Warhammer 40k : John The Inquisitor

Andry's sharp eyes lingered on the file marked "John Constantine." Several entries bore the name, but none seemed to fit the enigmatic man he had encountered. The possibility of an alias crossed his mind; it would be far from unusual. But one thing was clear: John Constantine was no ordinary traveler.

He glanced at the report detailing the shuttle parked in the hangar. Even to an untrained eye, its specifications screamed wealth and power. The warp engine alone was beyond the means of most noble families. The armor, repurposed from Imperial Navy warships, and the Titan-grade void shield—not to mention its subspace capabilities—placed it in a class of its own.

Andry tossed the file onto the table with a weary sigh, just as a rumble echoed outside—the unmistakable growl of a heavy-duty transport truck pulling up. Timing, it seemed, was impeccable.

Rising from his chair, Andry strolled out of his back room, nodding to his men lounging around the bar. They moved lazily, concealing weapons beneath their coats, and followed Andry outside. The afternoon sun cast long shadows over the scene, revealing a massive freight truck parked at the entrance. Its engine hummed softly, and the driver sat casually in the cab, exuding a calm confidence. He looked every bit like a young man coming back from a mundane errand, not someone who'd just fought for his life.

Andry's sharp eyes scanned the truck. Not a scratch, not a dent, not even a smudge of dust marred its surface. It was almost unnaturally clean, especially considering the kind of trouble that usually came with such a vehicle. John stepped out with a grin, patting the side of the truck as though it were an old friend. "Good as new," he announced. "Just a little wear on the chassis. Nothing to worry about."

Andry raised an eyebrow. His instincts told him there was more to this man than he let on. A silent signal to his men sent them around the truck to inspect it. One of them opened the back and gave a confirming nod—everything was in place.

John's grin widened. "See? Told you it'd all be there. Dangerous cargo isn't really my style." His tone was light, almost playful, but there was an edge of something else beneath it—something that made Andry uneasy.

"Three hours," Andry said, checking his watch. "That's all it took you? Did you run into the Sandmen?"

"Sandmen, huh? Funny name. Fits them, though." John's voice carried a hint of amusement. "Yeah, we met. Had a little disagreement, you could say." He tapped the bolter holstered at his side. "But as you can see, I'm in one piece, so I'd call it a successful negotiation."

Andry's eyes narrowed. There wasn't a scratch on the man. His clothes were pristine, his weapon neatly holstered, and there wasn't a trace of fatigue in his demeanor. "Negotiation?" Andry repeated, skepticism lacing his words.

"Oh, you know how it is," John said, miming a pistol with his hand. "You just have to find the right... pressure points. With them, it happened to be their heads."

Andry's lips tightened. "Mr. Constantine, the Sandmen aren't rabbits you can dispatch one by one in an hour. They're vicious."

John's smile didn't waver. If anything, it grew sharper. "Results matter more than methods, don't they?"

Andry felt a chill crawl down his spine. Years of surviving battlefields had honed his instincts, and every fiber of his being screamed that John was dangerous. Still, Andry knew better than to pry into secrets he wasn't meant to uncover. 

"The people you're looking for," Andry said finally, "crashed their shuttle in a wheat field a few days ago. They hitched a ride to the starport and left for the main planet."

"Any details?" John's tone was casual, but his eyes sharpened.

"Missionaries, mostly," Andry replied. "A cheerful bunch, except for one. The farmers who helped them said he barely spoke. Made them uneasy."

John tilted his head, curiosity gleaming in his gaze. "Uneasy how?"

"Like they were in the presence of a predator," Andry said. "A beast waiting to pounce."

For a moment, John's smile vanished, replaced by an expression Andry couldn't quite read. Then, just as quickly, the grin returned. "Interesting. Where's their shuttle now?"

"Confiscated by the Ministry of Justice," Andry said. "Detained for an illegal landing. Good luck getting it back."

John chuckled. "I'm sure I can persuade them." He turned to leave but stopped when Andry called his name.

"Here," Andry said, handing John a pendant. A silver snake, its fangs bared, gleamed in the sunlight. "When you get to the main planet, find a bartender named Silver Snake at the Half Good Bar in the lower hive. Show her this. She'll help you."

John examined the pendant, then tucked it into his coat. "Much appreciated, Andry. I owe you one."

As John walked away, Andry watched him go, a lingering unease gnawing at him. With a deep sigh, he turned back to his men. "Let's move the truck."

Sparks flew in every direction, lighting up the dim repair bay with bursts of brilliance. John lay sprawled on a dismantled seat, sipping a fruit drink through a straw. Sunglasses perched on his nose, he looked utterly at ease.

Behind him, four Deathwatch Astartes stood like black statues, their midnight armor devouring the light. The glare of the sparks didn't faze them; their genetically enhanced eyes needed no protection.

The Mechanicus Sage worked tirelessly, his many mechanical arms moving with a precision born of machine and mind. Welding tools, cutting saws, and repair clamps extended from beneath his robes, dismantling and rebuilding the wrecked shuttle John had retrieved. The soulless serJohnrs around him assisted silently, their lifeless efficiency almost eerie.

"How much of him do you think is still human?" John asked lazily, gesturing toward the Sage with his drink.

"Maybe just the brain," Tony said, arms crossed.

"Nah," Robert chimed in with a grin. "A guy that boring can't have a brain. And no guts either. Probably just cogs and wires."

"Watch your words," Johnson muttered. "You know how the Mechanicus reacts."

Robert snorted. "Let them. What are they gonna do? Build a machine to lecture me to death?"

John chuckled, taking another sip. "Let's hope they don't hear you, Robert. I'd hate to see what kind of monstrosity they'd invent just to prove you wrong."

Robert's grin widened as he clapped Tony's shoulder with his armored hand. "Yes, yes, I know! Those boring oil-heads don't even get jokes. Even our Caliban boy here understands them," he said with a laugh. Tony chuckled along, the sound of it muffled through his helmet.

"It's not like we just spend all day praying and training," Tony said, though he shifted uncomfortably. "Still, we are serious, especially Lord Asmodai. Uh..."