Old Iron Johnson

Old Iron Johnson, Fetus Loremaster, deployer of dicks, lurks like Woolie around short-haired girls, occasionally bursting forth in a frantic sprint to throw out some 40k-themed Zaibatsu narratives or photoshops that showcase why MS Paint is not a force for good in the world.
 * Likes: 40k, E.Y.E Divine Cybermancy, shotguns, Pat.
 * Dislikes: Meaningful contribution, consistency, good photoshopping skills, general competence.

LORE PIECE 1:
On the plains of the agri-world Kebek, a Land Raider, twisted by the black powers of the Chaos Gods millennia ago, jarred to a halt. Countless sigils of protection and dedication adorned its flanks, and every surface was adorned in horned growths and cruel spikes, sacrificial corpses still impaled on many of them. Those who knew the creatures riding within had a name for this engine of hatred and bitter ruin. They titled it the “Pity Cruiser,” for all those who met this war machine were truly forsaken by their gods, whether chaotic or imperial. Although they did not know it, they were already dead. From within came a series of muffled thumps and a scream of unbound rage. “I’m fucking stuck in here!” shouted a voice, drawn from vocal cords deformed by the warp.

Lord Patr’ik the Enraged, favored of Khorne, ravager of the Per Sona IV system, stepped from the confines of the Land Raider, the two-foot curling horns erupting his scarlet helm clearing the top of the access ramp by a good three feet. Scaled skin surrounding contracted around cold reptilian eyes, their slitted pupils surveying the battlefield through the visor of his helm. The armored ceramite encasing his head gave way to wired mesh around the warmaster’s mouth, boiling crimson ichor spurting from the gaps, hissing as it poured down his cheeks and throat. With a soft whine of the actuators in his gauntlets, the chaos lord lifted his maul, its head shaped as a great iron fist, and gripped the haft tightly, eager to plunge it into his foes.

The burnished brass of his chaos plate gleamed under the sunlight, fell daemonic sigils blazing across his pauldrons and cuirass. A few seemed like horrific xenos twisted into agonizing shapes, while others seemed closer to interlocked gears, twisting as they were watched, yet staying in place at the same time. Upon his back, a twisted knot of boil-like sacks and tubes burrowed through his flesh, pumping combat drugs into his veins; the injector was the finest gift of the daemon world Det’Royt, granted as a sign of fealty for crushing Dah Ig’o, champion of Tzeentch. As the Rage-Drinker’s heavy boots slammed against the soft earth, the mantle of skulls on his shoulders jangled, the chains holding them together rattling against yellowed bone. These skulls were far too puny to come from full-grown men, let alone the space marines he had come to decimate. “Get the fuck out here!” Patr’ik roared, waving a hand.

From the depth of the land raider rose a foul stench, carrying with it more than the suggestion of mounds of rotting food and putrid slime. It spread despair like a mist, envy and spite and jealousy wafting out, reaching for anything they could grasp. A hulking figure stooped as it stomped from the troop compartment, unfolding itself with a roar as it reached the sunlight. Whatever proud colors its armor had once carried, it was a corroded greenish-brown now, covered in rusty boils and whitish crystals, the very metal overcome with seeping sores. Whenever the creature moved, a gelatinous substance dripped from the joints and torn gaps, purplish-blue and viscous, bursting from the crust of filth. From its shoulders towered a set of jagged, rusting spikes, connected with tattered scraps of skin and crowned with severed heads, the hair on each desiccated skull cropped short. The front of its helm was wrought into a grinning skull, while the back gave way to flesh and lashing tendrils, spraying a purple-green ichor as they thrashed. Around its head was tied a band of stinking cloth, some sort of iron plate attached over its forehead, the symbols on it known only to its wearer.

Wuly the Life-Thief, champion of Nurgle, equerry to his lord, reached back, and with the scream of metal on metal, dragged a gigantic blade down the ramp, practically its own height. Its core pulsed with a sickly green light, and as the champion hefted it, the weapon seemed more a slab of ill-forged metal than a sword, the tip flaring out into a broad, spade-like shape. The blade crashed to earth the clang of impact followed by a roar, whatever words it contained obscured by the liquid gurgling from the facemask’s teeth. As if on cue, one of the chosen sprinted beside the equerry and knelt before him, holding a pastry aloft in offering.

