"KCHUG! Kchug! KCHUG!" The rhythmic, metallic clatter of the mag-lev train's wheels against the guidance track was a steady, hypnotic percussion.
Out the window, the world was a blurred watercolor of muted browns and sickly greens, a desolate tapestry of the Old World's failures. We were en route from the corporate-spired canyons of New San Antonio to the gaudy, neon-drenched heart of Hollywood, a journey of several hours. It was a necessity.
The direct routes were still laced with lethal levels of radiation, silent graveyards of a civilization that had gotten too clever for its own good. That's why everyone used the trains. They were sealed, shielded, and followed pre-scanned safe corridors—the safest way to travel domestically, or even internationally if you had the credits and the clearance.
I leaned back in the plush, ergonomic seat of my private cabin, the faint hum of the air filtration system a constant white noise. A lot of time. That was a commodity I was still getting used to having.
With a tap on my tablet's screen, I pulled up the live analytics feed from Sunday. The data bloomed across the display in vibrant, satisfying charts and graphs.
Warhammer 40,000: Space Marine wasn't just a hit; it was a cultural seismic event. The numbers were staggering. Ninety-eight percent dominance across all major streaming and video content platforms. It was a complete and total monopoly of the public's attention span.
A low, genuine chuckle escaped my lips. I scrolled through user-generated clips: players bellowing battle cries as they chainsworded through a horde of Orks, others marveling at the grim, gothic architecture of the game's universe, their voices tight with awe and a touch of fear. They were into it. They were feeling the same primal thrill I had felt a lifetime ago, in a different world, hunched over a dimly lit screen.
"[The player engagement metrics are exceeding all projections, Sael,]" Sunday's calm, synthesized voice murmured through the tablet's speaker.
"[The average continuous play session is eleven-point-three hours. Furthermore, the title has already spawned over four hundred and twenty-seven thousand dedicated forums and community hubs.]"
"Four hundred thousand?" I whispered, impressed despite myself. I'd hoped for a dedicated fanbase, but this was a wildfire.
"[The largest]," Sunday continued, "[is a site simply called 'The Imperial Archives.' It is a fan-made repository. They are attempting to compile every piece of lore, every line of dialogue, every glyph found on a wall into a cohesive whole.]"
Now I really laughed, a soft, hearty sound that was absorbed by the cabin's soundproofed walls. Of course they were. Some things were truly universal, transcending worlds, dimensions, even the apocalypse itself. The gamer's insatiable need to catalog, to theory-craft, to know.
"This is… this is amazing, Sunday," I said, my voice laced with genuine awe as I delved into the fan-made database. It wasn't just a list of facts. It was a labor of love. They had cross-referenced audio logs, analyzed environmental textures, and compiled scripture from in-game monuments I'd almost forgotten I'd included.
"[It is a fascinating sociological phenomenon,]" Sunday replied. "[Approximately thirty-point-two percent of the player base has dedicated their primary playtime not to the core combat loop, but to what they are calling 'archeotech recovery.' They are scouring every pixel of the game world for informational artifacts.]"
"That is so typical," I mused, a wide grin on my face. "Give them a universe to explore, and half of them will ignore the main path to poke into every dark corner looking for scraps of paper. I love it."
I had remade this game, redesigned it from the ground up from the dusty memories of my past life.
The original was a masterpiece of action, but this version… this was built to be a gateway drug. An introduction to the terrifying, magnificent, and utterly insane universe of Warhammer 40K. To that end, I'd seeded it with hidden records, encrypted data-slates, and corrupted vox-casts. Nuggets of information for the curious to find.
Info about the God-Emperor of Mankind, a thousand-fold psychic might be entombed within the Golden Throne, a glorious corpse sustained by a daily sacrifice of a thousand souls. Lore about His long, tragic history and the betrayal of his sons. Detailed bestiaries on the Orks, a fungal plague of pure violence; the enigmatic and ancient Eldar; the ravenous Tyranids. I'd poured the dark heart of the 41st millennium into this game, and they were drinking it up, thirstier than I could have imagined.
"And just like I wanted," I murmured to myself, a swell of proud ownership in my chest.
