Sung with grim resignation by Heinrix von Calox (Inquisitor, amateur karaoke demonologist)
Well I don't know why I came here tonight
I've got the feeling that something ain't right
I'm so scared in case I lose all my hard work
And I'm wondering how I'll get down the Cogitator down the stairs
Screamers to the left of me
Pink Horrors to the right
Here I am stuck in the middle with you (Lazarus)
Yes I'm stuck in the middle with you
And I'm wondering what it is I should do
It's so hard to keep this smile on my face
Losing control, Sir Vegetable is all over the place
Screamers to the left of me
Pink Horrors to the right
Here I am stuck in the middle with you
30 Minutes Earlier: In Which We Don’t Find the Millions
Still on the trail of the missing millions (people, not Thrones), we opened a door into a chamber housing a large cogitator. Not your standard, humming-with-adequate-reverence-to-the-Omnissiah cogitator, but something corrupted, something... whispering. Pasqal immediately recoiled and channeled the spirit of every techpriest health and safety officer:
"The evil! Do not approach it!"
Naturally, Heinrix sprinted toward it like a child spotting an unattended jar of warp-tainted cookies.
He poked, prodded, and began murmuring sweet nothings to the machine. “My precious… so close… it’s predicting the future… almost there…”
"What is happening, Heinrix?" Lazarus asked, trying (futilely) to get a grip on the situation. "Where are the people?"
Heinrix: "They’ve been turned into liquid fuel to keep this cogitator running. It’s almost complete. Soon I’ll know the secrets of the cult—"
That was enough of that. Lazarus, fully channeling Samuel L. Jackson in space, pulled out his sniper rifle and shouted, "OH HELL NO!" One precise shot later, the power supply was toast, and Heinrix’s dreams of forbidden knowledge died with it.
Heinrix: "What have you done?! Years of work! Thousands sacrificed!"
Lazarus: "The humanity."
The cogitator squealed, sparked, and birthed a Screamer of Tzeentch.
Screaming is Always a Team Sport
"What is that?" demanded Pasqal, backing away.
"What is that?!" exclaimed Vegetable, charging forward like it owed him money.
"Chaos Demon!" shouted Sister Argenta, flipping into cover like a holy gymnast.
Heinrix took up a heroic stance and flailed his force sword.
Heinrix: "Look out!"
Cue wall-to-wall gunfire. Bolts, plasma, lasers—everything short of Dave’s kitchen sink. The Screamer did indeed scream, which—surprise!—ripped the warp a new one and deposited Pink Horrors and a Herald of Tzeentch into the room.
This is where Vegetable truly shone. He body-slammed the Screamer into paste, then bounded off into a dark corner for an impromptu chat with the Herald, presumably about their favourite heretical snack brands.
Heinrix recovered and managed to carve up the Screamer. Lanto applied the final bullet with elegant precision.
But chaos demons are basically flesh confetti. Kill one pink horror, and it explodes into two smaller ones. Soon the room was less “combat zone” and more “demonic slime nursery.”
To add insult to ichor, Chaos demons don’t carry loot. Just slime. All your gear? Slimed. The floor? Slimed. The walls? Slimed. Your pride? Also slimed.
Heinrix began mumbling something about reporting all this to the Inquisition. We told him if he even thought about filing that paperwork, no one would find his corpse.
A Christmas Carol, But Make it Chaos
On the way back to the ship, Lazarus suddenly dropped to the ground like someone unplugged his soul. Warp tentacles burst from his face, which (for the record) is not covered in the crew health plan.
He was visited by the ghosts of his bloodline’s questionable past, an inheritance involving some minor business with a Chaos pact. Future, past, present—it was a warp-themed soap opera.
Heinrix, now pretending to be useful, claimed he’d purged the interference with his psychic prowess.
Heinrix: "What was it, Lazarus?" Lazarus (lying): "Nothing. Just a touch of the warp flu."
Vegetable’s Navigation Philosophy
After consulting the map, Lazarus plotted a course to the next unexplored system. We opted for the yellow route this time because, as Vegetable put it:
"It’ll be fun."
Queue ominous music. Except—nothing happened.
We scanned a few planets, then stumbled across pirates looting a void station. As the enemy ransacked the place, Lazarus barked orders:
"Run out the guns. Prepare for tight manoeuvres. Let’s show them who da boss."
And by the Emperor, we did. Lazarus piloted the ship like it was a sports car and he had something to prove. Broadsides slammed into enemy hulls as the crew rained destruction. We made short work of the pirates, suffering only minor paint scratches before docking at the station.
Space Strip Club Showdown (With Extra Plasma)
Now, I could write a whole epic about the chaos inside that station. How we fought off a horde of pirates that would fill a strip club (don’t think too hard about that image). Vegetable smashing skulls like they were oranges. Pasqal softening them up with righteous plasma. Argenta zapping pirates like a grumpy bug zapper.
Yrilet and Lanto did what they always do: ended people from afar.
Lazarus directed the battle like he was conducting an operatic shootout.
But I won’t. Mostly because Vegetable’s antics are already banned from formal reports.
The important thing is: pirates have way better loot than Chaos demons.
Lazarus vs The Console (Again)
Next stop: an ancient bunker with dodgy life support and a gently lethal atmosphere. We ran around salvaging shiny bits while our health ticked down like an inconvenient kitchen timer. Lazarus stayed behind at the shuttle, tired of herding chaos-flavoured cats.
He occasionally chimed in over the vox:
"Have you fixed the water pipes yet?" "Why is the power offline?"
Then he found the console.
Lazarus: "I wonder what this button does?"
It activated automated defences. Four turrets popped up and locked onto Lazarus like he owed them money.
From the depths of the ruin, we heard gunfire and screaming.
"Nothing to see here. Everything’s fine. How are you doing?" Lazarus wheezed over the vox, applying bandages with urgency.
We shut the system down. Then voted to ban him from touching anything vaguely technical.
The Pirate Tollbooth of Regret
We jumped to another system and stumbled upon a pirate fleet. They demanded a toll. The group held a very serious discussion about options A through D.
Should we A - pay them off, B - threaten them in return, C- Attack hoping to take them by surprise, or D …
Sister Argenta: "Why are we even discussing this? Man the guns. FULL SPEED AHEAD. DEPLOY THE RAM."
Lazarus checked the geometry. Stars aligned. One frigate was directly ahead.
"Battle stations! BRACE FOR IMPACT! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!"
We rammed it. Vegetable whooped. Pasqal peeled himself off the floor.
"Newtonian physics is a byatch," he muttered.
Lazarus then ordered the main gun to target a destroyer. Plasma lance fired. Destroyer? Vaporised. The other pirates, now experiencing intense regret, began to flee.
We gave chase. Yrilet scanned the enemy frigate—found a weak port-side section. Missiles homed in. Broadside followed. Then a dorsal turret blast. Then ANOTHER broadside.
Pirates. Obliterated.
Damage Reports and Debriefing
The ship was limping. Damage reports came in like depressing confetti. Lazarus sighed, issued repair orders, and stared longingly at a glass of something alcoholic.
We laughed. We recounted our heroics. We polished our guns and egos.
And Heinrix, quietly, took notes. Presumably for a report no one will ever read.
In summary:
Heinrix almost joined the Chaos cult (again).
Vegetable negotiated with a Herald.
Lazarus lied to avoid further paperwork.
We fought pirates, ransacked a ruin, got shot by our own turrets, and rammed a frigate.
And once again proved: in the grimdark future of the 41st millennium…
Style trumps survival.
Tzeentch