The Nurglite picked it up, its clumsy fingers squeezing filling from the crust, and smashed the food against the grinning teeth of its helm. Staring down at its fouled hands for a moment, it screamed in anguish and brought its fists down on the figure before it. Despite his stature and the chaos plate across his body, the chaos marine slammed into the earth and lay still, blood pouring from the mangled stump where its head had been moments ago. Patr’ik nodded. Khorne’s approval lay with this battle.

From the other side of the battle lines, the loyalist commanders watched the display with a mixture of confusion and disgust. The Flaming Axes chapter had mustered a company to face down the chaos horde, to stop the infection before its cracks could vanquish the whole star system. Magos Gutstein of forge world Machinima and the Skitarii tech-thralls under his command had engaged the major part of the horde, but the commanders and their retinues had found each other. After all, destiny was destiny.

Chapter Master Matheus Fortis leaned on his power axe. Like a chaplain, his helm was forged into a skull, eye sockets blazing blue, offering foes naught but a wry grin. A red cape and ivory-white armor completed the ensemble of humanity’s champion. The techmarines had embossed two crossed axes, set against a crimson flame, on his chestplate, testament to the chapter he commanded. Upon his off-hand lay a mighty storm shield, circular instead of the standard crux terminatus, adorned in alternating stripes of red, white, and blue, a single blazing star at its center. At Matheus’s leg waited Zacharias, a great Fenrisian Thunderwolf, its fur the same pure white as its master’s armor, growling as the stench from the opposing ranks reached its nose. Beside the chapter master, first captain Liamus Principissa stood, an elegantly crafted, curved power sword resting on his shoulder. Unlike his shaven-headed brethren, the captain’s brown locks reached his shoulders, a well-kept mane resting on his pauldrons.

The opposing sides eyed each other for but a moment before launching into a full sprint toward each other, their troops following the mad charge. As if by prior collusion, Matheus Fortis split off toward the Chaos Lord waddling toward him, Zacharias bounding at his heels, while Liamus took off toward the affront against nature that some called Wuly, determined to wipe the horrifically twisted simulacrum of the human form off the planet’s face.

To the first captain’s surprise, Wuly’s bloated bulk belied an astounding speed. Liamus barely wove aside from the first blow, a mighty overhead swing smashing through the earth, the tip of the blade missing the captain’s well-shaped features by mere inches. Perhaps the slime oozing from the plague champion’s visor had blinded him for a moment, or he had simply never learned to measure distances. Whatever the cause, Liamus thanked the Emperor as he rolled under a second wild swing, barely encumbered by his power armor; the air glowed in the sword’s wake, a long green arc at chest height followed by the scream of tearing air. It was with good reason that he’d earned the moniker “The Chevalier of Smoke” for his prowess in dodging. Liamus pivoted gracefully, a single bolt from his pistol bursting the skull of a chaos marine behind him. A young hunter before his induction, the captain had often heard the virtues of patience, but favored a relentless advance instead of sitting back like a lame-legged weakling.

The captain’s luck ran out on the third strike of the fight, as his momentary distraction let Wuly leap forward and thrust his blade into his cuirass, fracturing the gold Aquila and catching his opponent’s chest. Liamus staggered backward, his foot catching on the hole Wuly’s errant blow had made. As the space marine crashed to earth, shards of ceramite, falling with him, Wuly laughed. His tactic of staying on the defensive, pitting the battlefield with traps and divots in hopes of catching his opponent unaware, had triumphed once again. Admirers, or perhaps Wuly himself, in a futile effort to gain recognition, had titled this strategy “Wuly’s Hole.”

“Now,” hissed Wuly, “Your soul shall embrace Nurgle’s tainted touch, and shall be turned to salt upon the pies I am owed!”

