Warhammer 40k : John The Inquisitor

The view shifted as they descended. Layer upon layer of buildings crowded the horizon, an endless sprawl of structures linked by sky bridges and winding roads. No sunlight reached here; the entire cityscape bathed in an eerie glow from neon shop signs, streetlamps, and the headlights of passing vehicles. The vibrant colors blurred into a dreamlike haze.

"Another hive city," John muttered, his voice laced with a mix of familiarity and disdain. He'd visited his share of these places, and though they all bore the same oppressive atmosphere, each carried its own unique misery. Some were worse than others, and this one was leaning toward the bleak end of the spectrum.

His fingers danced over the instrument panel, flipping switches and adjusting knobs. The shuttle's vector nozzles roared as they rotated, spitting bright blue flames that eased the craft into a slow descent. With a final burst of recoil, the landing gear extended, locking the shuttle securely onto the platform. The engine's hum faded as the vector jets cooled, and the metallic hiss of settling machinery filled the air.

The hatch beneath the shuttle slid open with a smooth hiss, and John stepped onto the platform deck. As soon as his boots hit the ground, the platform's heavy machinery groaned to life, hauling the landing pad and its cargo toward the main building ahead. Massive reinforced concrete walls loomed on either side, rising like the fortress they were—a stark reminder of the separation between this planetary city and the outside world.

To his left, a colossal transport ship as tall as a skyscraper was discharging its payload. Gouts of cooling vapor and pressure-released mist enveloped the scene, blanketing the dock in a ghostly fog. John straightened his collar and turned his attention forward as the platform slid into the starport's cavernous interior. Inside, under a dome supported by gigantic metal girders, the golden Imperial Aquila glinted high above the bustling chaos.

Starships of every size and shape were crammed into every available berth. Rogue traders, travelers, and crewmen darted about like insects beneath their towering ships. The combined din of shouting voices, rumbling engines, and the occasional mechanical whine created a relentless cacophony.

A young, disinterested administrator approached, holding a data tablet and tapping away with a sensor pen. Without looking up, he asked, "Purpose of visit?" His tone was as flat as the expression on his face.

"Tourism," John replied with a wry smile. "Just visiting."

The administrator snorted, finally glancing up. "Tourism? Here? What kind of idiot would visit this dump for sightseeing?"

"What do you suggest I put, then?" John countered, keeping his grin.

The man waved dismissively. "Doesn't matter. Personal visit. That'll be 2,000 Imperial Eagles for docking fees and admin costs."

As the administrator spoke, a servo-skull buzzed over, its tiny thrusters keeping it aloft. It floated to John, extending a card slot. With practiced ease, John retrieved a sleek black card from his pocket, slid it into the slot, and retrieved it a moment later. The servo-skull chimed, "Payment completed. Landing permitted," before whizzing off.

The administrator resumed scribbling on his tablet. "Name. Ship name."

"John Constantine," he said, gesturing casually toward his shuttle. "And that beauty over there is Aquila. Take care of her, will you?"

The administrator grunted noncommittally. "Sure. Do whatever you need."

"One more thing," John added, stopping the man mid-turn. "Who are those guys?" He nodded toward a group gathered near a docking bay. Bald men with snake tattoos were haggling over cargo with a crew of weary spacers. The transaction seemed to be going well, though the guards nearby feigned obliviousness.

The administrator barely glanced over. "The Pious Association. Local gang. Religious fanatics. Stay away from them."

"Religious? You mean the state religion?"

"Yeah, but they're crazier than the church folks. Don't ask me for details. If you're so curious, go bother a missionary."

The administrator walked off in a huff, muttering under his breath. John chuckled, watching him go. "Lucky you didn't run into one of my stricter colleagues," he murmured, amused at the thought of the young man's reaction if he knew John's true role.

With a shrug, he adjusted the blaster on his hip and headed for the starport's exit, his mind already turning to the task ahead.

The streets of the mid-hive sprawled before him, an intricate maze of pathways lit by neon and buzzing streetlights. The natural sun was a distant luxury reserved for the noble elite far above. Here, the light was artificial, a mixture of garish advertisements and flickering lamps that cast everything in an otherworldly glow.

This was where most of the hive's population eked out their existence, caught between the opulence of the upper hive and the desperation of the lower depths. John turned his head a group of servo skulls hovering reverently before a massive statue of the Emperor. 

The floating skulls projected the voice of a priest dressed in a bright red robe and a pristine white monk's hat. His attire looked oddly out of place amid the dim grime of the lower hive, yet his fervor was undeniable. 

"In the boundless void of the galaxy, where darkness consumes all, only He stands as our salvation! The Lord of Mankind, the King upon the Golden Throne! Only His divine radiance can save us! Only faith can shield the common man from annihilation!" The priest's impassioned voice echoed through the hive, amplified by the servo skulls. His fervent recitation of the Emperor's Holy Sayings seemed to pulse with unshakable conviction. The words, etched into the priest's memory, spilled out like a mantra.

John couldn't help the faint, sardonic smile that tugged at his lips. He'd heard these words countless times, and he knew their origins far better than the average citizen. The Holy Sayings, revered as divine scripture, had a more... pragmatic origin. But as an inquisitor, such musings were best kept to himself.

The people of the Imperium were not inclined toward nuance or innovation. Share a thought that deviated too far from orthodoxy, and the best-case scenario was a public beating. The worst? A swift execution. Heresy was not a crime forgiven easily. 

"Pain is prayer! Faith is salvation! Believe in Him, for it is His light that brings us the truth!" The priest's voice climbed in intensity, his fiery conviction contagious. Around him, the faithful shouted their praises, their voices raw from chanting verses from the Book of Sacred Words. They bellowed as if their cries could reach Holy Terra itself, spanning thousands of light-years to the Emperor's golden throne.

John shook his head with a wry chuckle. His gaze shifted to a younger figure standing nearby—a timid apprentice priest stationed beneath the statue. The boy's presence was so subdued he might as well have been invisible beside his zealous mentor. "Priest," John addressed him, stepping closer.

The apprentice's head jerked up, startled. "N-no, sir. I'm just an apprentice, assigned to assist Brother Endis. It's not my sermon."

John's expression softened, offering a friendly smile. "Every priest starts as an apprentice, my young friend. Even someone as... spirited as Brother Endis. What's your name?"

"Karel, sir. Apprentice Karel," he stammered, clutching the massive Book of Holy Words in his hands. The tome was so thick it seemed better suited as a weapon than a scripture.