"Just like I loved." Men and women, from all walks of life, were falling down the rabbit hole. They were getting addicted to the grim darkness, to the over-the-top fanaticism, to the sense of scale that made our own post-apocalyptic struggles feel almost quaint.
One of my major alterations was paying off in spades. To give the female players a true icon, I hadn't just offered a palette-swapped Space Marine. I'd created an entirely new character, a co-lead: Roxana, a Battle Sister of the Adepta Sororitas. Her story ran parallel to Captain Titus's, sometimes intersecting, sometimes diverging, offering a different perspective on the same war. The forums were alight with debate over who was the 'true' protagonist, and the fan art of Sister Roxana in her power armor, wielding a blazing flamer, was… prolific, to say the least.
"[The 'Imperial Archives' forum,]" Sunday reported, pulling me from my thoughts, "[has just surpassed two hundred and fifty million registered members. Its growth curve remains exponential. Analysis indicates the membership is fully inclusive, comprising individuals from the uppermost corporate echelons to common industrial workers. They appear to be collaborating without any discernible hierarchical friction within the forum's context.]"
I snorted. "The one thing that can unite humanity isn't peace, love, and understanding. It's arguing over fictional xenotypes and the doctrinal purity of a fictional church. Beautiful."
"[There is an additional, emergent trend within the forum's most dedicated theoreticians,]" Sunday added, her tone somehow managing to convey dry amusement.
"[A contingent, largely comprised of academics, historians, and socio-economists, have begun postulating a rather… existential theory.]"
"Oh?" I prompted, intrigued.
"[They are proposing that the game's universe is not merely fiction, but a possible, perhaps even probable, future state for our own world. They are drawing parallels between the Age of Strife that birthed the Imperium and our own Great Collapse. They speak of the emperor's rise as a logical endpoint of our current trajectory towards corporate neo-feudalism and genetic extremism.]"
I stared at the tablet, utterly gobsmacked. Then, a deep, rolling laugh burst out of me. They were spiraling. The professors and the rich eccentrics were taking my video game and turning it into a genuine eschatological prophecy. The irony was so thick I could taste it. They were using my recreation of a fictional dystopia to make sense of their very real one.
The cabin door hissed open, interrupting my thoughts. The scent of expensive perfume and authority preceded her. Kate.
She slipped inside, the door sealing shut behind her with a soft thump. She'd shed her formal courtroom blazer, leaving her in a tailored silk blouse that did incredible things for her figure and a pencil skirt that emphasized the sway of her hips. Her expression, usually one of severe professional competence, was now soft, her eyes warm with a private affection reserved only for me.
"There you are," she said, her voice a low, soothing melody. "What are you doing, honey?"
"Just checking on the world I built," I said, setting the tablet down on the seat beside me.
She glided over, her heels silent on the plush carpet. "The world you built is driving everyone else utterly mad with obsession. I've had three calls from corporate lawyers demanding to know if we're seeding subliminal messaging." She stopped in front of me, looking down with that mix of maternal concern and blatant desire that never failed to stir me. "It's a phenomenal success, honey."
The endearment, the subtle submission in her tone… it was our signal. The professional veil dropped away completely.
"Come here, babe," I said, my voice dropping an octave, losing its casual chill and taking on a note of command.
She didn't hesitate. She moved into the space between my knees, and I reached up, my hands sliding from her waist down to the curve of her ass, pulling her firmly against me. A soft gasp escaped her lips.
"You're tense," I murmured, kneading the firm muscle through the thin fabric of her skirt. "Long day of fielding calls about my subliminal heresy?"
"Mmm, you have no idea," she sighed, her hands coming to rest on my shoulders, her fingers digging in slightly. "It's exhausting. They all want a piece of you. Of what you have."
"But I'm your piece, aren't I, Kate?" I said, looking up at her, my gaze intense, dominant.
"Yes," she breathed out, her eyes fluttering closed for a second. "Yes, you are. All mine."
"Then let me take care of my lawyer." I didn't ask. I stated.