Liamus groaned as he tried to rise, fingers tightening on the hilt of his blade. “Who the hell puts salt on their pies?” he asked, struggling to stand, the gash on his chest leaving a red stain on his armor.

Wuly drew back, affronted, and raised his blade over his head, drawing himself to full height before slamming his blade down. Confused, he looked down, expecting to see the marine captain cleaved in half under his blade. For although everyone else had understood it long ago, Wuly had never learned how to avoid the most telegraphed attacks possible, and could never track a foe with his overhead swings.

Liamus leapt to his feet, the swing of his sword catching Wuly’s leg, green ichor sizzling against the power field, the gnarled power armor offering no more resistance than the bark of a tree. Another stream of effluvial grime began to pour from the wound.

“Merely the sting of ant!” roared the chaos marine and swung again. This time, Liamus watched his footwork, dancing around the arcing blows, scoring the foe’s armor again and again, opening up gashes across his arms and chet. Still, he lacked the strength to truly wound the mound of flesh before him, and soon the venom upon Wuly’s blade took its toll, slowing the agile captain’s movements until he fell to one knee, panting.

Wuly snatched him up, kicking aside his blade, wrapping his fingers around his foe’s throat. Raising the captain before him, he laughed, spraying Liamus with spittle and other mysterious fluids. “Long ago, the emperor promised me power unmatched. I warred in his name until he took all I had, and where was his promise? Where were the pies, the glory, the marvels of his new world? But look at what I have accomplished, loyalist! Look at my revengeance!”

Liamus glared at the Nurglite, desperately stalling. “Good luck getting a threesome now!” he shouted over the din.

“You piece of shit.” Wuly slammed the captain to the earth, squeezing his throat with hulking hands as if trying to deflate a football. “Let these be the last words you hear before the Emperor forsakes you: Losing is winning!”

Liamus’s vision swam, slowly going dark. Suddenly, through the encroaching blackness, he saw a white blur lunge at the towering plague marine. Zacharias the thunderwolf clamped his jaws on Wuly’s arm, growling as he tore at the infected flesh. But for all the valiant animal tried to do, Wuly’s hatred was mightier. Prying the wolf’s jaws from his arm, he wound up and slammed a foot into Zacharias’s stomach, sending the wolf flying with a whimper. The plague champion laughed, delighting in the spectacle.

The first captain had watched the whole spectacle, unable to rise and help. His blade was too far away to reach, and it had proven useless against the corpulent foe before him. Liamus’s fingers closed over the grip of his bolt pistol, and with one last burst of strength, he swung upward and fired, the round smashing into the fleshy area around Wuly’s dreadlock-tentacles. The one weakness of his armor proved fatal as the bolt burst inside the marine’s skull, throwing tattered scraps of his headband to the winds.

“Only… a bee sting.” Wuly choked out his last words. The Nurglite, poised to gut the helpless animal before him, fell into the mud silently, toppled like a tree with its roots torn out.

Liamus fell back, smiling one last time as the poison overtook him.

“Aw shit,” Patr’ik said as he saw his equerry collapse, catching a blow from Matheus’s power axe on the haft of his hammer. “Maybe he should’ve kept that shield.” Parrying another blow, he thrust at his opponent, forcing the chapter master to jump back or risk a crushing death by the mighty fist. “Thought you’d get me in your rhythm, fucker? Your puny chapter will never recover from this damage!”

“Your bizarre adventures end here, shitbird!” Matheus shouted, lunging forward with another swing, his poweraxe humming as it caught one of Patr’ik’s horns, leaving it cut short. “You thought it’d be the PDF, slaughtered to a man, but it was us, the Flaming Axes!”

“We’ll see how your guile holds up with my fist inside you!” Patr’ik screamed. His foot flashed through the air, almost leaving a sonic boom in its wake, delivering a mighty rage-driven kick to Matheus’s shin.

The two stayed locked in combat, neither able to overcome the other, their armor slowy accumulating tears and rents, the white and brass turning the color of blood. At last, Patr’ik’s salty sweat began to overcome him, the fist flopping about limply, unable to hold erect. The chaos lord staggered backward, shouting for his elite coterie of chosen. “Adds, get in here!” he shouted.

