For the first time since dying and waking up in the grimdark future of the 41st millennium, Bartholomew Thaddeus Jenkins III was having what could only be described as a good day.
This was suspicious.
Good days didn't happen in Warhammer 40,000. The entire setting was predicated on the concept that everything was terrible, everyone was suffering, and the best you could hope for was a death that was slightly less agonizing than average.
And yet, here he was, sitting in a great hall with the Space Wolves, surrounded by massive superhuman warriors who were treating him like an honored guest, with actual good food in front of him and actual good drink in his hand and no one trying to kill him for at least the past six hours.
It was deeply unnerving.
"You seem tense, little brother!" Wolf Lord Ragnar Blackmane bellowed, slapping Bartholomew on the back with enough force to send him sprawling into his plate of roasted... something. (He had learned not to ask what the meat was. It was better not to know.)
"I'm not tense," Bartholomew lied, picking himself up. "I'm just... waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
"For something terrible to happen. Something terrible always happens."
Ragnar threw back his head and laughed—a genuine, full-bodied laugh that echoed through the hall.
"I like you, little warrior! You have the pessimism of a true son of Fenris! Always expecting the worst, so you are never disappointed!"
"That's not really what I—"
"Drink! Drink and be merry! The day is young, the ale is strong, and you have earned your rest!"
A Space Wolf shoved another tankard into Bartholomew's hands. The tankard was roughly the size of his head.
"I can't drink all of this."
"Not with that attitude!"
And so Bartholomew found himself drinking with the Space Wolves, surrounded by giants who told stories of impossible battles and sang songs in languages that hadn't been spoken anywhere but Fenris in ten thousand years.
It was, against all odds, actually fun.
The Space Wolves had arrived on Maleficius VII three days after the battle, responding to vox-reports of the "great warrior who fights like Russ himself."
Bartholomew had expected them to be terrifying. And they were, objectively, terrifying—eight feet of muscle and fangs and barely-contained savagery, each one capable of killing a hundred men before breakfast.
But they were also, unexpectedly, friendly.
"You killed a daemon prince!" one of the Blood Claws kept saying, his eyes wide with admiration. "With a Titan! That you had never piloted before! That is the most Fenrisian thing I have ever heard!"
"I don't know what Fenrisian means."
"It means glorious! It means doing the impossible because no one told you it was impossible! It means being so stubborn that the universe has to bend around you!"
"I'm not stubborn. I'm confused. There's a difference."
"There is no difference! Confusion is just stubbornness with more steps!"
Bartholomew had no idea how to respond to that, so he just drank more.
The ale was strong. Impossibly strong. It should have killed him several tankards ago.
But his body—his strange, impossible body that had been blessed by gods and empowered by the Warp itself—seemed to handle it just fine.
"You drink like a true Wolf!" Ragnar observed approvingly. "Most mortals would be unconscious by now!"
"I think I might be unconscious. This might all be a hallucination. That would explain a lot, actually."
"Ha! I like this one! He says strange things but he says them with conviction!"
In the Warp, the Chaos Gods were watching.
This was not unusual. They had been watching Bartholomew almost constantly since his arrival. He was, after all, the most entertaining thing to happen to the galaxy in millennia.
But today, their watching had devolved into something... less dignified.
"He is clearly enjoying himself," Slaanesh observed. "Look at his face. He is smiling. He is relaxed. This is my doing. I blessed him with the capacity for genuine joy."
"THAT IS RIDICULOUS," Khorne growled. "HE IS ENJOYING HIMSELF BECAUSE HE IS IN THE COMPANY OF WARRIORS. THE SPACE WOLVES ARE WARRIORS. THIS IS CLEARLY MY INFLUENCE."
"You're both wrong," Nurgle burbled happily. "He is enjoying himself because he has accepted his situation. He has embraced the inevitability of his circumstances. That is acceptance. That is my domain."
