‘Great.’ John forced a grin and raised his arms in mock triumph. The crowd exploded again, their applause and cheers deafening. Internally, he cursed every life choice that had led him here. “Come forward, Brother John,” the Archbishop said, his tone dripping with false benevolence. “Receive the blessing of the great ancestor.”
The patriarch’s tongue slithered out further, its injection needle glinting ominously. John’s stomach turned. He’d seen enough intel to know what came next—a quick jab, a dose of genetic corruption, and boom: another cog in the Tyranid machine. “Sure, why not?” John muttered under his breath. He stepped forward, trying to look more confident than he felt. The patriarch’s mouthpiece inched closer to his chest. The thing’s breath was hot and sickly sweet, like rotting fruit left in the sun.
Suddenly, a deafening explosion rocked the temple. Fire and smoke erupted from a corner of the hall, cutting through the tension like a knife. Screams filled the air as chaos descended. Believers scattered, some diving for cover, others too stunned to move. From the smoke emerged a squad of heavily armed fighters, their weapons blazing. Leading the charge was Mal Hammer, his bolt gun roaring as he took down the nearest cultist. “Kill every last one of these freaks!” he shouted.
Behind him, Syndicate enforcers and rebels flooded the hall, adding their firepower to the fray. Laser blasts and bullets tore through the crowd, dropping cultists left and right. Marshall, laser rifle in hand, caught John’s eye and gave him a subtle nod.
John sprinted along the shattered edge of the shrine, his boots skimming over debris as the battered golden statue above him gleamed faintly through the chaos. Once a majestic symbol, it was now riddled with blackened bullet marks and scars from laser fire, looking more like a veteran of the battlefield than a holy relic. The air buzzed with the deafening roar of gunfire and the sharp tang of smoke and scorched metal. Debris rained down like confetti in some hellish parade.
With a swift motion, John raised his gun and fired, catching an oncoming Genestealer square between its alien eyes. The creature crumpled mid-charge, but there was no time to admire his handiwork. Bullets and energy blasts whizzed past him, carving through the walls and ground with unrelenting ferocity. John weaved through the chaos, a blur of motion as explosions punctuated his every step. Somehow, he emerged unscathed, his movements as impossibly precise as if guided by fate—or sheer, dumb luck.
Ducking into the archway on the shrine's side, John stumbled into a scene straight out of an action vid. The Genestealer Patriarch was locked in a brutal fight with two Astartes warriors. Its massive claws swiped through the air, leaving arcs of deadly intent, but the hulking Space Marines were no easy prey. Robert, the wild wolf of Fenris, parried the Patriarch's slashing claws with his chain axe. He followed up with a gut punch so powerful it sent the alien staggering back against the wall.
Robert moved to press his advantage, but the Patriarch’s lower claws shot out with unnerving speed, slamming into Robert’s side. The Fenrisian warrior lost his balance, and the monster seized the opportunity, delivering a brutal backhand to his helmet that sent him sprawling across the room. Robert crashed to the ground with a resounding thud, groaning as he ripped off his helmet to reveal a bloodied grin and teeth bared in a mix of pain and defiance.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
The Patriarch loomed over him, its scythe-like claws raised for a killing blow. But before it could strike, a volley of explosive rounds slammed into its chitinous carapace, sending fragments of armor and ash flying. The beast roared in fury and turned to face the source of its torment. There stood John, firing his borrowed bolter with reckless abandon, the barrel glowing red-hot from the sustained assault. He kept firing until the weapon was ready to combust, then tossed it aside with a dramatic flair. “Randy! My sword!” John shouted, his voice cutting through the pandemonium. Timing his cry to perfection, he stretched out his hand just as Randy, the white-armored giant, burst into the room. Without hesitation, Randy flung the chain sword, and John caught it mid-stride like a seasoned acrobat snatching a trapeze bar. He charged the Patriarch with the weapon humming to life in his hands.
The monster swiped at John with a claw the size of a small car, but the Inquisitor deflected it with the whirring blade, the impact reverberating through his mortal frame. Undeterred, he reached under his coat and pulled out a plasma pistol—a weapon so notoriously unstable that even the Astra Militarum only issued it to their punishment battalions. John, however, wielded it with the confidence of someone who had nothing to lose and everything to prove.
The pistol fired, spitting superheated plasma that melted through the Patriarch’s faceplate. The alien shrieked as the molten energy burned through its armored hide, exposing raw, oozing flesh beneath. Randy seized the moment, sprinting forward with a roar and slamming a bolter round into the side of the beast’s head. The Patriarch instinctively turned toward him, exposing its other flank.
Tony, ever the knight in shining armor, capitalized on the opening. Tossing aside his sword, he grabbed the creature’s claw with both hands, locking it in place. For a Tyranid—a species known for its unflappable ferocity—the Patriarch actually looked confused. It clearly hadn’t anticipated this level of coordinated insanity. “Robert! Now!” John Randyowed, his voice like a whip crack.
The Fenrisian wolf didn’t need to be told twice. Letting out a primal howl, Robert charged, slamming into the Patriarch like a freight train. The impact drove the beast against the wall, and Randy and Tony quickly pinned its claws down with sheer brute strength. The Patriarch roared and flailed, its abdominal claws lashing out at Robert, but he grabbed them with both hands, grinning maniacally as he pushed them away. “Old Wolf! Get ready!” John called over his shoulder. “Randy! Tony! Nail gun!”
The Astartes monks responded immediately, pulling out mechanized nail guns adorned with the Mechanicus sigil. The devices fired heavy restraint nails into the Patriarch’s limbs, pinning it to the wall like some grotesque butterfly in a collector’s display. Despite its struggles, the monster was immobilized, roaring in impotent fury.
Johnson stepped forward, his hulking form crackling with electricity. Lightning arcs danced around his armored frame, illuminating the inner court in an eerie blue glow. The Patriarch’s eyes narrowed as it watched the old wolf raise his arms, arcs of power coiling around his gauntlets like living serpents. “In the name of the Emperor, I bring divine punishment!” Johnson declared, his voice a thunderclap of righteous fury. With a deafening roar, he unleashed a torrent of lightning, striking the Patriarch with enough force to light up an entire hive city. The monster screamed, its body convulsing as the energy seared its flesh and overloaded its alien nerves.