The ground cracked beneath the Patriarch’s massive bulk as it strained against its restraints. One by one, the iron nails began to pop free, the beast’s immense strength proving almost too much for the makeshift bindings. John’s eyes flicked to Johnson, who was visibly straining, arcs of lightning reflecting in his sweat-drenched face. “Johnson, hit it harder!” John yelled, taking a cautious step back. The old wolf responded with a Randyow, channeling every ounce of his strength into one final surge of power. The lightning struck with blinding intensity, and the Patriarch let out a bone-chilling roar before collapsing in a heap, smoke rising from its smoldering body.
The room fell silent, save for the crackling of residual energy. Randy moved to steady Johnson, who waved him off with a gruff “I’m fine.” Robert, meanwhile, approached the now-motionless Tyranid and gave it an experimental kick.
“Is it dead?” he asked, his fanged grin betraying a mix of curiosity and mischief.
“Alive,” Randy confirmed, glancing at the data tablet on his wrist. “Barely. But it’ll be out cold for a while.”
Robert laughed and delivered another kick for good measure. “This is a first, huh? Capturing a Tyranid alive? Somebody better have brought a camera.”
“Memory is the best photograph,” Tony chimed in, retrieving his sword. “One of glory.”
“I prefer trophies I can hang on the wall,” Robert shot back, flashing his wolfish grin.
John chuckled, slinging the chain sword over his shoulder as he approached the subdued creature. “Don’t worry, Robert. I think trading it for an entire planet might just qualify as a trophy.”
The Fenrisian warrior let out a hearty laugh and grabbed one of the Patriarch’s massive claws. “Fine by me. Let’s haul this big guy outta here. Come on, kitten.”
***
If you’re standing outside a building with a name like “Imperial Administrative Affairs Office Headquarters,” congratulations—you’ve made it to a corner of the galaxy firmly under the Emperor’s boot. These edifices are the ultimate symbols of imperial control, as ubiquitous as the Astra Militarum’s lasguns and the Ecclesiarchy’s ceaseless chanting. Every loyal world, no matter how big or small, boasts one of these architectural monstrosities.
Always located smack dab in the center of an imperial city, these headquarters are designed as an homage (or maybe a pale imitation) of the original Ministry of Government on Holy Terra. Imagine a gargantuan church, but multiply its size by ten and sprinkle in an overdose of Gothic spires, arched vaults, and stained glass depicting heroic saints vanquishing heretics. Add a golden gate adorned with the Imperial Aquila, and there you have it—the ultimate flex of imperial dominance.
Inside, the place is a labyrinth. It’s so vast and convoluted that without a seasoned guide, you’d get lost faster than a serJohnr in a hive market. Some say no one—not even the senior staff—knows every corner of this millennium-old colossus. At its heart, beneath an elaborately carved central vault, lies the true nerve center of the Victoria Galaxy: the grand government meeting hall.
Today, the hall is packed. Beneath the crystal murals and towering marble walls, officials from every conceivable department mingle, their robes and insignias marking affiliations to the Ministry of Military Affairs, the Planetary Defense Force, the Ecclesiarchy, the Astrological Academy, and even the Mechanicus. If there’s a department in the Victoria system, its representatives are here, chattering in tense whispers or glaring at rivals.
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At the hall’s center, Governor Ravel stands with a cluster of department heads, all looking as if they’ve just discovered their favorite amasec stash has run dry. The female Minister of Political Affairs is practically vibrating with nervous energy. “Any word from the patriarch? Or the bishop?” she asks, her voice taut with anxiety.
The Generalissimo of the Planetary Defense Force, a hulking man whose golden epaulets seem ready to pop off his chest, crosses his arms with a grim expression. “None. But we do know this—the Hammer Gang and the Syndicate attacked us. I’d stake my life that Scheer tipped those underhive scum off.” He punctuates his point with a clenched fist, practically daring anyone to disagree.
The Archbishop’s representative, a devout-looking man with an iron gaze, scoffs. “And how, pray tell, did Scheer learn about the gathering? That location was a closely guarded secret. Our family would never betray the Order.”
“Then explain it!” The Generalissimo retorts, his ribbons swaying with his rising temper. “A traitor among us, perhaps?”
The question hangs heavy in the air. The others exchange uneasy glances, their silence louder than a Vox-caster on full blast. Among them, Ravel frowns, his mind racing. But his contemplative silence draws the attention of the Archbishop’s representative. “Governor Ravel, have you uncovered something?”
All eyes turn to Ravel. He shrugs with feigned nonchalance. “A few nights before the rally, John Constantine visited the Sharman Club after meeting with me.”
The Minister’s head snaps up. “The Sharman Club? Why? What was he doing there?”
Ravel waves a dismissive hand. “Relax, Madam Minister. It’s no secret he’s courting Silver Snake, that info broker from the lower hive.”
“The Redeemer save us! Ravel, she’s an info dealer!” the Generalissimo bellows, his voice reverberating off the vaulted ceiling. “And don’t tell me you don’t know who owns the Sharman Club!”
Ravel’s smile turns sly. “Oh, we’ve all been to Philus’ club. You, me, and everyone here. If visiting his club makes one a traitor, then we’re all guilty. Shall we line up for execution now?”
The Generalissimo’s jaw tightens, but he backs down. Ravel snorts in disdain. “Do you think John betrayed us, then?” the Archbishop’s representative asks, his tone conciliatory.
Ravel shakes his head. “No. He didn’t know the rally’s location until the day of. He has ambition, sure, but betraying us now would be stupid. He’d wait until he’s gained more power.”
The others nod thoughtfully, but the Minister looks unconvinced. “Could Constantine be a sector government agent? If so, he wouldn’t need to bother taking power.”
“Doubtful,” Ravel replies. “Our friends in the sector government would’ve warned us. And if the Arbitration Lord was moving against us, we’d know by now. This isn’t their style.”
The Generalissimo chuckles darkly. “Maybe it’s Terra. Emperor’s throne, wouldn’t that be something?” His joke earns a few strained laughs, but unease lingers. Before anyone can respond, the grand doors creak open, silencing the room. All heads turn as a squad of heavily armed law enforcement officers stride in, their silver breastplates gleaming under the vaulted lights. Rifles at the ready, they shove unlucky officials further into the hall, their boots echoing ominously.
Ravel’s unease spikes as Grand Arbitrator Scheer enters behind them, his expression a mix of fury and triumph. “What’s the meaning of this?” the Minister demands, her voice trembling with outrage. “This is treason! Withdraw your men at once!”
Scheer sneers. “No, Madam Minister. The treason is yours.”
Ravel steps forward, his voice calm but sharp. “Scheer, are you staging a coup? Do you think the Imperium will turn a blind eye to this?”
Before Scheer can reply, another voice cuts through the tension, dripping with amusement. “Oh, come now, Governor. Let’s not play dumb.”