Only two members of his entourage had survived the tumult of battle. Hulit and Cajeh charged forward, chainswords revving. But before they could turn Matheus into a heavy rain of body parts or stop his homecoming, the champion of humanity lunged, moving faster than a Slaaneshi could ever hope to, and slammed his axe into them, again and again, fueled by righteous rage. Seeing his opportunity, Patr’ik swung his mace around, shattering Matheus’s shield with a scream of power fields giving way.

The chapter master, reluctant to consider defeat against a foe so tiny, reached down and picked up a tainted chainsword, thumbing the activation rune and feeling the familiar throb as it roared to life. “Time to skin your ass raw, you limp little biscuit,” he said.

Patr’ik roared, lunging forward with his weapon held high, confident that he could roll away from whatever Matheus could throw at him. Instead of meeting his opponent in kind, Matheus drew back and threw his power axe with all the strength left in his arm.

Chaos Lord Patr’ik the Rage-Filled felt surprise for the last time in his life, as he looked at the handle suddenly growing from his chest. Gargling out a froth of blood and salt, he toppled back a short distance, his hammer rolling away. “My i-frames,” he whispered, betrayed by the gods that had offered him ultimate power.

“Nailed it,” Matheus said, striding to his fallen foe. “Can’t stop won’t stop, chaos scum.”

With the last vestiges of his life, Patr’ik laughed. “I joined Khorne to let the salt take me. To forget the hype. But soon, you will join me, loyalist. Baby Ashley comes for us all in the end. Shitlord.” White powder began to spill from the tubes on his back, and the chaos lord shuddered one last time.

Matheus Fortis drove his chainsword down, releasing it as the blood stained him once more, the chain’s roar dying away into the dull sound of gunfire where the main forces still did battle. Zacharias limped to his side, fur covered in Wuly’s grime but still alive, more than could be said for all the other warriors on the field. Matheus walked to where his friend Liamus lay. He stood over the fallen comrade a long time, sharing in the sudden silence with Zacharias. Gently picking up the body, began to move toward the sounds of war on the horizon.

LORE PIECE 2
Across the void of space, a boarding pod roared through the endless blackness, its engines spitting hot fire like the ancient exemplars of humanity, the clans of Woo and Tang. Painted in the black marks of the Deathwatch, humanity's alienhunters, it flew toward its mark like team commander Matheus Fortis toward ice cream sandwiches. Even the drop pod had earned a storied history; after the cruiser's cogitators had erred in its launch, sending it twenty meters wide of its mark, the pod slammed into the Daemon Prince Kar, quite literally crushing his offensive against Segmentum Tempestus. Thus, after its recovery and the scrubbing of ichor, techmarines s carved the vehicle with runes of blessing and granted it the title "Shame of Kar."

The craft's pointed head smashed into the side of a Dark Eldar cruiser, the sleek surface giving way to the mighty impact of humanity's champions. The few guards unlucky enough to be near the impact point turned to a rain of gore nad steel shards, while the rest staggered about, deafened and concussed.

Patrocles Pugnator stomped down the landing ramp, black ceramite boots crashing against the rugged surface. Though only four feet in height, the amount of rage within his frame could fuel an entire crusade of Black Templars. His helm's rebreather grille and visor had been forged into a scowling rictus, furrowed brows and the simulacrum of a beard etched across its faceplate, twisted lips curling in a rage-frothing scream from gnarled teeth. Every surface painted red, the soft glow of his visor lighting his cheeks like magma. His armor was black, even the pauldrons painted over, leaving only the silver skull of the xenohunters on his shoulder. The only embellishments he had made were two arcane Terran curses scratched with an unsteady hand upon the knuckles of his gauntlets: 'FUCK' and 'FACE'.

