Controller

Chapter 5

Traitor

Dante stood in a pool of blood.

The Space Marine was calm, despite the gore all across his armor and strewn for yards around his feet. He had slain Bloodletters for the better part of an hour, then spending another hour hacking his way through the war torn Fortress of Khorne.

Now he stood in the Blood god's doorway, panting as rivers of corrupted ichor dripped from his armor, adding to the mess on the floor. His formerly red armor was now midnight black from the muck.

A bloodletter locked in immortal combat with his counterpart noticed the relatively calm guest and was immediately driven into a frenzy, decapitating his opponent and charging the Space Marine. Dante shoved his dripping chainsword into the daemon's gut, ripping open its stomach with a shriek emitted by both the weapon and its victim. Organs, ichor, and various viscera splurged from the fatal wound, covering the red that had just begun to show itself again on the Space Marine's armor.

With a grunt, Dante removed a pulsing spleen-like organ from his faceplate and continued to trudge through the flame-bedecked hallway.

Time and time again, Bloodletters would charge at him, attempting to kill him in the cruelest ways their minds could imagine. Time and time again, Dante would far outdo whatever violent fantasy they held twice over, leaving a very dead daemon in his wake.

The gate was just short of a mile in height. Every inch was covered in bronze icons of glorious battles and ravaged battlescapes. The skulls of every race adorned it's accursed rim, and a power of dark origin radiated from it like a miasma, capable of reducing even the fiercest mortal man to gibbering insanity.

Whether Dante was insane or not was…debatable. Nonetheless, the door had no unusual effect on him. Like everything else, it did only one thing to him.

It really, really pissed him off.

A gore soaked boot kicked the door, and it swung open slowly and ponderously. The doors gave a grating roar of protest, as though decrying such an entrance from a mortal. As their golden jaws widened, the sounds of battle reached Dante's ears.

The Throne Room was far larger than that of any mortal king. The Blood god's chamber was stretched for an all but infinite distance. Guns roared, flames cackled, and war cries were exuded from raw, corrupted throats.

Above it all, Khorne sat upon his throne of skulls. He gazed around with a baleful countenance, his blazing eyes demanding that more blood be spilled.

Those eyes settled on the new arrival, and were instantly filled with apoplectic fury. It was the fury above all anger, above rational hatred, above the mortal plane of emotion, perhaps beyond emotion itself.

Something flickered in the god's eye. It was barely noticeable, and certainly none of the blood-crazed daemons or anger-smitten semi-mortal noticed it. Even Khorne was only partially aware of the thought at the back of his own head.

A small part of him was disturbed that he saw his anger mirrored in the soul of a mortal.

It only lasted a moment. Then the thought disappeared and bloodlust took its place. Khorne ran forward on huge, muscled legs the size of tanks, his footfalls crushing the minor daemons unlucky enough to be in his way. The others that impeded him were swept aside in bloody arcs by a burning blade of bronze and daemonic hatred. His great, cavernous maw gave the roar of an angry god. His great sword, easily the thickness of a Space Marine's body, rose for a single, punishing, and fatal blow.

Dante charged as well, but his chainsword was not raised. His eyes were not focused on Khorne himself, but rather the objects dangling from the god's neck on chains like some demented necklace.

That was his prize…

The sword came down unbelievably fast. It was a blow that could cleave planets. As it carved a deep gash in the daemonic stone on the floor, its dread reverberations sent shockwaves through the Warp and beyond, causing a hive world's million latent psykers to collapse as their brains liquefied.

But it had not struck its intended target.

A light tug, barely noticeable. The snap of a chain. The clomp of ceramite meeting stone.

The mortal stood on the ground once again, just to the left of where Khorne's blade struck. The god's eyes narrowed to slits as he saw the object clasped in its hands. His acute senses noted the almost imperceptibly lighter weight around his neck. The strenuous tether held around his rage, always keeping it barely within an arm's reach, threatened to snap. The mortal mocked him by bringing up his pitiful chainblade and hopelessly small shield as though to fight.

Then he was gone.

Khorne howled. His vicious cry drew the attention of all to the King of the Skull Throne. The god roared his indignance into the unholy skies of the Warp, screaming the anger of one who was wronged. No one…no one stole from the Blood god!

"Calm thy fury."

The voice was quiet. It did not force or coerce. It was a sound of the mind that the god would typically pay no mind to. But the voice held an air of absolute authority. It all but dared Khorne to defy it and suffer the consequences. The god halted his tirade with a look of alien wonder beginning to appear on his face.

"Let him have his prize."

The voice sounded smug now, as though it was all a part of some grand plan. Khorne frowned at this. Was this the machinations of that coward, the Changer of Ways?

"By his actions, and those of his allies, your wish shall finally be granted."

He couldn't help it. A smile formed on his daemonic, bloodied lips. Thoughts of glorious fire and war traveled through his mind.

"The galaxy…will…burn…"

"DAMN YOU, SORCERER! I WOULD'VE HAD HIM! HE WAS MINE!"

Lord Moor looked at his unlikely companion mildly. The Space Marine trembled with unbridled rage, desperately wishing to smash his Brother Aspect to a pulp, though he knew it could not be done.

"You, defeat a god of Chaos?" the other Aspect scoffed. "You and I both know that there are only two beings capable of accomplishing that feat, and we are not either of them."

That doused the angry Marine's fury somewhat, though a just-below-boiling heat remained in his blood. He glared at the Sorcerer of Order before raising the chain in his hand, staring at the orb of many colors tied to it.

"This bastard better be worth it," he growled to no one in particular.

