John placed the communicator on the ground. It hummed as holographic light danced in the air, weaving two figures from nothingness. First appeared a man in a crisp navy uniform, his presence radiating authority. Rear Admiral Bryan Markarian was the kind of officer who could command a fleet with a glance. But it was the second figure that stole the room’s breath.

A towering warrior in power armor materialized, the faint glow of his projection highlighting the intricate details of his armor. His face remained shrouded in light, an angelic visage blurred at the edges. Even as a hologram, the Space Marine exuded an aura of unyielding power and righteousness.

Scheer’s icy composure cracked, his jaw tightening as he fought to keep his expression neutral. The officers behind him weren’t as disciplined; their eyes widened in awe and fear. “Let’s make this official,” John said, gesturing to his companions. “I’m John Constantine, Inquisitor of the Ordo Xenos. This is Rear Admiral Bryan Markarian, and the big guy here is Johnson Thorz, Space Marine of the Deathwatch. Satisfied?”

Scheer gave a curt nod, his voice unsteady. “Your reputation precedes you, Inquisitor. I apologize for the… formalities.”

“Apology accepted,” John said with a roguish grin. “Now, let’s get down to business.”

Over the next few minutes, John and his team laid out the dire situation. The local Genestealer cult had been quietly infiltrating the planet for generations, burrowing into its institutions like termites. Worse, they’d sent a signal to a Tyranid Hive Fleet, drawing the monstrous swarm straight to the system. “How long do we have?” Scheer asked, his voice grim.

“Not long,” Bryan answered. “Our astropath detected the Hive Fleet’s psychic shadow. Days, maybe less.”

Scheer’s officers shifted uneasily, their earlier bravado dampened by the weight of the news. John watched their reactions, gauging their resolve. “Here’s the plan,” John said, clapping his hands. “We’ll root out the cultists’ leadership while you rally the loyalists. We’ve got support coming from the Astra Militarum and the Imperial Navy, but until they arrive, we’re on our own. Time to clean house.”

Scheer nodded. “We’ll mobilize immediately. My officers will handle the upper levels. What about the lower hives?”

“Taken care of,” John said with a wink. “The local gangs owe me a favor. They’ll keep the underhive in check.”

Scheer’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “Efficient.”

“It’s a gift,” John replied. “Now, get moving. We’ve got a planet to save.”

As Scheer and his officers disappeared into the shadows, John turned to Jenny. She leaned against the car, her expression distant. “You okay?” he asked gently.

She gave a weary smile. “Just another night in paradise, right?”

John chuckled. “Marshall, let’s get out of here. I need a drink.”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“You and me both,” Marshall said, sliding into the driver’s seat.

***

John strode beneath the towering expanse of the grand hall, his boots clicking softly against the polished marble floor. Above him, a massive dome loomed, an otherworldly masterpiece of swirling nebulae, intricate constellations, and radiant galaxies painted with such care that it felt as though the heavens themselves had been captured. A cosmic paradise hung high above, awe-inspiring and slightly overwhelming.

The hall stretched endlessly forward, the white marble floor gleaming like frost in the morning sun. On either side, enormous statues stood sentinel, each one a silent titan wielding long swords, balanced scales, or immense shields. Their expressions were stoic, their presence imposing, as if daring anyone to disrespect the sanctity of the space. Between them, a colossal banner draped down, its fabric rich and heavy, rippling faintly in the still air.

Marble columns lined the sides, their carved capitals curling like frozen waves. They framed the view ahead—an imposing icon of the emperor himself, sitting cross-legged with arms outstretched in a gesture of dominion or perhaps welcome. John, dwarfed by the grandeur around him, moved forward with a deliberate pace, his figure an almost comical contrast to the sheer scale of the surroundings.

Finally passing through the enormous main hall, he approached a side door nestled discreetly in the wall. Without hesitation, he stepped through and entered a long corridor. It had the classical feel of a church wing, its marble and plaster glowing softly in the natural light streaming through arched windows. Outside, a lush garden basked in the sun—a surprising burst of life amid the cold grandeur.

Butterflies flitted over vibrant flowers, their colors dazzling. Neatly pruned trees and sculpted shrubs added an air of meticulous care, a rare touch of humanity in this otherwise intimidating place. Several monks tended the garden, their hoods casting shadows over their faces as they worked with quiet dedication. John noted their backs were always turned, an eerie uniformity that prickled at the edge of his thoughts. He kept walking, passing more statues, murals, and arches. The corridor seemed to stretch forever until he reached a staircase. Ascending the steps, his boots echoed loudly, the sound swallowed by the vast emptiness. At the top, he arrived at his destination: a grand brass door. Its surface shimmered faintly, intricately carved with scenes of celestial light bursting forth from a starry sea. Amid the dreamlike nebulae, a colossal figure descended to the adoration of a worshipful crowd below.

John couldn’t suppress a smirk. The design was an obvious nod to the Golden Throne, but the emperor had been swapped out for some Tyranid monstrosity. "I’d love to see the reaction this gets in the state church," he muttered under his breath.

A line of monks stood guard before the door, each one holding a ceremonial staff. They were tall—too tall—and their robes strained against bulk that was clearly not human. Bone-like carapaces peeked out from their sleeves, giving them the unsettling air of something not entirely alive. One stepped forward, addressing him in a deep, resonant voice. “Who are you?”

“John Constantine, a humble soul,” he replied with mock gravity.

“Why are you here?”

“To meet destiny and hear the words of the Redeemer.”

“Why listen?”

“For salvation.”

“What is salvation?”

“The truth.”

“What is the truth?”

“The way to salvation.”

“What is the way to salvation?”

John sighed internally. "The god of the stars," he replied, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He had played this game too many times. It seemed every faith—no matter how bizarre—loved its cryptic Q&A sessions. Maybe it gave them a sense of mystery. Or maybe they just enjoyed watching people squirm.

The monk nodded solemnly, as though John’s rote responses had unlocked some profound universal truth. He tapped his staff against the ground. One by one, the other monks followed suit, the rhythmic clinking echoing like a heartbeat. Slowly, the massive brass door began to groan open.

John watched with raised eyebrows as the door slid back, not by mechanical means but through sheer psychic force. Impressive. And unsettling.