When your mind, spirit, and soul harbor thoughts, emotions, memories, and desires that are not your own, what do you do?
For a mortal, this horrific torture is unbearable; resistance crumbles before it can even form.
For an enhanced bioengineered weapon like an Astartes or the greater Custodes, survival hinges on sheer defiance of will. Yet ruin awaits even them—these mighty warriors are not immune to such treachery.
For Atrius, this was an eternal trial unless he could overcome it.
Here, in the domain of soul and mind, even his body's adaptive gifts failed him. Relying on flesh to mend the psyche was futile.
Thus, he turned to the "gift" he despised.
Rarely used and applied with only mediocre skill, his transhuman intellect had already devised contingencies against the corruption of alien wills: a psychic barrier cascading so deep that only faint echoes of his struggles could reach him.
Unconsciously, his soul recreated a forgotten memory—a desert world of endless dunes, barren of nearly all life.
Why did "he" feel safe there?
A question for later. Now, he gazed into the maelstrom surrounding him.
Bodiless, senseless, alone with nothing but his will to withstand the suffering of a million worlds.
He sifted through the invading wills—mortals, humans all.
Men, women, children. Heretics, mutants, renegades. Loyalists, rogues, cultists.
So many.
He experienced them all at once: conception, birth, maturity, ego, ideals, struggles, and ultimately death.
Such were the lives of humans across the Imperium—trapped in bureaucratic decadence, blind worship, and servitude; crammed into the underhives built for exploitation.
He saw them. He lived them. At times, he could scarcely distinguish himself from them.
Nobility and peasantry, rejected and glorified, vulnerable and sanctified—all streamed through his transhuman mind, seeking assimilation or disintegration.
Then... something shifted.
Everything grew sluggish.
A burden lifted from his psyche.
What is happening?
Thought flowed freely again.
Like a drop rippling a pond, his mind stirred as the alien wills began to crumble like rubble.
Seizing the moment, he unleashed without restraint.
THRUMMMMMMM
A ripple of psychic energy erupted, engulfing the domain.
It tore everything to shreds—like paper.
Unknown to him, this desperate avalanche did far more than intended.
In unseen dimensions, vast holes ripped through layers of reality.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Warhammer 40k
Imperium of Man
Holy Terra
The cradle of mankind felt more vibrant than ever. Why wouldn't it? Mankind no longer served a comatose god, but a living one.
He had risen from the Golden Throne, more radiant than any had dared hope in ten thousand years. With him came vengeance that scorched the Black Legion's ranks as the Imperium reclaimed worlds and exterminated Chaos's servants.
The galaxy no longer burned in endless war—it was being purged by the God-Emperor's light and the might of his returning sons.
At least, that was the common belief.
Beneath the veil of unity, darker currents boiled.
To the Emperor and those in power, the current Imperium was a failure. Holders of forbidden knowledge from the 31st millennium knew the purge targeted not only Chaos and traitors. Soon, the flaming sword would turn inward.
Imperial Palace
Sanctum Imperialis
Upon the Golden Throne, the Emperor sat alone in thought, ever flanked by his new 300 guardians—silent sentinels in auramite, their black mourning cloaks replaced by vibrant red.
The throne room was silent. The Companions knew the signs: their master dwelt in the realm of thought, planning his next moves. It was a melancholic sight, as if the last ten thousand years had never happened.
Clang.
Suddenly, the Emperor rose, drawing every Custodes' gaze.
His face was no longer expressionless gloom but gleeful. His eyes blazed with intense psychic light.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
METAPHYSICAL PLANE
ATRIUS'S PSYCHIC DOMAIN
"Who are you?" the child asked the woman still clutching him tightly.
She looked down with compassion, violet eyes glowing in the gloom. Dusky yet fair skin, adorned with a necklace of beast fangs.
"I am your mother. Who else?" she smiled warmly, cupping his cheeks.
"Mother? What is that?" the child asked, eyes wide with innocent confusion.
Her expression darkened briefly before the smile returned.
"A mother is a..."
Bang... bang... bang.
Loud impacts interrupted, drawing the child's gaze to the sandstorm raging around the oasis like the eye of a hurricane.
The noise came from behind him—the storm slamming against an invisible barrier.
"What is happening?" he clutched her fur cloak in fear.
"He is coming."
BOOOM~~~
The sandstorm shattered in a mighty gust. With it, all cries and voices ceased.