One Dark Eldar warrior struggled to one knee, panting from the impact, fingers fumbling for the grip of his splinter pistol, before Patrocles drew his head back and slammed it into the elegant helmet, sending his foe prone, the crystal lenses over the elf's eye exploding into glittering streams like droplets of rain. Leaping into the air, he slammed elbow first upon the frail figure, a crack and scream accompanying the warrior's breaking spine. "Get good at the eternal war," Patrocles spat. Standing in one spot, he spun as quickly as he could, using the momentum to deliver an astounding spin-stomp to the prone figure's face, leaving naught save a wet stain upon his sole. "Fucking xenos, see what I mean?" he asked of no one in particular.

The chain-maul in his hand revved, almost as impatient to taste blood as its master; a great clenched fist, jagged fangs spinning across the surfaces between its fingers. The engraving of a skull rested on its casing, a stream of magma flowing from its teeth, pouring across its jowls. Patrocles had carefully serrated each tooth, carving in grooves and foul profanities across each biting surface. Before each mission, he dragged in a chaplain, threatening to suplex him if he did not follow, to bless and anoint a barrel of salt. He thrust his weapon into the fine white grains before each mission; though the pride of some foes might survive the grievous wound of falling to a four-foot marine, few could withstand the saline sting of his mace.

Two more kabalites rushed in and sprayed him with fire, shards skimming from his armor. Patrocles rushed forward, rolling under the hail of fire. A single mighty swing slammed the two bodies into each other, crumpling their frail armor and throwing a massive arc of gore across the sleek curves of the corridor. Patrocles slammed his hammer down another few times, always letting his stamina recover, pulling the corpses around so that one did not lie on the other before pulverizing them. He knew firsthand how badly durability could suffer when the guts of two corpses were both going nuts. He watched the small chunks of corpses spin across the floor like tops, seemingly propelled by dark forces beyond his comprehension, wondering if the warp-tinged halls of the Eldar cruiser were tearing him away reality. More that usual, that was.

"Perfect," he muttered. "Smooth sixty FPS. These bionic eyes really got that 2160p."

Patrocles's armor, custom-fit to his tiny stature, had been picked for sheer strength, and enhanced by a mighty stim injector that pumped almost as furiously as its master's tiny heart. Modified by Stout Josephus, an apothecary and old friend, the might of the combat drugs within gave him the strength to crack apart his foes like tiny children. The armor said little of Patrocles's origins. All knew that once, his armor was stricken yellow and red, and under the black heraldry, a faint circle lay, a chevron cutting into it from below, a wedge from above. When Patrocles was absent, some whispered that he was of World Eater stock, his faith to the God-Emperor tempering his bloodlust enough to grant his mind a measure of lucidity. Lucidity that he no longer needed, surrounded by foes.

"Stop laming it out like a cultist, you fucking coward! Get over here, come on!"

Devastator Wools Mad'ehn emerged from behind him, the hiss of his heavy flamer's twin barrels filling the enclosed space. Born of Nocturne, taken from the Salamanders, he expemplified the slow yet implacable advance characteristic of his chapter. The back of his helm held many hooks and loops, from which hung thick braided cords, jangling with tokens of imperial devotion and local totems, reaching to his shoulders before spreading like a web over his pauldrons. The striking mass of yellow and purple clashed against the verdant green of his shoulders, a blazing skull the one sign of his chapter's heraldry. Unlike Patrocles's raging facemask, Wools wore the standard helm of the Aquila armor, set into a dispassionate look of stoic distaste, completely at odds with his inclination to find fault and reason to gripe in everything he met. Truly, Patroclus could simply touch his hammer to Wools's armor, and the tinge would save him dozens of thrones in salt. Of course, one would have to brave the gnarled and moist surface, and even the greatest champions of humanity knew some fear in the deepest of their hearts.

"Look man, this cruiser is moving really fast. The techpriests can't stabilize these Emperor-damn walls. And the waste-recycling system on my holy plate is feeding me soylent that expired at least three months ago. This is a far cry from the pies our chapter serfs could bake."