In one smooth motion, I spun her around and pulled her down onto my lap, her back against my chest. She let out a tiny, surprised yelp that quickly melted into a low moan as my hands roamed over her body, one cupping her breast through the silk, feeling the pebbled nipple harden instantly against my palm, the other hiking up her skirt.
"Honey~…" she whispered, her head lolling back onto my shoulder, her body already pliant and yielding.
"Shhh~," I commanded softly near her ear, nipping at the lobe. "I'm working. This is R&D. Testing stress-relief protocols."
She laughed, a breathy, wanton sound. "You're a menace."
My fingers found the waistband of her panties and slid beneath, not hesitating, delving straight into the wet heat that awaited them. She was already soaking, her arousal slick and hot against my probing fingers.
"Fuck, honey," she gasped, her hips bucking involuntarily against my hand.
"Tell me," I growled, my fingers circling her clit, applying just the right amount of pressure. "Tell me who you belong to."
"You," she moaned, her professional composure utterly shattered. "I belong to you. Ughn. Only you..."
I worked her with my fingers, drawing out ragged gasps and throaty moans. The train's rhythmic clacking seemed to sync with the movement of my hand.
"Clack-clack. PAH! Clack-clack. PAH!" The sound of my palm meeting the soft skin of her inner thigh, not hard, but enough to make her jump and cry out, her body clenching around my invading fingers.
"So wet for me," I murmured, my voice rough with my own building need. "My proper, perfect lawyer, turned into a dripping mess in my lap on a public train."
"Please…" she begged, writhing against me. "Please, Honey…. I need you. Now."
That was all the permission I needed. I unbuttoned my pants, freeing my aching cock. I manhandled her effortlessly, lifting her up and then guiding her down onto me, impaling her in one slow, exquisite stroke that made us both cry out.
"AAHH!!! GUOO~! FUUUCCCKKK!!!! Your cock's so big and... thick Honey~" she screamed, her head thrown back, her body stretching to accommodate me, to take all of me.
I held her hips tight, controlling her movements, setting a brutal, pounding rhythm right there in the chair. The world outside, the toxic wasteland, the corporate empires, the fan theories—it all faded into meaningless noise. There was only this. Her tight, hot warmth milking my cock, the smell of her perfume mixed with the scent of our sex, the raw, animal sounds tearing from her throat.
"PAH! PAH! PAH!" The sound of our flesh meeting filled the cabin, a lewd counterbeat to the train's travel. She was mewling, incoherent, completely lost in the sensation, her nails digging into my thighs.
"Who's your client?" I grunted, driving up into her, hitting depths that made her eyes roll back.
"Aaahhh♥ You! Aaahhh♥ You!" she sobbed.
"Who owns this cunt?" I demanded, slamming into her.
"You do! Ughk. You own it! AAHH!" I felt her climax beginning to coil, her inner muscles fluttering wildly around me. I redoubled my efforts, my own release boiling in my gut.
"THUMP!!! THUMP!! PAHH!! PAHH!!" With a final, powerful thrust, I buried myself to the hilt, and we came together.
Her body seized up, a silent scream on her lips as a powerful, shuddering orgasm ripped through her.
"GUOOOOOOH~! SQQUUIIIRRRTT!!! SQUIRT!! "
The feeling of her convulsing around me tore my own orgasm from me.
"Spluuurt! Spurt! Spurt… SSpppurrrtt!" I pulsed inside her, my own groan a guttural, possessive sound against her neck, filling her up as I held her trembling body tight against mine.
For long minutes, the only sounds were our ragged breathing and the unceasing clack-clack-clack of the train on the tracks. We stayed like that, joined, connected, a bubble of intense privacy hurtling through a dangerous world.
She finally slumped against me, boneless and completely spent. I held her, one arm wrapped around her stomach, my chin resting on her shoulder. I glanced over at the tablet, still open to the fan forum debating the future of mankind. I smiled, a calm, contented, and deeply perverted smile. If they only knew what their future architect was really up to.
***************
The limousine's interior was a capsule of chilled, perfumed air, a stark contrast to the hazy, neon-drenched sprawl of New San Antonio sliding past the tinted windows.
