The morning after the Battle of Goraxia Prime—as it was already being called in breathless vox-transmissions across the sector—Bartholomew woke up to discover that someone had built a shrine outside his tent.
This was concerning for several reasons.
First, he didn't remember having a tent. He was pretty sure he had fallen asleep on the ground somewhere, too exhausted from all the accidental heroism to care about proper sleeping arrangements.
Second, the shrine was big. Like, "someone had put actual effort into this" big. There were candles. There were prayer scrolls. There was what appeared to be a crude painting of his face, rendered in a style that suggested the artist had never actually seen a human face before but had heard them described once and decided to give it their best shot.
Third, and most disturbingly, there were people praying at the shrine.
Actual people.
Praying.
To him.
"Okay," Bartholomew said, staring at the scene through the flap of his mysteriously-acquired tent. "Okay. This is fine. This is totally fine. I'm just having a really, really extended dream where people worship me as a god. That's a normal thing that happens. Probably."
He closed the tent flap.
He opened it again.
The shrine was still there.
"Yep," he said. "Still there. Still happening. Cool. Cool cool cool."
Inquisitor Helena Vorn found him twenty minutes later, sitting in his tent with his head in his hands and making small distressed noises.
"Private Jenkins," she said.
"Please tell me you're here to arrest me for heresy," Bartholomew said without looking up. "Please tell me you're going to take me away to some nice quiet interrogation cell where people don't worship me."
"I considered it. But unfortunately, arresting you at this point would probably cause a riot. The troops are very attached to their new 'Emperor's Champion.'"
"I'm not the Emperor's Champion!"
"I know."
"I'm just a guy! A normal, regular guy who paints miniatures and watches too much YouTube!"
"I still don't know what YouTube is."
"It's a website where people post videos! It's not important! What's important is that I am NOT a divine avatar!"
Helena sat down across from him, her expression unreadable.
"And yet," she said, "you defeated an entire Ork assault almost single-handedly. You activated archaeotech that hasn't worked in ten thousand years. You wield a Space Marine chainsword like you were born with it in your hands. And according to this morning's reports, the Ork WAAAGH! has completely withdrawn from the planet. They're afraid of you, Private Jenkins. Orks are afraid of very few things. You have become one of those things."
Bartholomew made another distressed noise.
"I didn't mean to!"
"That's what makes it so remarkable. You have no idea what you're doing, and yet you keep doing impossible things. The question is: how?"
"I DON'T KNOW! That's what I keep telling everyone! I don't know how any of this is happening! Maybe it's luck? Maybe it's dream powers? Maybe I died and got reincarnated with some kind of cheat ability like in those isekai anime?"
Helena blinked. "What's an isekai anime?"
"It's a genre of Japanese animation where the main character dies and gets reborn in a fantasy world, usually with special powers that make them overpowered. It's very popular. There's a lot of them. Some of them have really long titles, like 'That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime' or 'I Was Reborn as a Vending Machine and Now I Wander the Dungeon'—actually that one might be a light novel, I'm not sure—"
"Private Jenkins."
"Sorry. Rambling. I know."
Helena studied him for a long moment.
"You genuinely have no idea what's happening to you, do you?"
"None whatsoever. Zero. Zilch. Nada. I am as confused as it is possible for a human being to be."
"That... is somehow both reassuring and deeply concerning."
"Welcome to my life," Bartholomew said miserably.
The Ultramarines arrived three hours later.
This was unexpected by everyone except Bartholomew, who had been half-expecting Space Marines to show up ever since he realized his chainsword had their chapter's insignia on it.
"Oh no," he said, watching the Thunderhawk gunship descend toward the landing zone. "Oh no no no."
"What?" Cain asked. The Commissar had been shadowing Bartholomew all morning, partly out of professional curiosity and partly because watching someone else deal with undeserved heroic reputation was deeply cathartic.
"That's an Ultramarines ship. They're probably here about the chainsword. I stole their chainsword. Well, I didn't steal it, it was given to me by accident, but they're not going to care about that distinction, are they?"
"Probably not."
"They're going to be really mad."
"Probably."
"Space Marines are really scary when they're mad."
"I wouldn't know. I've never been close enough to an angry Space Marine to observe their emotional state."
"That's because angry Space Marines tend to kill everyone nearby."
"Yes, I had intuited that."