Lord Moor stifled a sigh, the two automatons at his side shaking themselves wearily. Didn't that cretin understand? There was a way that this needed to be done. The very universe hinged upon it!

Then again, though, he didn't really expect the worse half of himself to understand. Moor was the Aspect gifted with intelligence, after all. Dante was merely anger. Such stupidity was to be expected. Besides…the man had his uses…

With an angry jerk, Dante turned his baleful countenance to the presence under Moor's foot.

"I hope you have a very good reason for bringing that thing here," he snapped, jabbing a finger at the recipient of his ire. "I'm in a bad mood, and a throat to snap is just what I need."

Moor's drones looked down to regard the Priestess Lord, bound by unbreakable chains, examining her trapped form with mild interest.

"You know exactly why she is required," he admonished dryly. "It would be very…inconvenient for me to find another. So you'll need to find another vent for your frustration."

The chain began to crinkle and bend from the force Dante exerted on it, and his angry helm gave the sorcerer a look that could kill lesser men.

"Fine," he said haltingly, scathingly, with the single word dripping with malice and acid. He gave one last glare (which the other Aspect ignored) and looked out over the endless storms of the Formless Wastes.

"Now where the hell is Virgil?"

Is this really necessary?

A magnificent figure in golden armor walked with purpose through the edge of the Formless Wastes, approaching a savannah of psychedelic colors. An ornate sword glinted in one hand, a psycannon in the other.

Yes, since apparently you have a thicker skull than I thought you would have.

His helm sneered at all around it with tear-shaped, white eyepieces. His countenance beamed to mortal-kind, while daemons felt their resolve flee to the hills and their courage dissolved from a mere glance upon it.

Can you blame me? I get tossed into another universe, get a bunch of Tyranids dumped in my lap with a talking Battle Barge, and not a week into it, I get tossed into the Warp and basically told I'm supposed to be the new Emperor. I have a right to be confused!

A light rumbled appeared on the horizon. A stampede of horrifically beatific creatures frolicked in a barely controlled chaos on spider's limbs, their claws clicking and mandibles singing a hauntingly beautiful melody.

The Emperor? How did you get that out of my explanation? The Emperor still sits on the Golden Throne. You are not him!

Viewing the coming creatures with mild curiosity, the being continued to stride nonetheless, strips of cloth flapping in the light breeze that the meadow emitted, carrying intoxicating scents and wondrous whispers with it. The being stepped into the grass, unaffected.

Hard to tell from what you told me…So…what are we doing again?

The creatures noticed the being. Their corrupted maws uttered songs of excitement at the arrival of a new "playmate." They approached him with scuttling steps.

I already…ugh, by the Throne…Just do and say what I tell you!

The multitude of psychedelic, crablike daemons formed a writhing circle of chitin around the not-mortal, their mandibles clicking to one another in unrestrained glee. Their gold armored guest gave them a level glare from his baleful helm.

What about that whole "my purpose is not yours" talk? And what about the Tyranids? How the hell to they connect to daemons and judges and whatnot?

The circle began to tighten.

One moment. Take care of these...things first.

The gleaming sword gave a wicked glow as burning ichor dripped from it. Around the once again relaxed being were strewn the broken bodies of daemon beasts, their delicate, corrupted forms hewn asunder by punishing swipes. The sword was sheathed, and the being strode forward again. On the outside, he seemed rather bored. Inside was another story.

Hell, I'll never get tired of that. Anyway...you were saying?

The Garden was angry.

This was a place of disease, not of cleanliness. It was a place of holy pestilence, not of disgusting purity. It was the sacred grounds of the great Plague Father, not the stomping ground of a hated angel.

For it was indeed an angel that walked the fungal, rotting, fetid woods. He was not an Angel of Death, an Adeptus Astartes. Nor was he an Angel of War, an Eldar.

He was an Angel of Light. His armor shined a bright white, brighter than the brightest star. Wings of metal and light waved from his back, concealing the weapons of war within them. His armor, thin as a gossamer, showed the bulging muscle of the Angel's light form. His sloped, conical helm was smooth as the Eldar's, but slanted backwards and not upward. He appeared weaponless and helpless at first glance, but one could sense the aura of power around him.

The Garden recoiled at his touch. Its entangling roots could find no purchase upon him. No diseased, rotting pods could penetrate his armor with their mutagenic toxins. At the mere touch to him, the Garden began to fester and boil and burn away. The fetid forest uttered a low, mourning, keening cry that remained unheard. The Garden had found one that, Nurgle forbid, it could not bless!

In anger, it lashed out at him. A waterlogged tree nearly uprooted itself as thick, weeping branches swung out, their sores crying tears of soiled sap. With a wet slap, the limbs struck their target...and were immediately immolated by hungry flames white in color. The tree writhed and slapped itself in an attempt to douse the cleansing fire, but to no avail. It withered, burned, and died a final death, reduced to a inconspicuous pile of ash.

The Angel paid no heed, merely walking on into the Garden of Nurgle. His goal lay further in...

A/N: Hey ho, readers!

I decided that this arc was taking too long. So instead of introducing you to one new character after finishing another Jonathan-ally's story, I'm introducing two (technically, Jon's new, 'cuz of how he looks now). For those of you wondering just what Luminous and the Hive Mind have to do with any of this, no worries, that will be dealt with in the next arc. The current plan is for next chapter to be a bit of a doozy as well, in order to make up for how short this one is.

Anywho...time to work on Twisted Metal and To the City of Woe...

Reads and Reviews are welcome.