I leaned back into the butter-soft leather, one arm around Kate, whose head rested comfortably on my shoulder. Her fingers traced idle patterns on my chest through the fabric of my shirt. The hum of the electric engine was a low, soothing drone, but the real noise was happening in the digital world, a storm I'd created and was now content to watch from a distance.
"You're quiet, honey," Kate murmured, her voice a husky vibration against my neck. "A million miles away."
"More like a million light-years," I said, my fingers gently combing through her dark hair. On the seat opposite us, a holographic display hovered, showing a cascading waterfall of data and social media feeds. "Just watching the world lose its collective mind."
Sunday, had curated the best—and most unhinged—of the reactions to our latest release, Warhammer 40,000: Space Marine. The conspiracy theories had, as expected, gone completely bonkers.
"[Shall I play the latest from 'The Emperor's Truth' channel, Sael?]" Sunday's voice, cool and mellifluous, emanated from the car's speakers.
"[The host posits, with what he claims is 'irrefutable evidence,' that the Adeptus Astartes are based on a lost, genetically-enhanced regiment of the Pre-Collapse Earth government and that we are engaged in a soft-disclosure campaign.]"
I couldn't help but snort. "Let me guess. He's using the Mark VI 'Corvus' helmet design as proof of advanced avian DNA splicing?"
"[Astonishingly accurate,]" Sunday confirmed. A new window popped up in the holo-display, showing a wild-eyed man gesticulating wildly in front of a poorly green-screened image of a Blood Angel.
"[He also suggests that the 'Warp' is a metaphysical interpretation of the network of underground data-arks from the Old World.]"
Kate lifted her head, a smirk playing on her lips. "He's not entirely wrong about the data-arks, is he? Just about five thousand years off the mark and missing, oh, all the daemonic hellfire."
"See? This is why I keep you around, babe. Your keen legal mind cuts through the nonsense," I said, leaning over to plant a quick kiss on her forehead. She preened under the praise.
Sunday shifted the display. "[The theories range from the plausible to the profoundly absurd. Another popular thread suggests you, Sael, are the reincarnation of a Primarch, sent to guide humanity to a new golden age through entertainment.]"
I sighed, a mix of amusement and weary familiarity. "Even in my old world, this would happen. You release something with a deep enough lore, and the fans will tear it apart and rebuild it into something even more elaborate. It's a sign of love, in a weird, obsessive way." I watched another clip of a group passionately debating the theological implications of the God-Emperor.
"Sunday, did you want me to step in? Issue a statement? Debunk some of the crazier stuff?"
"[The option is available. It would likely temper the most extreme speculation.]"
I shook my head. "Nah. Not really. I don't want to be a killjoy. Let them have their fun. It's free marketing, and honestly, it's more entertaining than most tides on the net." Let them cook, as we used to say.
Then Sunday brought up a feed I'd been anticipating. "[As expected, one individual has embraced the universe with… unparalleled enthusiasm.]"
The display switched to a live stream. And there he was. Henry Cavilrine. Hollywood's reigning hunk, a man carved from marble and distilled testosterone. He was supposed to be the aloof, unattainable star, but here he was, with a VR headset slightly askew on his perfect brow, his face a canvas of intense concentration and boyish delight.
"Would you look at that," I whispered, a genuine grin spreading across my face. "He's all in."
Henry wasn't just playing; he was performing. He was already in the top one percent of players, deep into Chapter 13: 'Wake the Sleeping Giant.' He was half role-playing, talking to his chat in a low, gravelly voice that was probably melting viewers through their screens.
"This is it, lads," he was saying, his on-screen avatar moving through a grim, gothic corridor.
"The heart of the heresy. The Inquisitor's trail is fresh. You can almost smell the ozone and… is that burnt ceramite? By the Throne, this game is immersive."
Kate leaned forward, intrigued. "I didn't take him for a gamer."
"Everyone's a gamer in this world, babe. He's just the one who's good enough—and famous enough—for people to care." I settled in to watch. This was better than any review.
************
The view on Henry's stream was a masterclass in slow-burning dread. His Space Marine, Brother-Sergeant Valerius, moved through the labyrinthine bowels of a Mechanicum forge-temple. The air shimmered with dust motes caught in the light of his helmet's auto-sensors. The only sounds were the heavy, rhythmic clank of his power armor and the low hum of his active chainsword.
