>In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war
>Humanity struggles for dominance and survival in the universe
>Ages ago, man dreamed of peaceful contact with the Stars
>Looking back, ignorance was bliss
>When the Commissar briefed your unit on the Ag-world you were to defend against the Tyranids, you slept with your eyes open. Ag-worlds are all the same anyway. Who gives a fuck what it's called?
>Three weeks of hellish, unending combat against a foe that doesn't need morale or sleep, that doesn't even possess the ability to retreat. To say those weeks were spent retreating implies organization. A mad scramble backwards, trying to avoid claw and chitin and living bullets is anything but.
>Eventually, the so-called counter offensive was deemed a lost cause and planetary evacuation, already in progress, was sped up. Remaining forces were to hold the line at the Evacuation centers to the last man.
>What they didn't tell you, of course, was that there was no shuttle for mere ground pounders
>As the last ship fled into the sky, you find yourself left with an irate tech priest, drafted for his ability to pull a trigger, and nothing else
>You go looking for a drink, no sense in dying sober, and the priest follows
>What you find instead, is a rusted hatch, buried beneath an emptied supply depot
>With a bit of poking and threats of bodily harm, you get the priest to help you open it. The hinges protest loudly and a puff of very stale air blows dust into your face.
>There probably isn't any booze down here.
>Nonetheless, you lead the way down a set of stairs that seem older than the building above them
>At the bottom is a bunker of sorts, shelves of supplies long since turned to dust
>Dejected, you kick at a tarp, coughing as the resultant cloud of dust chokes you
>As the dust settles, you notice through watering eyes a plethora of green boxes were under the tarp
>Curious, you pull the tarp off completely, revealing at least a hundred green boxes
>And one very large metal crate covered in... prayer seals?
>Shit.
>Taking a closer look, the small boxes all have the same yellow writing
100 CRTG .50 CAL
>Kinda reminds you of...
>PRAISE THE OMNISSIAH
>Oh, the cogboy, he's still here
>And he's staring at the big crate like it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen
>Then again, for all you know, it might be
>You turn your full attention to the metal clergy as he mumbles to himself excitedly and kneels before the crate
>At some point, the mumbling becomes metallic screeching and he starts... Oh, Emperor, he's bowing to a box
>You watch for a few minutes, amused at the spectacle
>After the screeching crescendos, the priest begins slowly, reverently, unlocking the crate
So, what in the warp is in there? You ask, your curiosity taking over.
>SILENCE, YOU WILL WAKE THE SPIRIT AND IT'S WRATH WILL BE TERRIBLE
>You mumble something to the effect of "well excuse me you overbuilt toaster" and resume watching in silence
>As soon as the last latch is opened, a loud hiss of air being released blows still more dust into clouds
>The priest doesn't notice as he heaves the lid up and open
>When he catches sight of the contents, he begins chattering and jumping like someone offered him an oil change
>You catch a few words here and there in the torrent
>Blessed artifact
>Praise
>OMNISSIAH
>You manage to poke your head past him and get a look at...
What is that, a prototype stubber? Can we use it to kill 'nids?
>NO! NO! GET OUT, LEAVE. I MUST STUDY THIS ARTIFACT AND YOUR PRESENCE TAINTS IT!
>You swear that if he could manage it, his face would be blood red
>He shoves you towards the stairs
>As you turn back to insult his mother, you see his mechadendrites poke out through his robes and decide
>Nope, this is gonna get weird
>You're barely two stairs up when the tool noises start
>The cacophony continues for a few stairs
>Until you hear screaming, the tools stop, and the screaming gets louder
>WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?!
>That does not sound like the priest
>It sounds like an extremely angry woman
>You're already going back down when you hear the cogboy cry out in pain followed by what sounds like someone kicking a trash can with combat boots
>As you reach the bottom, again, you are greeted with the sight of a very tall blonde woman kicking the absolute shit out of the cowering tech pries
>WHY. WOULD. YOU. DO. THAT? The mystery woman asks, punctuating with her boot.
>The priest alternates between shaky apologies and prayer, you think
>You reluctantly pull your las-pistol and clear your throat
I think he's sorry. Now who the hell are you and where did you come from?
>The woman turns toward you, her eyes burning with fury, hands balled into fists
>Who the hell is asking?
The guy with the gun. Now what's your na-
>You are rudely interrupted by peals of laughter from the 7 ft tall blonde, her anger instantly gone
>You call that a gun? Try this on for size.
>You blink. She's gone, the strange stubber from the crate wobbles slightly on the ground where she stood.
What?