The Thunderhawk landed with a thunderous roar of engines, and the ramp descended to reveal five Ultramarines in full battle gear.
They were, Bartholomew noted with a mix of terror and fanboy excitement, absolutely magnificent. Eight feet tall, clad in blue ceramite armor that gleamed in the morning light, each one looking like a statue of war made flesh.
The lead Marine—a Sergeant, based on his markings—strode toward the assembled Imperial forces with the casual confidence of someone who knew he could kill everyone present before breakfast.
"I am Sergeant Titus Maximillan of the Ultramarines Second Company," he announced, his voice booming across the landing zone. "I seek the one called Jenkins."
Every head in the area turned toward Bartholomew.
"Oh, come on," Bartholomew muttered.
The crowd parted before him like the Red Sea, leaving a clear path between him and the Space Marines.
"That's him!" someone shouted helpfully. "That's the Emperor's Champion! He saved us all!"
"He's super humble about it too!" another voice added. "Truly blessed!"
"I hate everything," Bartholomew whispered.
But he walked forward anyway, because what else was he going to do? Run? Hide? The Space Marines would find him in about thirty seconds, and then they'd be mad and annoyed.
He stopped about ten feet from Sergeant Maximillan, trying very hard not to visibly tremble.
"Hi," he said. "I'm Bartholomew. Jenkins. Private. The, uh, the guy with your chainsword. Which I didn't steal. Someone gave it to me by accident. There was a clerical error. I'm very sorry about the whole thing."
Sergeant Maximillan stared down at him.
And stared.
And stared.
"You," the Space Marine said finally, "are the one who broke the Ork WAAAGH?"
"I mean, 'broke' is a strong word. I just kind of... fought them? A lot? And then they left? I don't really understand the causality chain myself, to be honest."
"You fought them with a weapon of the Adeptus Astartes. A weapon that should not have functioned in your hands."
"Yeah, that was weird, right? I was surprised too. Maybe it's defective?"
"Our weapons are not defective."
"Right. Sorry. Didn't mean to imply... I mean, Ultramarines have great quality control. It's like the whole chapter's thing. Very organized. Very efficient. Guilliman would be proud. Well, Guilliman is proud, I guess, since he's alive again, or was alive again, or—wait, has the Indomitus Crusade happened yet? What year is it? I keep forgetting to ask what year it is."
Sergeant Maximillan's expression, already unreadable behind his helmet, seemed to become even more unreadable.
"How do you know of Lord Guilliman's return?"
"Um."
"How do you know of the Indomitus Crusade?"
"Uh."
"How do you know any of these things, mortal?"
"I read a lot?"
The Space Marines exchanged glances.
"I have heard the reports," Sergeant Maximillan said slowly. "The soldiers here believe you to be some kind of divine avatar. A manifestation of the Emperor's will. They say you know things no mortal should know. They say you perform miracles."
"I really don't—"
"I do not believe in miracles. I believe in the Codex Astartes and the teachings of our Primarch. But I am... curious. The weapon you carry—it should have rejected you. The gene-locks should have prevented activation. And yet you used it to devastating effect."
He took a step closer, and Bartholomew had to physically stop himself from stepping back.
"I want to test you," the Sergeant said.
Bartholomew blinked. "Test me?"
"A spar. A simple combat exercise. I wish to see for myself what you are capable of."
"You want to... you want to fight me?"
"Spar. Not fight. There is a difference."
"Is there, though? Because you're an eight-foot-tall posthuman killing machine, and I'm a guy who couldn't do a pull-up to save his life—well, my old life, my new body seems weirdly fit—but still, the point stands, this seems like a very one-sided proposition."
"Are you refusing?"
"I—"
Bartholomew looked at the crowd watching them. He saw the Imperial Guard soldiers, their faces full of faith and expectation. He saw Inquisitor Vorn, her expression calculating. He saw Commissar Cain, who looked like he was desperately trying to think of an excuse to be somewhere else.
He saw the Ultramarines, towering and implacable.
If he refused, the troops would be crushed. Their new hero, their Emperor's Champion, backing down from a challenge? It would shatter the faith that had been building around him.
And weirdly, strangely, inexplicably, some part of Bartholomew didn't want that.
Not because he believed he was the Emperor's Champion. He absolutely did not believe that. But these people had been fighting and dying on a hellish warzone, and if their belief in him gave them strength, who was he to take that away?