Wools swung around to face the corridor, still unsteady from his trip, a gout of green flame bursting among the incoming Eldar reinforcements. The techmarines had spent much time to perfect the mixture, mixing arcane formulas to make a simulation of the great phosphex weapons of ten millenia ago, and their efforts showed as the thin figures melted away, streams of molten flesh pouring from the holes where gobs and thick ropey streams of napalm bit through their armor like Wools through a pie crust. The relic killing machine, "flying grave of fire," had truly earned every hour of maintenance sunk into it after Wools's moist touch corroded its surface. It had claimed the lives of Nurgle-possessed zombies, overgrown with the fungi favored by the plague lord, in defense of the last survivors of the hive Nequam Canis, ripping asunder full hordes of blind screaming monsters. Despite the scarcity of ammunition the defneders could find, its mighty fuel canisters roared a paean to the emperor, the screams of dying zombies its choir; until the last vestiges of prometheum rattled around th empty confines, its walls of flame proved a mighty bulwark.

"Bitch nigga xenos!" the devastator roared, laughing as the twitching figures collapsed and the screaming faded under the crackle of flame. "A hundred and one of you would be enough for a wonderful fight! My rage will bring a mighty revengeance upon you!"

Though few knew why, leaving it to the idiosyncracy of a chapter, Wools excelled in battle against all variety of beasts, from the hounds of Khorne to the feline and avian monstrosities accompanying Dark Eldar beastmasters; few of the felinid and canine abominations who fought the kill team had not met the bottom of his boot. When faced with such creatures, his usual aversion from offense melted away, and he threw aside all pretense of defense, striking with berzerking speed until completely exhausted. These mad rages, and his inclination toward burning foes to ash, had earned him the respect of Patrocles.

"Jesus," Patrocles muttered, "let's find the bridge and fistfuck whoever's in charge of this heretical shitshow. Otherwise, he'll die of boredom waiting for you to stop screaming at dead bodies. Maybe if he was one of Matheus's thunderwolves, you'd be all over that action." He set off at a waddling run, easily clearing the doorways that Wools was forced to stoop under. Eventually, the smooth corridors gave way to precariously balanced walkways suspended over a void as deep as the floor of Wools's quarters, though not nearly as precarious.

The two sentries guarding a crossroad turned around just in time for Patrocles to headbutt one of them in the groin, grasping the wheezing warrior's slender arms before kicking him in the chest and off the gantry, leaving two spiked forearms in his grip. Beside him, Woolie let loose with another gooey stream, the screaming Eldar toppling into the darkness, blazing green like the Slaaneshi Daemon Prince Rehd'mann.

Patrocles stared up at the directions in the hallway, written in the arcane runes of the Eldar, the arrows below winding and curved like daggers, twisting through the walls while he watched. "Ponte Navio," he said. "Doesn't sound like that's where the captain would be." As he tried to follow the rest of the directions, the interface filled with static, before the world seem to grow choppier around him, and blackness began to encroach on the top and bottom of his vision.

Wools glanced at his distracted companion. "I don't know, that seems exactly like-"

Patrocles slammed his hand against the top of his helm. "Excuse me, it looks like some sort of evil is within my HUD. I swear to god, if this thing crashes on our new hardware, my boot will reside like the mightiest of evils in techmarine Mikami's asshole." He glanced at the directions again, pointing down the corridor whose sign read 'Urdidura Caminho'. "This seems like the defense might be pretty flaccid."

"You don't even speak the language," Wools said, resigned to following his smaller teammate. DId I ever tell you about the two extremely hot bisexual Dark Eldar wytches that asked me to join them once? I was late to renew my faith in the Emperor, though, so I just threw them out the airlock."

"Doesn't insano-dad mean... game, or something? And yogo is 'going nuts'?" Patrocles muttered, looking around for more ambushers. "Besides, these fairies are weaker than ten year olds. The fist just slides right in once you get it spinning." Wools's helm jangled as he turned toward his battle brother, then looked straight ahead, his expression of vile disgust nearly visible on his faceplate.