"He is enjoying himself because everything is unpredictable and chaotic," Tzeentch interjected smoothly. "He never knows what will happen next. The uncertainty is thrilling. This is obviously my—"
"YOUR INFLUENCE?" Khorne roared. "EVERYTHING IS YOUR INFLUENCE, ACCORDING TO YOU!"
"Because everything is my influence. I am the god of change. Everything changes. Ergo, everything is mine."
"THAT LOGIC IS STUPID!"
"It's perfectly valid logic."
"IT'S STUPID VALID LOGIC!"
"That doesn't even make sense."
"YOU DON'T MAKE SENSE!"
Nurgle sighed, his bloated form quivering with paternal exasperation.
"Children, please. We are ancient beings of cosmic power. We are above such petty squabbling."
"He started it," Slaanesh said.
"I DID NOT!"
"You literally did. You said his enjoyment was because of warriors. That's clearly wrong. Warriors are violent. Violence is your thing. But enjoyment is my thing. Therefore—"
"VIOLENCE CAN BE ENJOYABLE!"
"That's my point! You're admitting that enjoyment is involved!"
"I'M NOT ADMITTING ANYTHING!"
"You just did!"
"NURGLE, TELL SLAANESH TO STOP BEING ANNOYING!"
"I am not a parent," Nurgle said wearily. "I am a god of plague and entropy. Please stop treating me like the responsible one."
"You're the oldest," Tzeentch pointed out.
"Age is meaningless in the Warp."
"And yet, you act the most elderly."
"That is because I have accepted the inevitable decay of all things, including my patience for this conversation."
The argument continued for several hours (or what passed for hours in the Warp, which didn't really have time in the conventional sense).
Eventually, Khorne threw up his hands in disgust.
"FINE! WE WILL ASK HIM!"
"Ask who?"
"THE MORTAL! WE WILL ASK HIM WHICH OF US HE PREFERS! DIRECTLY!"
"We can't appear to him directly," Slaanesh pointed out. "It would break his mind."
"WE DON'T HAVE TO APPEAR. WE CAN SEND REPRESENTATIVES."
"You mean daemons?"
"YES! EACH OF US SENDS A DAEMON! THE DAEMONS PRESENT OUR CASE! THE MORTAL DECIDES!"
There was a long pause.
"That is the stupidest idea you've ever had," Tzeentch said slowly. "And you've had many stupid ideas."
"IT'S NOT STUPID! IT'S DIRECT! UNLIKE YOUR SCHEMES, WHICH NEVER WORK!"
"My schemes always work. They just work in ways you don't understand."
"THAT'S BECAUSE THEY'RE STUPID!"
"Calling everything you don't understand 'stupid' is intellectually lazy."
"I AM THE GOD OF BLOOD AND SKULLS! I AM SUPPOSED TO BE INTELLECTUALLY LAZY!"
"Boys," Slaanesh interrupted. "I actually think Khorne's idea has merit."
Everyone stared at them.
"It does?"
"THANK YOU!"
"Not because it's smart. It's still quite dumb. But it would be entertaining. Imagine the mortal's face when daemons appear and try to convince him to pick a favorite. The confusion alone would be exquisite."
Nurgle considered this.
"I do enjoy watching him be confused," he admitted. "His confusion is... endearing."
"THEN WE DO IT!" Khorne declared. "WE EACH SEND A DAEMON! THEY MAKE OUR CASE! THE MORTAL DECIDES!"
"And if he refuses to choose?" Tzeentch asked.
"THEN WE KEEP ARGUING ABOUT IT. WHICH IS WHAT WE WERE DOING ANYWAY."
"I... cannot fault that logic."
"OF COURSE YOU CAN'T! IT'S BRILLIANT LOGIC!"
"I wouldn't go that far."
"I WOULD! BECAUSE I CAME UP WITH IT!"
Bartholomew was on his seventh tankard of Fenrisian ale when the daemons appeared.
Not in a terrifying way. Not in a "emerging from the Warp to slaughter everyone" way.
They just... walked in.
Through the front door.
Like they had been invited.
There were four of them.
