The monks parted, forming a path. John squared his shoulders and walked through them, stepping into the chamber beyond. The room was circular, its high walls lined with hooded figures standing on elevated platforms. Each one leaned over a podium adorned with twisting carvings of serpents and tendrils. Candles floated in midair, casting flickering light and long shadows that danced across the walls. The air felt heavy, charged with a faint hum of power.
The door closed behind him with a whisper, sealing him in. “John Constantine,” a voice boomed, rich and layered as if spoken by a chorus rather than one man. The figure at the far end of the room raised a hand, the gesture commanding attention.
John’s stomach sank slightly. He knew that voice—a powerful psyker and leader of a Genestealer cult. Not exactly the company he’d choose to keep. “Bishop,” he said, offering a respectful nod.
The bishop’s hand waved toward another hooded figure, who lowered their head in acknowledgment. Light spilled over their face, and John recognized him instantly. Governor Ravel. So, the old snake had sold him out after all. “You’ve proven yourself capable,” the bishop intoned. “But now, we must test your faith.”
John didn’t bother hiding his irritation. Faith tests always meant trouble. Sure enough, a monk stepped forward, holding a staff tipped with a glowing purple orb. The sphere radiated light and heat, its surface churning like a miniature sun. “Touch it,” the bishop ordered. “If your faith is true, you will be unharmed. But if you are false…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but the implication was clear.
John’s lips twitched in a faint smile. "Great. A cosmic lie detector," he thought. The monk extended the staff, and John took a deep breath. No turning back now. He reached out, his fingers brushing the orb’s surface. Light exploded outward in a blinding flash, engulfing the room. For a moment, everything was pure radiance.
When the light faded, John stood untouched, his hand still on the orb. He gave the bishop a pointed look. “Satisfied?”
The bishop’s hood fell back, revealing a grotesque face. Six arms unfolded from beneath his robes, each ending in sharp claws. Around the room, the other figures revealed their mutations, additional limbs and alien features emerging from the shadows. John kept his expression neutral, but his mind raced. He’d seen enough. The cult’s leadership was rotten to the core. It was time to act. “Welcome, Brother John,” the bishop proclaimed, his voice triumphant. “You are now one of us.”
John clasped his hands behind his back, hiding the tension in his posture. “An honor, truly,” he said smoothly. “By the Emperor… this planet is doomed.”
John had always hated wearing monk’s robes. Scratch that—he downright despised them. Who in their right mind thought scratchy, shapeless sacks were the pinnacle of piety? Did suffering from bad fashion choices really get you closer to some divine being? If so, John figured the gods must have pretty odd tastes. Asceticism? More like masochism.
Not that John was into the opposite extreme either. Sure, orgies sounded fun in theory, but the whole “sell your soul for a fleeting good time” deal? Hard pass. John wasn’t ready to trade his life for a few rounds of debauchery.
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He strolled through a long, diamond-shaped corridor lined with heavy steel support beams. The air smelled of oil and incense, a bizarre mix that clung to his nostrils. This deep underground corner of forgotten imperial construction felt more like the skeletal remains of a bygone age than a place of worship. Candles flickered in every nook, their wax pooling in messy rivulets. Prayer ribbons fluttered, tied haphazardly to anything that would hold them. Shrines to the so-called Lord of the Redeemer popped up like weeds in a neglected garden.
John walked at the tail end of a procession of robed monks, all swinging incense burners and holding banners aloft. Bells jingled, and the drone of a monotonous hymn filled the air, making him want to plug his ears. He watched the others with careful sidelong glances. No need to guess who they really were—their hulking frames and awkward, inhuman movements screamed “Tyranid gene cultists.”
And the purebreds? Oh, those were the worst. Even under their robes, their alien proportions stuck out like a sore thumb. Extra joints where no joints should be, limbs too long or twisted—you couldn’t unsee it. John stayed alert, his mind racing. This wasn’t his first undercover gig, but it might just be the most nerve-wracking.
The procession finally spilled into the temple proper. John’s breath hitched. The place was enormous, a labyrinth of platforms, corridors, and balconies layered on top of one another like the innards of a hive. It stretched so far into the gloom that the ceiling seemed more like a vague suggestion than an actual structure. Believers crowded every surface, cheering and chanting. Humans mingled with gene-stealers and purebreds, all indistinguishable in their shared fanaticism. The scarlet pigment they’d been dosed with had fried their brains; they couldn’t tell nightmare monsters from their fellow man anymore.
John’s procession marched along a raised path. Below, an ocean of arms waved in unison, their owners—human and otherwise—screaming praises to their grotesque god. The cacophony was overwhelming. Some voices were distinctly human; others were guttural or alien, sounds no sane creature should ever produce. John’s lip curled in disgust.
At the end of the path stood the centerpiece of the madness: a massive platform carved into the wall, suspended over an abyss. On it, a shrine housed a golden statue of a Tyranid monstrosity. The real thing crouched beneath it, sitting cross-legged on a golden dais like some unholy monk. It was a four-meter-tall nightmare with razor-sharp claws and a maw full of needle-like teeth. Its curled tongue dripped viscous liquid, each drop hissing as it hit the floor.
Purebred guards scuttled around it, clad in patchwork armor and moving on all fours. They looked like wolves ready to pounce, their sharp claws scratching against the metal floor.
The Archbishop of the cult stood next to the beast, holding a scepter aloft. He slammed it against the platform, and the sound echoed through the temple like a gong. The crowd fell silent instantly. The psychic ripple he sent out wasn’t subtle; it shut down the frenzy with almost mechanical efficiency. John suppressed a shiver. The Archbishop’s mind control was no joke. “Brothers! Sisters!” the Archbishop bellowed, his voice unnaturally amplified. “Today, we welcome a new savior!”
The crowd erupted into cheers, the sound rising like a tidal wave. John barely resisted the urge to cover his ears. The Archbishop gestured grandly toward the Tyranid patriarch, who rose to its full height. Its claws gleamed in the dim light, and its guttural growl sent shivers through the assembled masses. The believers howled and chanted, their fervor reaching fever pitch.
The Archbishop waited for the noise to die down before continuing. “Today, we will welcome a new brother, Brother John Constantine!” He pointed dramatically at John.