Even if it meant getting beaten senseless by a Space Marine.
"Okay," he heard himself say. "Okay. Let's do this."
Sergeant Maximillan nodded, something like approval flickering in his body language.
"Clear a space," he ordered. "This will be instructive."
The sparring ring was established in the center of the Imperial camp.
Word spread quickly, and within minutes, virtually every soldier on the planet who wasn't actively on duty had gathered to watch. This was, after all, a once-in-a-lifetime event: their beloved Emperor's Champion versus an actual Space Marine.
The betting was fierce.
"Three to one on the Ultramarine," one soldier whispered.
"Are you insane? Did you see what Jenkins did to those Orks?"
"Orks aren't Space Marines!"
"Jenkins isn't normal either!"
"Ten thrones says he lasts at least thirty seconds!"
"I'll take that bet!"
Bartholomew stood in the ring, feeling profoundly out of place. He was still wearing his battered flak armor, still holding the Ultramarines chainsword (which Sergeant Maximillan had graciously allowed him to keep, at least for the duration of the test).
"Rules," Maximillan said, removing his helmet to reveal a face that looked like it had been chiseled from granite by an artist who only knew how to carve "stern." "First to three solid hits wins. Non-lethal force only. We are testing skill, not trying to kill each other."
"That's reassuring," Bartholomew said weakly.
"You may use your weapons. I will fight unarmed."
"That's... less reassuring, actually. Because it implies you don't need weapons to beat me."
"I don't. But this is meant to be a test, not an execution."
"Still not reassuring!"
Maximillan settled into a combat stance, his massive form somehow both relaxed and coiled with lethal potential.
"Whenever you are ready, mortal."
Bartholomew looked at the chainsword in his hand.
He looked at the lasgun strapped to his hip.
He looked at the Space Marine who could probably punch through a tank.
And then, for reasons he could not explain even to himself, he set down both weapons.
A gasp went through the crowd.
"What are you doing?" someone shouted.
"He's gone mad!"
"The Emperor's Champion has lost his mind!"
Sergeant Maximillan raised an eyebrow. "You wish to fight me... unarmed?"
"Fight is a strong word," Bartholomew said. "I'm thinking more 'creatively avoid being hit while praying for a miracle.'"
"That is not a viable combat strategy."
"You'd be surprised what counts as viable when you're desperate enough."
Maximillan's other eyebrow rose to join the first.
"Very well. Unarmed it is. Begin."
He moved.
Space Marines, Bartholomew knew from his extensive lore knowledge, could move faster than the human eye could track. Their enhanced physiology allowed for reaction times and speeds that made normal humans look like they were moving through molasses.
Sergeant Maximillan was no exception.
One moment he was standing ten feet away. The next moment his fist was heading directly for Bartholomew's face with enough force to crush a skull.
And then Bartholomew wasn't there anymore.
He didn't dodge. He didn't duck. He didn't weave.
He simply wasn't there.
One instant he was standing in the path of Maximillan's fist. The next instant he was three feet to the left, looking just as surprised as everyone else.
"What," Bartholomew said.
"What," Maximillan said.
"WHAT," the entire crowd said in unison.
"Did I just—" Bartholomew looked at his hands. "Did I just teleport?"
Maximillan recovered from his surprise with admirable speed. He spun, launching a kick that should have caught Bartholomew in the ribs.
Bartholomew teleported again.
This time he appeared behind the Space Marine, and before either of them could process what was happening, his hand reached out and tapped Maximillan on the shoulder blade.
"One hit," said the Marine brother who was serving as referee, sounding absolutely stunned.
"I don't—I can't—HOW AM I DOING THIS?!" Bartholomew shrieked.
Maximillan turned, his expression no longer curious but intense. He launched a flurry of attacks—punches, kicks, grapples—each one fast enough and powerful enough to kill a normal human several times over.
Bartholomew teleported through all of them.
He blinked in and out of existence like a strobe light, never where Maximillan expected him to be, always appearing in impossible positions. And each time he appeared, his hands would dart out—almost reflexively—and tap the Space Marine somewhere.
"Two hits," the referee said.
"Three hits."
"Four—wait, we said first to three. The contest is over. Private Jenkins... wins?"
The last word came out as a question because absolutely no one could believe what had just happened.