Thud thud thud thud.
Heavy footfalls approached.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
DEEP WARP
Swarms of deep warp abominations spiraled around Atrius's psychic projection, tendrils piercing desperately into the anomaly.
BOOOM.
Suddenly, the horrors recoiled as the golden storm shrank and condensed.
They had fought to breach it for an irrelevant eternity, only to be repelled.
Eyeless eyes stared as a mighty sword materialized, backed by fiery golden gaze—a warning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
EARTH
TOMORROW WAR UNIVERSE – 2052
In orbit, Imperial ships lingered, dispatched to purge the xenos threat below.
On the Oath, Maloris observed drop pods streaking like falling stars.
Auspex officers and Chalstrom awaited orders.
For this skirmish, Imperial forces fought with their own tactics. Maloris's role was observer: to witness the might and methods of the warriors under his command.
Leading a fleet of disparate doctrines was challenging—their disdain for one another palpable. Loyalty to the Emperor was temporary glue, doing little to ease mistrust.
The Custodes saw the flaw instantly: where they served out of pure loyalty, Astartes followed doctrine and dogma. Strip that away, and they were vulnerable.
Among them, the Black Templars—zealots priding themselves as the Emperor's champions—were perhaps the most radical. They believed Him divine... correct, in a sense. Yet it was a crack in loyalty's shield.
Maloris wondered: if the Master abolished their dogma, would they comply—or brand Him false?
For now, he watched vigilantly, profiling their responses to gauge utility. This expedition might serve another purpose: a test of compliance, of whether ten millennia of religious dogma had corrupted the Emperor's designs.
"My lord, the Ravens have made contact. Ground secured in a 25-kilometer radius and expanding. Comms established," Chalstrom reported.
"Excellent. The others?"
"Still bound for Terra."
Before Maloris could press, a Sister of Silence approached silently.
Greetings, Tribune. The Choir requires your presence.
Maloris's eyes widened briefly. He nodded.
"Stand by. Another will assume command."
He followed the Sister, voxing N'kjaka privately: "Brother, take the bridge. I am needed elsewhere."
"Compliance."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Deep within the Voice of the Throne, a hidden chamber hosted over a dozen Sisters of Silence and one Custodes guardian.
Tension filled the air as they encircled a hooded woman cradling a bizarre bony object—too large for her hands, yet held like a child.
Her feminine chin visible in the dim light, head bowed.
This was the Emperor's sanctioned aid: a tracer for the last son when psychic beacons failed.
Atrius.
Golden light flared in her eyes, legitimizing her duty. She was connected.
Thung thung thung.
Maloris entered, escorted by Sisters. He eyed her agonized expression with caution.
"What is happening? Have you sensed him?"
"I... see... him," she strained through gritted teeth. "I can almost feel him... he is in pain."
Maloris' expression darkened.
He ignored her suffering, fixating on the bone. The Emperor had provided only this—imprinted with Atrius's psychic essence from the Heresy. The "Weeping Bone," dropped by a lone child on a battlefield of angels.
Any psyker touching it connected more deeply than even the Emperor. But the sorrow imbued in the weapon would torment the mind and give unsettling visions.
'Brother, where are you?' Maloris thought.
"Are we close? Can you guide us?"
She looked up, golden eyes brimming with emotion.
"He... is close... so close... it's getting stronger... no—he noticed me."
Her duty was brutal; bearing such psychic weight would shatter most. But she endured—or told herself she did.
"He has taken notice... he sees me."
"HE SEES ME!"
A wail echoed, startling all. Crimson tears streamed as she stared upward in terror.
She was not alone. Across the fleet, every psyker felt the searing will.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
DC EARTH
Inside the Gorgon's cave, the stalemate persisted.
Half of Atrius's torso was petrified through his armor.
The Gorgon stared in frustration.
"What manner of creature are you?" she muttered.
As before, the giant floated unresponsive, expression blissful.
She cupped his chin, noting petrification on brows, lashes, and graying hair tips.
The longest any had resisted her curse. He was nearly immune.
For a moment, she considered ending it—but what then?
Crumble.. crumble.
Stone trembled on his armor. His gaze shifted from bliss to pensiveness, then stoic resolve.
Golden eyes locked fully.
BOOOM!!!
Psychic force erupted. The Gorgon gasped, tail coiling as she tried to flee
but she couldn't move—held fast by unseen power.
"Creature!"
The word thundered through her lair.