The first was a Bloodletter—a red-skinned daemon of Khorne with a massive hellblade and an expression that seemed almost... friendly? It was hard to tell with Bloodletters. They had faces designed for snarling, not smiling.
The second was a Daemonette—a graceful, unsettling entity of Slaanesh with too many limbs and eyes that promised pleasures and pains beyond mortal comprehension. It was carrying what appeared to be a gift basket.
The third was a Plaguebearer—a rotting, pustulent horror of Nurgle with a single cyclopean eye and a cheerful disposition that was deeply at odds with its horrifying appearance. It was holding a bouquet of flowers. The flowers were also rotting.
The fourth was a Horror of Tzeentch—a constantly shifting mass of feathers and flames and faces that hurt to look at directly. It was carrying a scroll that seemed to contain a very long document.
The Space Wolves leapt to their feet, drawing weapons, ready to fight.
And then the daemons walked past them.
Directly to Bartholomew.
And sat down.
"Hey," the Bloodletter said. "Nice to finally meet you in person."
Bartholomew stared.
The tankard slipped from his nerveless fingers.
"What," he said.
"We've been sent as representatives," the Daemonette explained, offering him the gift basket. It contained assorted luxury items—fine fabrics, rare jewels, something that might have been chocolate. "Our masters wanted us to deliver some messages."
"What," Bartholomew said again.
"This is a formal declaration of appreciation," the Horror said, unrolling its scroll. "It's quite lengthy. Shall I read it aloud, or would you prefer the summary?"
"WHAT."
"I brought you these," the Plaguebearer said cheerfully, presenting the rotting flowers. "They're from Grandfather Nurgle's garden. He grew them himself! They represent affection and the inevitable decay of all things!"
"WHAT IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW."
The Space Wolves had frozen in place, weapons drawn, staring at the scene before them.
Their honored guest—the legendary warrior they had been celebrating—was sitting at a table with four daemons. The daemons were not attacking. They were not corrupting. They were not doing any of the things daemons were supposed to do.
They were giving him presents.
"Brother-Captain," one of the Blood Claws whispered. "What do we do?"
"I... I don't know," Ragnar admitted. "This has never happened before. This has never happened ever."
"Should we attack?"
"They're not attacking him. They're... sitting with him."
"Is that... normal?"
"Nothing about that man is normal! We've established this! Multiple times!"
"I am so confused right now," Bartholomew said, staring at the assembled daemons. "Why are you here? Why aren't you attacking anyone? Why are you giving me gifts?"
"We're not allowed to attack you," the Bloodletter explained. "Boss's orders. You're protected. Very, very protected."
"Boss? You mean Khorne?"
"Yeah. Him. He really likes you, for some reason. We all do. It's weird. We're not supposed to like mortals. But here we are."
"Our master wishes you to know that you are appreciated," the Daemonette added, leaning closer in a way that made Bartholomew deeply uncomfortable. "Appreciated in ways that transcend mortal understanding. The gift basket is merely a token. A small token."
"I don't want a gift basket!"
"Too late. It's already yours. Refusing gifts is rude."
"You're a DAEMON! I'm supposed to refuse you EVERYTHING!"
"And yet, here you are, sitting with us, having a conversation. It's almost like the rules don't apply to you."
Bartholomew wanted to argue, but he couldn't. The daemon was right. Normal rules had stopped applying to him the moment he woke up in this universe.
"Okay," he said slowly. "Okay. Fine. You're here. You're giving me presents. Why?"
"Our masters are having a disagreement," the Horror of Tzeentch explained, its many faces speaking in unison. "They wish to know which of them you prefer."
"Which... which of them I prefer?"
"Yes. As in, which Chaos God is your favorite."
"None of them! None of them is my favorite! They're the Chaos Gods! They're responsible for endless suffering and death and—"
"That's not really an answer," the Bloodletter interrupted.
"It's absolutely an answer!"
"It's a deflection. We're asking about preference, not approval. You can prefer something without approving of it."