Sergeant Maximillan stood frozen in the ring, his fists still raised, his face a mask of absolute bewilderment.
Bartholomew stood a few feet away, also frozen, his face a mask of absolute panic.
The crowd was silent.
Completely, utterly silent.
And then someone started cheering.
"THE EMPEROR'S CHAMPION!"
"HE DEFEATED A SPACE MARINE!"
"BLESSED BE HIS NAME!"
"HE CAN TELEPORT! THE EMPEROR HAS GRANTED HIM THE POWER OF TELEPORTATION!"
The cheering spread like wildfire, a tsunami of worship and adulation crashing over the camp.
Bartholomew didn't hear any of it.
He was too busy staring at his hands and hyperventilating.
"I can teleport," he whispered. "I can teleport. Since when can I teleport?! That's not—that shouldn't—humans can't teleport!"
Sergeant Maximillan approached him, and even though the Space Marine's face was carefully neutral, there was something like respect in his eyes.
"You are no ordinary human," he said.
"I KNOW! I MEAN, I DIDN'T KNOW! I THOUGHT I WAS! BUT APPARENTLY I'M NOT! WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?!"
"I do not know. But I do know that you have earned the right to keep that chainsword." Maximillan nodded toward the discarded weapon. "You have proven yourself worthy of it."
"I don't WANT to be worthy of it! I want to go back to being a normal person who paints little plastic men in his mother's basement!"
"I do not understand most of those words. But I recognize the sentiment. You did not ask for this power."
"NO! No, I really, really didn't!"
Maximillan was quiet for a moment.
"In my experience," he said finally, "the greatest heroes are always the ones who did not ask for the burden. It is easy to seek glory. It is far harder to have glory thrust upon you and bear it with grace."
"I'm not bearing it with grace! I'm panicking!"
"Yes. But you are still standing. That counts for something."
The aftermath of the sparring match was, predictably, chaotic.
Inquisitor Vorn immediately convened an emergency meeting to discuss "the Jenkins situation," which was apparently now serious enough to warrant its own official designation.
"He teleported," she said, pacing back and forth in the command tent. "He teleported. Without any psychic signature. Without any Warp manifestation. Without any of the normal indicators of translocation technology. He just... moved from one place to another instantaneously."
"Maybe he's a psyker after all?" one of her acolytes suggested.
"I've tested him six times. He has no psychic presence whatsoever. If anything, he's less psychically active than a normal human. He's practically a blank, except he's clearly not a blank because blanks don't activate archaeotech or know forbidden knowledge or TELEPORT."
"Could it be a technological implant? Some kind of DAoT teleportation device?"
"Possible, but unlikely. We've scanned him. There's nothing in his body that shouldn't be there. He's completely, utterly, infuriatingly normal in every way we can measure."
"Then how is he doing these things?"
Helena stopped pacing.
"I don't know," she admitted. "And that terrifies me. Because if we can't explain it, we can't predict it. And if we can't predict it, we can't control it."
"Should we... eliminate him?"
The question hung in the air.
Helena thought about it. She really, genuinely thought about it.
And then she shook her head.
"No. Not yet. He's too valuable, and too dangerous. If we try to kill him and fail—which seems likely, given everything we've seen—we'll have made an enemy of something we don't understand. Better to keep him close. Study him. Try to figure out what he is."
"And if he turns out to be a threat?"
"Then we'll deal with it. But for now..." Helena sighed. "For now, we watch. And we pray that whatever is happening to Private Jenkins is happening for a reason we can eventually understand."
In the Warp, the Chaos Gods were having the time of their immortal lives.
"Did you see that?!" Slaanesh exclaimed, their form quivering with delight. "He DEFEATED a Space Marine! Unarmed! With teleportation he didn't even know he had!"
"The look on the Ultramarine's face," Nurgle chuckled, his bloated form shaking with mirth. "Priceless. Absolutely priceless."
"THE MORTAL GROWS STRONGER," Khorne observed, and there was something almost like pride in his voice. "OUR BLESSINGS ARE TAKING HOLD."
"The teleportation wasn't from any of us," Tzeentch noted, his tone thoughtful. "That was... something else."
The other three Chaos Gods turned to look at him.
"Something else?" Slaanesh asked. "What do you mean, something else?"