"Right, here we are," Henry murmured, his voice a low rumble in the stream's audio. "Another data-crypt. Let's see what madness Inquisitor Drogan left for us."
His avatar accessed a terminal. A fragment of text, stylized to look like scorched parchment, flickered onto the screen.
'…The calculus of war is unforgiving. Our forces are spent; our allies are dust. Yet the damnable bureaucracy of the Ordos demands forms in triplicate for a single shell casing while a world dies. Desperation cuts through bureaucracy. It must. I have authorized Project: Phoenix. The God-Engine must wake.'
Henry leaned back from his screen, a genuine grimace on his handsome face. "Bloody hell," he breathed, the role-play momentarily dropping for raw reaction.
"You can feel it, can't you? The sanity just… leaching away. The good intentions curdling into something… extreme. He's not just desperate; he's beginning to spiral. You can see the madness right there in the text."
The chat scrolled rapidly.
Cavilrine'sChampion: Dude's gone full radical. ForTheEmperor!: This is some heavy stuff. My man Drogan is off the deep end. TifaLockhart: HENRY PLS PROTECT ME IM SCARED
He pushed forward, the gameplay tension mounting with every step. He found another journal fragment.
'…To even dare a glimpse into the warp is to court damnation. Yet, to not dare is to guarantee it. The path to salvation is paved with forbidden knowledge. He is made of sterner stuff, that one. Or perhaps he is already damned. Only a man with nothing to lose would take this path.'
"Who is 'he'?" Henry wondered aloud, his brow furrowed.
"Another Marine? Someone else? The plot, as they say, thickens."
Then, he turned a corner.
The game seamlessly triggered a cinematic cutscene. The camera pulled back, and back, and back further still from his character, soaring through a vast cavern that defied scale. And there, shrouded in mist and shadow, was the Titan. A Warlord-class Battle Titan, a cathedral of war on two legs. It was colossal, a monument of grim, dark majesty that seemed to crush the very air around it. Its weapon arms were the size of skyscrapers, its head a fortress perched atop its immense shoulders.
Henry Cavilrine, a man who had stood on red carpets and faced down legions of paparazzi, was struck utterly silent. His jaw went slack. He simply stared, his hand frozen over his mouse.
"Holy… mother of God," he finally whispered, the words filled with a reverence that was completely unfeigned. A sense of profound dread and sheer, unadulterated amazement washed over his features. He was genuinely astounded.
The chat exploded. It was a synchronized wave of digital awe.
TitanSighting: AAAAAAHHHHH!!!! MechFan42: I'M NOT WORTHY! LadyCavilrine: THE SCALE! HOW IS THIS EVEN POSSIBLE?! VALRAK: MATE. MATE.
"Look at the size of it," Henry finally said, finding his voice, which was now thick with emotion.
"It's… it's magnificent. You feel tiny. Insignificant. This is what they mean by the 'awe of the emperor.' Blimey."
But the road to waking the giant was not easy. The cutscene ended, and the game slammed back into intense action. Alien shrieks echoed as a fresh wave of enemies, drawn by the activation of the ancient machinery, poured into the chamber. Henry's focus snapped back, his hands gripping his controllers, his previous awe replaced by fierce determination. The chainsword on screen roared back to life.
"Right then, lads! For the Emperor! For the Titan!"
The battle was a chaotic ballet of ultra-violence. Henry, fully immersed, was a whirlwind of controlled motion.
He parried a scything talon, sidestepped a blast of corrosive acid, and returned fire with his bolter, the digital report a satisfying THUMP-THUMP-THUMP that shook his stream's audio.
Then the air itself tore open. A warp portal, a vile rip in reality spilling sickly green light and whispering maddening promises, erupted in the center of the chamber. From it stepped a figure that made the previous aliens look like pests.
A Chaos Space Marine. His power armor was a twisted, corrupted mockery of its original Imperial design, adorned with blasphemous sigils and dripping with unseen gore. A voice, distorted and thick with malice, boomed from the monster's helmet grille.