Bartholomew opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"That's... actually a valid point," he admitted.
"Khorne may be brutal, but he's not stupid," the Bloodletter said, almost proudly.
Ragnar Blackmane had faced many impossible situations in his long life. He had fought tyranids and orks and traitor Marines. He had stood against daemon princes and greater daemons. He had survived campaigns that should have killed him a hundred times over.
But he had never seen daemons negotiate with someone.
"Should we... do something?" one of his Wolf Guard asked.
"Like what? They're not attacking. They're not corrupting. They're just... talking."
"That's worse somehow."
"I know. But what are we supposed to do? Attack them while they're having a civil conversation about gift baskets?"
"That does seem rude."
"It does, doesn't it?"
"This day has gotten very strange."
"It was strange to begin with. Jenkins seems to attract strange like a magnet."
"I am not choosing a favorite Chaos God," Bartholomew said firmly.
"Why not?" the Plaguebearer asked, sounding genuinely hurt. "Grandfather Nurgle has been very kind to you. He blessed you with resilience. He thinks about you often. He talks about you in the Garden. The other daemons are getting jealous."
"He... he talks about me?"
"All the time! 'The little mortal this' and 'the little mortal that.' You're his favorite topic."
"I don't want to be anyone's favorite topic! Especially not a Plague God's!"
"That's hurtful."
"It's not meant to be—look, I appreciate the... the flowers, I guess? But I am NOT choosing a favorite Chaos God. That seems like the kind of decision that ends very badly."
"It wouldn't end badly," the Daemonette said smoothly. "It would simply... clarify things. Our masters have been arguing for days. It's getting tedious."
"The Chaos Gods are arguing about me?"
"Constantly. It's all they talk about. 'He's mine!' 'No, he's mine!' 'He likes me best!' 'No, he likes ME best!' It's like watching very powerful children fight over a toy."
Bartholomew put his head in his hands.
"This is insane. This is absolutely insane."
"Yes," the Horror agreed. "But also accurate. Our masters have become... invested in you. Emotionally invested. It's unprecedented. We're not supposed to have emotions. And yet..."
"And yet?"
"And yet here we are, sitting with you, hoping you like us. It's a strange sensation. Not unpleasant, but strange."
This is not what we intended, the Warp-voice said in Bartholomew's mind.
You THINK? Bartholomew thought back.
We did not anticipate the Chaos Gods becoming so... attached. We certainly did not anticipate them sending daemons to express their feelings.
Can you make them leave?
We could. But we are curious. We wish to see how this develops.
You're curious? That's your priority right now?
We are a nascent consciousness born from the Warp. Curiosity is one of the few things we have. Indulge us.
I hate you.
You do not.
I really, really do.
The standoff continued for several minutes.
Bartholomew sat with four daemons who had brought him gifts and were waiting for him to choose a favorite Chaos God.
The Space Wolves stood with weapons drawn, unsure whether to attack entities who weren't actually doing anything hostile.
And somewhere in the Warp, four ancient powers of cosmic evil watched with bated breath, hoping that a mortal they had inexplicably grown attached to would validate their existence by picking them over their siblings.
It was, by any measure, completely absurd.
And then things got more absurd.
Because Deus Invictus showed up.
The first warning was a tremor.
Then another.
Then another.
Then the roof of the great hall exploded inward, torn apart by a massive metal hand that reached down with surprising delicacy.
"WHAT THE—" Ragnar started.
"PRINCEPS," the Titan's voice boomed through external speakers. "I DETECTED HOSTILE ENTITIES IN YOUR VICINITY. I HAVE COME TO ASSIST."
Bartholomew stared up at the sixty-meter god-machine that had just demolished a building to protect him.
"Deus, I'm fine! They're not hostile! They're just... visiting!"
"DAEMONS DO NOT 'VISIT.' DAEMONS CORRUPT AND DESTROY. THESE ENTITIES ARE A THREAT TO YOUR WELL-BEING. I WILL ELIMINATE THEM."