The two rounded a corner, coming face to face with another detachment of slender xenos. The Trueborn lieutenant at their forefront drew a slender blade, settling into a well-practiced stance as his subordinates fanned out. Patrocles lunged forward with a roar of "FUCK SHIT FUCK", the Eldar's thrust skipping off the whirling head of his hammer, as Wools swung around, engulfing a cohort of soldiers in his fiery green embrace.

"You mon'keigh dare to come aboard our ship and think you can make us your prey?" the trueborn shouted over Patrocles's stream of profanity and the scream of his maul tearing apart the air, dodging. "I shall grant you fearful dogs eternal-"

The trueborn turned his head to watch a screaming subordinate stagger past, a sticky green coating spread across his back, eating through flesh and steel alike. The momentary distraction gave Patrocles the opportunity to bring down his weapon on the Eldar's wrist, sending the sword spinning aside; before its scream died away, Patrocles hefted the frail creature over his shoulder,  wrapping one arm about its throat and the other over a flailing leg, tightening his vice like grip. With a mighty burst from his short legs, he leapt into the air and fell backward like a meteor from heaven, driving the trueborn's skull into the floor with a satisfying crunch.

"I came in search of faith, but all I found was heresy!" Patrocles shouted, launching himself into the remains of the scattered squad, demoralized by the vicious beating they had received. Only a single kabalite managed ot flee the whirlwind of blood, abandoning his rifle and sprinting down the hallway. Wools gave chase, a mighty tackle catching his quarry halfway, slamming it against the floor. With a triumphant howl, he reached down and broke the Eldar's neck.

"Now that's what I call real football," Wools said, picking up his flamer and setting off, blisfully recalling a childhood full of theft, both of material items and lives. "When we get back, battle-brother Furore needs to join us for some pigskin."

Carving through the occasional patrol, Patrocles and Wools sprinted through the ship's bowels, the winding corridors, walkways, and incomprehensible language disorienting them only a little more than their own ineptitude at navigation. Slowly, the darkness of the hsip gave way to a pulsing purplish light, and at last, crashing through a door, covered in entrails and shreds of armor, Patrocles and Wools beheld the warp core of the ship, and the master of the pirates they had come to vanquish.

Standing on a gantry far above the pulsing heart of the warp core, Philian, Archon of the Machinator Kabal, the self-styled "Hatred King," glared down at the intruders on his ship, his loyal entourage behind him. Unlike the sleek forged armor of his subordinates, he wore an ill-fitting assortment of haphazardly welded plates, his chestplate backwards and helm crooked.

"Whaaaat? Intruders?" the archon shouted, swinging his arms up, accidentally shoving a screaming retainer off the catwalk and into the depths of the ship. "What the fuck? I was pressing all the alarm buttons and nothing was happening!"

Patrocles and Wools watched in rapt attention as the stiuation unfolded. They had not seen such amazing entertainment since the time Liamus had gotten stuck in the  cruiser's oxygen vent, requiring three chaplains and the company commander's thunder hammer to pry loose.

"This system is totally bugged, man," Philian continued. "Like how am I supposed to combo my the void lances and torpedos on this hsip when I can't reach all the controls? Hahaha, okay, apparently that makes sense." The pirate lord drew his power sword, examining the hilt closely, turning the blade over. "What the fuck man? I'm supposed to read stuff to get this weapon to work? Apparently, you have to exploit a flaw in this thing to get it to turn on."

After thirty seconds of fumbling comparable in awkwardness only to the last time Wools had attempted to find women while on shore leave, Philian threw the power sword down at his feet. The impact jarred the activation rune, and in a blinding flash, the blade sank through the thin grating on the floor, splitting the platform cleanly in half. With a trailing yell of "Bullshit!" Philian and his servants tumbled downward, into the machine's guts. The last Eldar, hanging from a cable, gave a thumbs up to the two marines before his grasp slipped and he vanished.

As a sound like the wailing of ten thousand tortured souls reached Patrocles and Wools, the xenohunters turned away, striding back to their pod, satisfied in a job well done.

"So, did I ever tell you what rigor mortis does to a body?" Wools asked.