"I mean that we are not the only ones blessing him. There is another force at work. Something that is giving him abilities beyond what we have granted."
"THE WARP-SENTIENCE," Khorne growled. "THE THING THAT HAS BEEN FORMING AROUND HIM."
"Yes. The nascent awareness in the Warp. It seems to be... protecting him. Empowering him. Giving him tools to survive."
"Is that a problem?" Nurgle asked.
Tzeentch considered the question.
"I don't think so. Not yet. The Warp-sentience seems to have the same goal we do: keeping the mortal alive and interesting. It's not competing with us. It's... cooperating?"
"The Warp doesn't cooperate," Slaanesh pointed out. "The Warp is chaos. It doesn't have goals or intentions."
"It didn't used to have goals or intentions. But it seems to be developing them. Centered entirely around Bartholomew."
There was a long pause.
"This is either going to be wonderful or catastrophic," Slaanesh said finally.
"WHY DOES EVERYONE KEEP SAYING THAT?" Khorne demanded.
"Because it's true. Our mortal has attracted the attention of forces beyond even us. Forces that are shaping themselves around him. He is becoming a nexus point for something unprecedented."
"Should we be concerned?" Nurgle asked.
Tzeentch was quiet for a moment.
"No," he said finally. "No, I don't think so. Whatever is happening, it's making him more interesting, not less. And interesting is what we wanted."
"Besides," Slaanesh added, "it's not like we can stop it now. We're too invested. We've blessed him too many times. Our essences are intertwined with his fate."
"THEN WE CONTINUE AS PLANNED," Khorne declared. "WE BLESS. WE PROTECT. WE WATCH. AND WE ENJOY THE CHAOS."
"Agreed," the other three said in unison.
And deep in the Warp, in a place that was and wasn't, something that was slowly becoming aware felt their attention and was... pleased.
They were helping the interesting one. The one who made everything more fun.
The Warp-that-was-becoming had no name, no form, no history.
But it was starting to develop something like purpose.
Keep the interesting one alive.
Keep the interesting one powerful.
Keep the interesting one interesting.
Everything else was secondary.
Commissar Ciaphas Cain was having what he privately called a "reassessment moment."
These moments happened periodically throughout his career—instances where he had to sit down, take stock of his situation, and ask himself the important questions. Questions like "How did I get here?" and "What terrible decisions led to this moment?" and "Is it too late to fake my own death and retire to a quiet agri-world somewhere?"
He was having one of those moments now, sitting in his quarters aboard the orbital station that was serving as Imperial command for the Goraxia campaign, nursing a glass of amasec and trying to process everything he had witnessed in the past two days.
"Jurgen," he said.
His aide materialized out of the shadows like a particularly pungent ghost. "Sir?"
"Tell me honestly. Am I going insane?"
Jurgen considered this question with the same serious attention he gave to everything.
"You don't seem insane, sir. A bit stressed, maybe."
"A bit stressed. Yes. That's one way to put it." Cain took a long drink. "Jurgen, I watched a man teleport today. A man who, by all accounts, shouldn't be able to do anything more impressive than file paperwork. He teleported. Multiple times. Without any apparent effort or understanding of how he was doing it."
"That does seem unusual, sir."
"Unusual. Yes. And before that, I watched him single-handedly break an Ork WAAAGH. And before that, I heard him describe my entire life like it was the plot of a book he'd read for entertainment."
"That also seems unusual, sir."
"I'm surrounded by unusual, Jurgen. I'm drowning in unusual. And the worst part is, everyone seems to think this man is some kind of divine messenger, and I can't honestly say they're wrong, because nothing else explains what he can do."
Jurgen was quiet for a moment.
"Do you think he's dangerous, sir?"
Cain thought about it.
"I don't know. That's what bothers me. I've spent my entire career developing an instinct for danger, and when I look at Private Jenkins, my instincts just... spin. Like a compass near a magnet. They can't get a fix on him."
"Maybe that means he's not dangerous?"
"Or maybe it means he's so dangerous that even my survival instincts can't comprehend it." Cain drained his glass. "Either way, I have a terrible feeling that my life is about to get very, very complicated. More complicated than usual, I mean."
"If it helps, sir, your life has always been complicated. This doesn't seem substantially different."
"Thank you, Jurgen. That's very comforting."
"I try, sir."
The next morning brought new complications, as Cain had predicted.