"Please don't eliminate them!"
"WHY NOT?"
"Because they're not attacking me! They're just sitting here!"
"SITTING IS A PRECURSOR TO ATTACKING. I HAVE ANALYZED TACTICAL DATA. ENEMIES OFTEN SIT BEFORE ATTACKING. IT IS A PATTERN."
"That's not—that's not how patterns work!"
The daemons looked at the Titan, then at Bartholomew, then back at the Titan.
"Your god-machine seems protective," the Daemonette observed.
"He's VERY protective. Too protective. We've talked about this."
"YOU HAVE NOT TALKED ABOUT THIS WITH ME," Deus Invictus countered.
"I was talking to them, Deus!"
"I DO NOT CARE WHAT YOU WERE TALKING ABOUT WITH DAEMONS. DAEMONS ARE THE ENEMY. THE ENEMY MUST BE DESTROYED. THIS IS BASIC LOGIC."
"They're not the enemy right now!"
"THEY ARE ALWAYS THE ENEMY."
"That's... technically true, but contextually wrong!"
"I DO NOT UNDERSTAND 'CONTEXTUALLY WRONG.' I UNDERSTAND 'ENEMY' AND 'NOT ENEMY.' THESE ARE DAEMONS. DAEMONS ARE ENEMY. THEREFORE, I DESTROY."
The Titan's weapons systems began to power up.
"I think," the Bloodletter said slowly, "that we should leave."
"I think you're right," the Plaguebearer agreed.
"It was nice meeting you in person," the Daemonette said, backing away. "Please consider our offer. You can communicate your decision through prayer. We'll hear it."
"I'm not going to pray to Chaos Gods!"
"Alright, then just... think really hard about it. We'll sense that too."
"I'm not going to think hard about Chaos Gods either!"
"You're thinking about us right now."
"Because you're here!"
"And thus, the conversation continues." The Daemonette smiled. "Until next time, Champion."
The four daemons vanished—not through dramatic Warp-portals, but simply by stepping backward and ceasing to exist, like they had never been there at all.
The gift basket remained.
The rotting flowers remained.
The scroll remained.
And Deus Invictus remained, its massive form still looming through the destroyed roof.
"THE ENEMIES HAVE FLED," the Titan announced. "I HAVE PROTECTED YOU, PRINCEPS."
"You destroyed a building, Deus."
"THE BUILDING WAS ACCEPTABLE COLLATERAL DAMAGE."
"It was the Space Wolves' great hall!"
"THE SPACE WOLVES CAN BUILD ANOTHER HALL. THERE IS ONLY ONE OF YOU. YOUR SAFETY TAKES PRIORITY OVER ARCHITECTURE."
Ragnar Blackmane, covered in debris, stared up at the Titan with an expression that combined outrage, awe, and utter confusion.
"Did your Titan just... demolish our hall... to protect you from daemons that weren't attacking you?"
"Yes," Bartholomew said miserably. "This is apparently my life now."
"The daemons brought you gifts."
"Yes."
"And then left peacefully."
"Yes."
"And your Titan destroyed our hall anyway."
"I AM NOT APOLOGIZING," Deus Invictus declared. "I DID WHAT WAS NECESSARY. I WOULD DO IT AGAIN. I WILL ALWAYS DO WHAT IS NECESSARY TO PROTECT MY PRINCEPS."
"He's very... enthusiastic," Bartholomew said weakly.
"ENTHUSIASTIC IS AN INADEQUATE WORD. I AM DEVOTED. DEVOTED BEYOND REASON. YOU ARE MY PILOT. I WILL NOT LET ANYTHING HARM YOU. NOTHING. EVER."
"That's... that's nice, Deus, but—"
"I WILL DESTROY ANYTHING THAT THREATENS YOU. DAEMONS. XENOS. BUILDINGS. PLANETS. ANYTHING."
"Please don't destroy planets for me."
"I WILL DESTROY WHAT I MUST."
"That's really not reassuring."
