with any strings attached.
Still, the Guardsmen I'm now walking amongst keep shooting at me, nevermind that it's now patently obvious doing so is futile. Not even the casualties have given up; one fallen guardsman bisected in half by a well-placed shot raises his laspistol at me as I pass, somehow kept alive by whatever warp-sorcery drives them to such suicidal dedication to their uncaring god. As I kick the laspistol out of his hand and level my own to deliver a Coop De Grace, I briefly wonder whether the Guardsman he used to be is still alive in there, what he thinks of me. Is he silently begging me to not kill him, or for me to stop taking my time and just put him out of his misery already?
Either way, it doesn't matter. I pull the trigger once, twice, three times; the first shot reduced his brain and skull to chunky red salsa, but better safe than sorry. With that grisly deed out of the way, I return to my present task.
It doesn't take me long to find what I'm looking for. The Bright Lord in charge of the army may have lost a wing in the battle, but he still has another, and that wing makes him pretty easy to spot. I find him near the front of the fractured enemy forces, on his knees, too weak to stand, let alone fight. There's nothing he can do to stop me as I stride toward him, coming to a stop a few feet out of arm's reach.
"The arch-heretic." The Bright Lord intones, voice flat and monotone aside from a faint tinge of disgust. He's a preacher, one I recognized from when he visited the Schola, decades ago. He wasn't the only preacher who ever graced the pupils of the Schola Progenium with his presence, but he was one of the better ones, a true believer who'd chosen his career out of a desire to do actual good instead of a thirst for power or fame. That's probably why the Tyrant chose to send him; he took the time to get to know some of the students personally, and I was one of those students.
For a second, I just stand there, staring at this living monument to the Master of Mankind's new empire, to that twisted mockery of everything I once held dear. It takes me a moment to decide on what to say.
"Is this what He wanted?" I ask, half-hoping that there's a way for me to save him, to somehow salvage the man he used to be from the monster he has become.
The Bright Lord doesn't even hesitate. "It is. Everything about this is what He wanted, what He wants, what He will always-"
My grip on my laspistol tightens. "I'm talking about the actual Emperor, not that soul-eating imposter you serve." Bile rises in my throat at the very idea of having to make that distinction.
"The only imposter was the "actual" Emperor you speak of." The former preacher counters, the disgust in his voice rising. "He rewrote the laws of reality yet rejected his people's patronage, founded a religion yet made worship illegal, acted like a God yet pretended to be a man. He was a self-deceiving weakling who sought all the power of godhood and none of the consequences. He died for it, ten thousand years ago. And eventually, you will join him."
What little hope I still had dies; he's too far gone to save. I let loose a sigh, shaking my head as I draw my laspistol.
All my life, I've lived under my overwhelming reputation as a hero, a savior, as someone special. It's only during these last few months that it's truly dawned on me just how well-deserved that reputation is. I may be a sniveling, self-serving coward, but I'm a coward who's declared open war on Nurgle and is still breathing to tell of it, clashed swords with the Lion himself and came out on top, and somehow turned a group of Chaos-worshiping fanatics into humanity's last, best hope of survival through sheer, probability-defying gift of gab and force of will. But even the likes of myself can't save everyone.
It was a lesson that, out of all the Primarchs, only Guilliman truly grasped. Fortunately, it's a lesson that comes naturally to me.
I draw my laspistol, leveling it at the former preacher. "We'll see about that." I growl, a solitary tear slipping free from my eye as I pull the trigger.
After the Bright Lord died, the moaning and screaming starts up. As we'd soon learn, the control the Golden King maintains over the armies he sends out of the warp-storm that's engulfed the Segmentum Solar is dependent on the psychic influence the Bright Lords exert. Take out all the Bright Lords in a sector, and their soldiers are freed from the New God's influence.
Needless to say, none of them took what they'd been through very well. I probably wouldn't have taken it well either, if I'd shared their fate.
Some of them just dropped dead on the spot, the horrors of what they'd been through and the many injuries and scars they'd accumulated proving too much for their fragile mortal minds. Some just fell to the ground, technically alive but reduced to mindless shells, empty without the Tyrant's light to fill them. Some walked, limped, or even crawled up to the commanders of my army and offered them their services right there on the spot. Some begged for death, were so desperate to end their lives they assaulted USA soldiers, fighting to wrestle the guns they carried out of their hands just so they could use them to blow their brains out.
After one such struggle caused a USA trooper's death, I gave an order that if a newly-freed guardsmen couldn't be talked out of suicide, then the soldiers should respect his wishes and put him out of his misery. Before today, the honor-driven Khronates of my army would have thrown a fit over such an order. But now, not even the Salamanders bothered to argue with me.
When we returned from the battlefield, we did so with hundreds of battle-shocked "prisoners" and heavy hearts. The mood among the populace was equally somber. The first time we repelled an invasion on Slawkenberg soil, there were celebrations, parades, cheering crowds. There's crowds, yes, but they aren't cheering.
We've won. It cost the lives of dozens of good soldiers, but we've driven back the forces of the Master of Mankind, saved Slawkenberg from the fate that befell so many of the worlds claimed by mankind.
And yet, all the people of Slawkenberg can think of are the all-to-real tales that the Guardsmen we freed from the Golden King's control are already spreading, the tales of nightmare fleets loaded with every fear Mankind has ever held about the witch, corrupted Guardsmen who take the legends about the stubborn determination of the Imperial Guard to nightmarish extremes, and Rubric Marine-like Angels of Death that descend from the heavens to shatter all resistance. There were horror stories circulating amongst the populace about what was happening outside the Protectorate, but even the most terrifying of these stories paled in comparison to the horrific truth.
Yes, we won. But all the people of Slawkenberg can think about is the foe we drove back, and the nightmarish fate in store for them if we had faltered.
In all honesty, I can't blame them. It's all I can think about too.