Warhammer 40k : John The Inquisitor

As John strolled toward the exit, Andry leaned back in his chair, his gaze lingering on the retreating figure. A frown crept across his face as he poured himself another drink, trying to drown the uneasy thoughts gnawing at his mind.

John leaned casually against his crimson hoverbike, a sleek machine with the unmistakable stamp of Mars craftsmanship. The bike was a relic of the old Martian manufactories—a prized possession. How John had acquired it was a story best left untold, but one thing was certain: he hadn't bought it from the Adeptus Mechanicus.

Wearing dark sunglasses and holding a chilled drink, John looked more like a tourist on a garden world than an inquisitor on a mission. But the desolation around him told a different story. The land was barren, drained of nutrients by relentless crop cycles. What was once fertile ground was now a wasteland, a casualty of the Imperium's insatiable appetite for resources.

He sipped his drink leisurely, then raised his binoculars. Through the lenses, he spotted the targets—a band of raiders scavenging an abandoned agricultural settlement. These so-called natives wore ragged hoods that obscured their faces, save for a pair of glowing lenses that might've been mechanical. Their spindly, dark fingers gripped crude weapons, and while humanoid in form, their xeno nature was undeniable.

"Judge," a deep voice called. 

John lowered the binoculars, tilting his head back to see a towering figure approaching. The knight's winged helmet gleamed under the harsh sunlight, and his massive sword rested effortlessly in his grip. "I hope Robert isn't too upset," John said, a mischievous grin playing on his lips.

"Oh, he's furious," the knight replied. "He's taken his anger out on a few combat in the training cages. Bryan's been cursing your name for hours."

John chuckled. "If I needed to wreak havoc, I'd have called Robert. But this mission requires precision. No one can know the Astartes were involved."

Tony laughed under his helmet, his gaze shifting to the town below. "I heard you Dark Angels excel at covert operations. Cleaning up traces, erasing evidence—it's practically your specialty."

John smirked, taking another sip of his drink. "I wasn't talking about your company, Tony. But let's get to work, shall we?"

Tony unsheathed his knightly sword with an assured grip. "But I believe I can handle it," he said confidently, the blade catching the light. Across from him, John placed his drink down with an approving smirk. "Very good," he replied, the air between them charged with purpose.

"Good afternoon, everyone." The xeno—a rugged, dangerous-looking bunch—turned sharply at the voice. They glared at the source: a man strolling down the dusty street with a swagger that teetered between audacity and lunacy. Their weapons came up in unison, accompanied by guttural shouts in a language that was somewhere between a growl and a roar. It wasn't friendly.

John, hands swinging lazily at his sides, wore a casual grin that was entirely out of place. He halted, taking in the hostile stares and raised guns with an amused expression. "Apologies, everyone. I haven't quite picked up your charming language yet, but I trust you can understand me well enough," he said, gesturing toward a large truck parked nearby.

The truck was an armored monstrosity, its massive tires built for rugged terrain. Once a grain transport, it now carried precious cargo under its reinforced hatch. "Would you mind returning that vehicle to us? I'd be ever so grateful," John added with mock politeness.

The response was immediate: weapons cocked, barrels aimed. John's smile only widened as he raised his hands in a theatrical shrug. "Well then, allow me to introduce my... large friend."

Before the last word left his mouth, a nearby wall exploded into rubble. Stone fragments rained down as a towering figure stepped through the wreckage. Tony, clad in ceramite armor, carried a bolter in one hand like it was an extension of his will. The weapon thundered almost immediately, its explosive rounds tearing through xeno bodies with brutal precision. Black blood sprayed the air as Tony advanced without hesitation, his movements a terrifying blend of speed and power.

The xenos, now caught between confusion and panic, redirected their fire. Their crude weapons were laughably ineffective against Tony's armor, the impacts barely scratching the paint. He shifted his aim, unleashing the Emperor's wrath with calculated efficiency. Each shot hit its mark, leaving xeno corpses in his wake.

Meanwhile, John had drawn his bolter, the weapon's report echoing as he joined the fray. With fluid grace, he dodged incoming fire, his boots kicking up dust as he sprinted through the chaos. He slid behind a toppled cabinet, using it as cover while returning fire with practiced ease.

An xeno with a bulky rifle screamed something unintelligible, firing wildly in John's direction. The shots shredded his cover, but John was already on the move. As the xeno reloaded, its head abruptly exploded, courtesy of Tony's bolter.

The Space Marine discarded a lifeless body with one hand and drew his knightly sword with the other. The blade's energy crackled ominously as it swung, cleaving through an xeno at close range. The body disintegrated, flesh vaporized by the blade's power. Tony advanced like a storm, each swing of his sword ending another life.

John, not to be outdone, kept pace. He calmly dispatched two xenos attempting to flank Tony with a grenade launcher, his aim unerring. A scimitar-wielding xeno leaped at him from a rooftop, blade raised high. John spun, his reflexes preternatural. He struck with the butt of his weapon, smashing the xeno's face and sending blood spraying before finishing it with a single shot.

The fight reached its climax when a desperate group of xenos retreated into an old grocery store. John picked up a grenade launcher from the ground, grinning as he fired into the building. The explosion rocked the street, sending debris flying. A lone blackened hand flopped onto the dirt road, the last evidence of the store's occupants.

As the smoke cleared, John strode toward Tony, who was finishing off the final xeno. With a clean stroke, the Space Marine ended it, then surveyed the scene with cold efficiency. "I'll toss the bodies into the burning building. Nothing will remain," Tony said, sheathing his sword. His voice carried the weight of duty.

John chuckled, patting the armored gauntlet of his wrist. "I knew I could count on you. I'm off to deliver the goods. Tell Robert when you see him that I've got something special lined up for him."

Tony nodded. "When? Where?"

John climbed into the truck's driver's seat, donning a pair of sunglasses with a flourish. "Victoria Prime," he replied with a casual wave. The truck's engine roared to life, and it rumbled away, kicking up a cloud of dust.

As the vehicle disappeared, John leaned out the window and shouted, "Oh, and bring my son's hoverbike back in one piece! Try not to scratch the paint!"

Tony sighed, glancing at the xeno corpses littering the street. "No promises."

In a dimly lit office, Andry poured himself a glass of deep red wine. The bottle—a rare vintage called Sanganrio—was something he reserved strictly for himself. Its name was as difficult to pronounce as it was steeped in religious symbolism, but the taste was exquisite.

He sipped thoughtfully while flipping through a stack of documents from the Imperial Government Affairs Department. Each page detailed individuals bearing the surname Constantine. Though uncommon, it was far from rare across the vast expanse of the galaxy. The records were thorough but incomplete, the names listed only a fraction of those who carried the name.