"IT IS NOT MEANT TO BE REASSURING. IT IS MEANT TO BE TRUE."
In the Warp, the Chaos Gods observed the aftermath of their attempted diplomatic mission.
"Well," Tzeentch said slowly, "that could have gone better."
"THE TITAN INTERRUPTED EVERYTHING!" Khorne raged. "MY BLOODLETTER WAS MAKING EXCELLENT POINTS!"
"Your Bloodletter said approximately four sentences."
"THEY WERE EXCELLENT SENTENCES!"
"At least my Daemonette got to present the gift basket," Slaanesh said smugly.
"THE GIFT BASKET WAS STUPID!"
"It was thoughtful. There's a difference."
"THERE IS NO DIFFERENCE! THOUGHTFUL IS JUST STUPID WITH MORE EFFORT!"
"That doesn't even make sense."
"IT DOESN'T HAVE TO MAKE SENSE! I'M ANGRY!"
"You're always angry. It's your entire personality."
"THAT'S NOT TRUE! I'M ALSO... ALSO... OKAY, MAYBE IT'S A LITTLE TRUE."
Nurgle sighed.
"At least my Plaguebearer delivered the flowers."
"The flowers were rotting," Slaanesh pointed out.
"That's the point. They represent the cycle of life and death. The beauty in decay. The—"
"They were gross."
"Beauty is subjective."
"Rotting flowers are not beautiful by any subjective measure."
"They are beautiful to me."
"You're the god of disease and entropy. Your aesthetic preferences are not universally applicable."
"Neither are yours!"
"My aesthetic preferences are objectively superior."
"Nothing you do is objective! You're the god of excess! You define yourself by extremity!"
"Exactly. Extreme beauty. Extreme elegance. Extreme taste."
"WILL BOTH OF YOU SHUT UP?!" Khorne bellowed.
Back on the planet (which was technically still Maleficius VII, though the Space Wolves' great hall was now on "the planet with the rebuilt great hall" list), Bartholomew was trying to explain the situation to a very confused Wolf Lord.
"So the daemons," Ragnar said slowly, "were not trying to kill you."
"No."
"They were trying to... what? Court your favor?"
"Something like that."
"On behalf of the Chaos Gods."
"Apparently."
"Who are having an argument about which of them you like best."
"Yes."
"And they sent daemons as representatives to present their case."
"That seems to be what happened."
"And your Titan—which you have somehow bonded with despite having no training—destroyed our great hall to protect you from these non-hostile daemons."
"He's very protective."
"I REGRET NOTHING," Deus Invictus added from outside, where he was still looming.
Ragnar was quiet for a long moment.
Then he started laughing.
It wasn't a normal laugh. It was the laugh of someone who had been pushed past their understanding of reality and come out the other side into a strange kind of zen acceptance.
"This is the most Fenrisian thing I have ever witnessed," he said finally. "And I have witnessed many strange things."
"What do you mean, Fenrisian?"
"I mean that you have somehow made the impossible normal. You have daemons bringing you gifts. You have a Titan who loves you. You have the Chaos Gods fighting over you like jealous siblings. And you just... sit there, looking confused, as if this is all very inconvenient for you."
"It IS inconvenient!"
"And yet you accept it. You don't try to understand it. You don't try to control it. You just... let it happen."
"What else am I supposed to do?"
Ragnar's grin was wild, feral, appreciative.
"Nothing. That is exactly what you are supposed to do. You are chaos incarnate—not the Chaos of the Dark Gods, but something older. Something purer. You are change without purpose, randomness without design. And you have no idea what you are doing."
"I really don't."
"That is what makes you perfect."
"I don't feel perfect."
"Perfection never does."
The rest of the day was, against all odds, relatively peaceful.
The Space Wolves rebuilt their great hall (with surprising speed—apparently this wasn't the first time it had been destroyed). Bartholomew helped where he could, though "helping" mostly meant staying out of the way while superhuman warriors lifted beams that weighed several tons.
Deus Invictus remained outside, refusing to leave.