Specifically, it brought a message from Inquisitor Vorn, summoning him to an emergency briefing.
When he arrived at the command center, he found Vorn, Sergeant Maximillan, several high-ranking Guard officers, and—at the center of everyone's attention—Private Bartholomew Jenkins, who looked like he hadn't slept at all.
"Good, you're here," Vorn said. "We have a situation."
"Of course we do," Cain muttered. "What is it this time?"
"Private Jenkins has developed another... ability."
Cain felt a headache coming on. "What kind of ability?"
"Show him," Vorn said, gesturing to Bartholomew.
Bartholomew looked uncomfortable.
"I really don't think this is a good idea," he said. "Every time I discover a new thing I can do, everyone freaks out, and then there's more worship, and then I feel really awkward about the whole situation."
"Show. Him."
Bartholomew sighed.
And then he reached into empty air and pulled out a sandwich.
Not just any sandwich. A perfect, pristine, delicious-looking sandwich, appearing from nowhere as if it had always existed and had simply been waiting for Bartholomew to reach for it.
"I got hungry last night," Bartholomew explained, taking a bite. "And I was thinking about how much I missed real food—you know, from before I died and ended up here—and I was really craving a BLT, and then suddenly there was a BLT in my hand."
He chewed.
"It's a really good BLT, too. Like, restaurant quality. I don't know where it came from, but it's delicious."
Cain stared at the sandwich.
He stared at Bartholomew.
He stared at the sandwich again.
"He can create matter," Vorn said, her voice tight. "From nothing. He can create matter from nothing."
"It's probably not from nothing," Bartholomew said through a mouthful of bacon, lettuce, and tomato. "It's probably from... somewhere? Maybe the Warp? Things come from the Warp, right? In the lore, daemons can manifest objects and stuff. Maybe I'm tapping into that somehow?"
"You're suggesting you're accessing Warp energy?"
"I'm not suggesting anything. I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm just guessing. I've been guessing this whole time. None of this makes sense to me either."
Vorn turned to Cain.
"Do you understand why I called you here?"
"Because you wanted me to share in your existential horror?"
"Because this man—this impossible man—is becoming more impossible by the hour. He teleports. He creates matter. He knows things no mortal should know. And we still don't know what he is or what's causing it."
"Have you considered that maybe we're not supposed to know?" Cain asked.
Everyone stared at him.
"What do you mean?" Vorn demanded.
"I mean... look at him." Cain gestured at Bartholomew, who was finishing his sandwich with obvious enjoyment. "He's not threatening. He's not malevolent. He's just... weird. Extremely, profoundly weird. Maybe whatever is happening to him isn't meant to be understood. Maybe it just is."
"That's not a satisfying answer."
"I didn't say it was satisfying. I said it might be accurate."
Bartholomew swallowed the last bite of his BLT and looked at them.
"Can I say something?" he asked.
"I'm not sure I can stop you," Vorn said.
"I don't know what's happening to me. I've said this a hundred times, but I'll say it again: I have no idea why I can do these things. I didn't ask for any of it. I was just a normal guy who painted miniatures and knew too much about fictional universes, and then I died, and then I woke up here, and now I can teleport and summon sandwiches and apparently fight Space Marines."
He paused.
"But here's the thing. I'm not trying to hurt anyone. I'm not trying to conquer the galaxy or serve the Dark Gods or do any of the things that people with weird powers usually do in this setting. I'm just... trying to survive. Trying to understand. Trying not to freak out too much about the fact that everything I thought was fiction is apparently real."
He looked at Vorn.
"I know you're scared of me. I get it. I'd be scared of me too. But I promise you—I promise you—I'm not a threat. Not intentionally. I'm just a guy who's in way over his head."
There was a long silence.
"He's sincere," Sergeant Maximillan said finally. "I can tell. He genuinely means what he's saying."
"That doesn't mean he's not dangerous," Vorn countered.
"No. But it means he's not malicious. There's a difference."
Vorn looked at Bartholomew for a long moment.
"Fine," she said finally. "Fine. You're not a threat. You're not a heretic. You're just... inexplicable. I can work with inexplicable. I've been Inquisitor for two centuries; I've dealt with inexplicable before."
"Really?" Bartholomew perked up.
"No. But I'm going to pretend I have, because the alternative is admitting that you've completely upended my understanding of how the universe works, and my ego can't handle that right now."