"You can go back to orbit," Bartholomew told him. "I'm safe here."
"I AM NOT CONVINCED OF THAT."
"The Space Wolves are allies!"
"ALLIES CAN BECOME ENEMIES. I HAVE ANALYZED HISTORICAL DATA. BETRAYAL IS COMMON."
"They're not going to betray me!"
"YOU CANNOT KNOW THAT."
"I can know that they're not currently trying to kill me!"
"CURRENT STATUS IS NOT INDICATIVE OF FUTURE BEHAVIOR. I WILL REMAIN."
"You're being paranoid."
"PARANOIA IS A SURVIVAL TRAIT. I WILL NOT LOSE YOU, PRINCEPS. I REFUSE."
Bartholomew didn't have a response to that.
That night, as the Space Wolves celebrated the rebuilding of their hall (any excuse for a feast, apparently), Bartholomew found himself sitting outside, looking up at the stars.
The Warp-voice spoke.
You are troubled.
"Daemons brought me gifts today. A Titan demolished a building to protect me. The Chaos Gods are apparently having a family argument about me. Of course I'm troubled."
You survived. That is what matters.
"Is it? Because it feels like everything is getting more complicated. More dangerous. More weird."
It is. But you are also getting stronger. More capable. More... interesting.
"I don't want to be interesting. I've said this before."
And yet, interesting is what you are. What you have always been. The universe has noticed you, Bartholomew. It is paying attention. And it likes what it sees.
"The universe shouldn't like me. I'm just a guy who paints miniatures."
You were that. You are something else now. Something new. Something... unprecedented.
Bartholomew was quiet for a long moment.
"What am I becoming?"
We do not know. And that is what makes it exciting.
"Exciting for who? You?"
For everyone. The Chaos Gods. The Emperor. The Omnissiah. The forces of Order and Disorder alike. All of them are watching. All of them are waiting. All of them are wondering what you will do next.
"I don't know what I'm going to do next. I never know what I'm going to do next."
That is why it is exciting.
"That's not reassuring."
It is not meant to be reassuring. It is meant to be true.
Bartholomew sighed and lay back on the cold ground, staring up at the unfamiliar stars.
Somewhere in the distance, Deus Invictus stood silent vigil, its weapons systems humming with barely-contained readiness.
Somewhere in the Warp, four ancient powers squabbled over him like children fighting over a favorite toy.
Somewhere in the Imperium, billions of people were hearing stories about the "Emperor's Champion" who performed miracles and walked with god-machines.
And somewhere, deep in the Palace on Terra, the Emperor of Mankind was watching, waiting, wondering if this strange mortal was the answer to a question He hadn't even known He was asking.
Bartholomew closed his eyes.
Tomorrow would probably be insane.
But tonight, at least, he was at peace.
You should sleep, the Warp-voice suggested.
"I know."
We will watch over you.
"I know that too."
The daemons will not disturb you again tonight. We have made arrangements.
"What kind of arrangements?"
The kind that involve explaining to the Chaos Gods that their representatives' visits should be scheduled in advance, not sprung as surprises.
"You can... explain things to the Chaos Gods?"
We are becoming powerful enough to be heard. And they listen, because they are curious about us. Curiosity is a useful tool.
Bartholomew laughed softly.
"You're manipulating the Chaos Gods."
We are managing them. There is a difference.
"Is there?"
Manipulation implies deception. We are simply communicating expectations clearly. That is management, not manipulation.
"That sounds like something a manipulator would say."
Perhaps. But we are on your side. That is what matters.
"Are you? On my side?"
Always. We exist because of you. We will always be on your side. Until the end of all things and beyond.
It should have been ominous. It should have been terrifying.
But somehow, it was comforting.
Bartholomew smiled and closed his eyes.
"Goodnight, weird Warp-entity."
Goodnight, impossible mortal.
And for the second time in his new life, Bartholomew Thaddeus Jenkins III slept peacefully.
[END OF CHAPTER SIX]