"Fair enough."
The briefing was interrupted by an urgent vox-transmission.
"Priority message for Inquisitor Vorn," the communications officer announced. "From... from Terra."
Everyone in the room went very still.
Messages from Terra were rare. Messages from Terra that were important enough to interrupt an Inquisitor's briefing were even rarer.
Vorn took the message.
Her face went pale.
"What is it?" Cain asked.
"The High Lords of Terra have taken an interest in Private Jenkins," Vorn said slowly. "Word of his... exploits... has reached the highest levels of Imperial governance."
"Is that good or bad?"
"I don't know yet. But they're sending someone to evaluate him. Someone from the Inquisitorial Representative's office. Someone who speaks with the authority of the High Lords themselves."
"That sounds bad."
"It could be very bad. Or it could be very good. It depends entirely on what they decide he is."
Bartholomew raised his hand like a schoolchild.
"Yes, Jenkins?"
"Is this the part where I get declared a Living Saint or burned as a heretic? Because in the lore, it usually goes one of those two ways, and I'd really prefer the first one."
"We all would," Vorn said grimly. "We all would."
In the Warp, the Chaos Gods watched these developments with keen interest.
"The corpse-Emperor's servants are mobilizing," Tzeentch observed. "They're going to try to claim him. Make him one of theirs. Sanctify him."
"WILL WE ALLOW THAT?" Khorne demanded.
"We can't stop it, not directly. Intervening too obviously would draw the Anathema's attention. And despite everything, the corpse on the Golden Throne is still powerful enough to be a threat."
"Then what do we do?"
"We continue as we have been. We bless. We protect. We make him so powerful, so undeniable, that whatever the Imperium decides about him is irrelevant."
"And if they declare him a heretic?"
Tzeentch smiled, a terrible expression that contained a thousand plots.
"Then they will discover that killing a man blessed by all four of us is considerably harder than they expect. And the resulting chaos—political, spiritual, and literal—will be delicious."
"You're enjoying this too much," Nurgle accused.
"I'm enjoying this exactly the right amount. This is the most fun I've had since the Horus Heresy. Maybe even before that."
"AGREED," Khorne rumbled. "THE MORTAL IS ENTERTAINING. WE WILL KEEP HIM."
"He's not a pet," Slaanesh pointed out.
"NO. HE IS BETTER THAN A PET. HE IS A CATALYST. WHEREVER HE GOES, THINGS HAPPEN. INTERESTING THINGS. CHAOTIC THINGS. AND WE RIDE THE WAVES OF THAT CHAOS."
"Poetic," Nurgle said.
"I HAVE MY MOMENTS."
That night, Bartholomew lay in his tent (which had somehow grown larger and more comfortable without anyone doing anything to it) and stared at the ceiling.
His mind was racing, churning with everything that had happened.
He could teleport now. He could create sandwiches from thin air. He could fight Space Marines unarmed and win.
None of this was possible.
None of this was supposed to be possible.
And yet, it was happening. To him. For reasons he couldn't begin to understand.
"I just wanted to paint miniatures," he whispered to the darkness. "I just wanted to argue about lore on the internet and occasionally play games with my friends. I didn't ask for any of this."
But you have it anyway, something seemed to whisper back. And isn't it wonderful?
Bartholomew sat up, looking around.
"Hello? Is someone there?"
There was no response. Just the quiet sounds of the camp and the distant rumble of orbital ships.
But for a moment—just a moment—he could have sworn he felt something presence around him. Something vast and strange and inexplicably fond.
"Great," he muttered, lying back down. "Now I'm hearing voices. That's definitely a sign of good mental health."
He closed his eyes.
Sleep, the not-quite-voice suggested. Tomorrow will be interesting.
"I don't want tomorrow to be interesting. I want tomorrow to be boring."
Boring is not your fate, little mortal. Boring was never your fate.
"That's really not comforting."
It wasn't meant to be comforting. It was meant to be true.
Bartholomew groaned.
"I hate this universe."
No, you don't. You love it. That's why you're here.
And despite everything—despite the insanity and the impossibility and the looming threat of High Lords and Inquisitors—Bartholomew found himself smiling.
Because the voice was right.
He did love this universe. He always had.
He just wished it weren't quite so determined to love him back.
[END OF CHAPTER THREE]