'We die today! I will send you to the dark gods myself, Ultramarine!'
"God damnit!" Henry barked, a laugh of pure adrenaline and shock mixed into his curse.
"A bloody Traitor Marine! This game is so awesome!" On screen, his character didn't wait. The chainsaw sword in his hand roared into a piercing, teeth-rattling VRRRRRR-CHUNK! And with a battle cry he pulled from the depths of his soul, he jumped into the battle.
The fight was a brutal exchange. This was a deep-dive Virtual Reality game with utmost realism. In a truly realistic sim, of course, every action would require a player to possess the actual skill to perform it. But not every person knows how to effectively fire a rifle in full auto, parry a power axe, or properly swing a sword the size of a small tree. The game, brilliantly, was designed with an 'action assistance' system.
A player like Henry only needed to initiate the movement—a committed swing of his arm, a forceful step into a lunge. The game's sophisticated AI would then auto-correct and auto-complete the action, translating his intent into the flawlessly executed, superhumanly skilled moves of a genetically engineered Astartes warrior.
It was why every sword swing was a perfect arc of devastation; every kick landed with bone-shattering force. The game was doing about eighty percent of the heavy lifting. Without it, every player, even the enthusiastic Henry Cavilrine, would look like a clown fumbling with incomprehensibly powerful weaponry.
He ducked under a thunderous swing from the Chaos Marine's axe. "Is that all you've got, you Heretic bastard?" he growled, in character.
VRRRR-CHOP! His chainsword bit deep into the traitor's leg armor. Sparks and digital blood flew.
Chat: "GET HIM HENRY!" Chat: "FOR MACRAGGE!"
He slammed his bolter point-blank into the Marine's chest plate. THUMP-THUMP-THUMP! "Your gods are waiting for you!" he roared.
The Chaos Marine staggered, and Henry saw his opening. With a final, mighty two-handed swing, he brought his roaring chainsword down in a devastating execution stroke. The screen flashed, the sound of rending metal and a dying gurgle echoed, and the corrupted giant fell.
The air in the command nexus was thick with ozone and the psychic scent of victory. On the main strategic hololith, the towering form of the Ork-controlled Orbital Spire stood, a blasphemous claw scratching at the bruised sky of Graia. Then, a beam of pure, incandescent fury lanced down from the heavens. It wasn't a laser; it was the wrath of a god made manifest, a column of raw volcanic energy that struck the spire's heart.
The sound that followed was not a sound at all, but the absence of it—a vacuum of noise that collapsed in on itself before exploding outwards.
"BBOOMMM!"
The screen flared white, then dissolved into a spectacular, slow-motion fireball of vaporized metal and xenos flesh. The shockwave rippled out, a visible ring of destruction that atomized everything in its path.
Inside his state-of-the-art VR pod, Henry Cavillrine—actor, icon, and at this moment, Captain Titus of the Ultramarines—let out a roar of pure, unadulterated triumph that was echoed by the thousands of voices in his live stream chat. It was a chorus of cathartic, peak male exhilaration. They had done it. The spire had fallen.
"FOR THE EMPEROR!" Henry bellowed, the vox-grille of his power armor modulating his voice into a weapon of inspiration.
The chat scrolled in a torrent of crimson text and holy aquila emojis.
TITUS_IS_MY_FATHER ABSOLUTELY_BRUTAL👿 👿 MANLINESS_OVERLOAD 😎 WE ARE THE HAMMER! ✊🏼✊🏼✊🏼
The game seamlessly transitioned, the hololith fading to be replaced by the war-torn landscape of a Graian manufactorum district. Golden text materialized in the centre of his vision: CHAPTER 14: VICTORY AND SACRIFICE. His new objective glowed: Rendezvous with Lieutenant Mira.
And so, Captain Titus fought. He was no longer alone. The crimson and electric blue of the Blood Ravens now fought alongside his own Ultramarine blue. With his "brothers" at his side, Henry moved with a grace that was both brutal and balletic.
His bolter spoke the only language the Orks understood—BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.—each shell finding a mark, each burst of gunfire a verse in an epic poem of war. He chainsworded a Nob in two, the screech of tearing metal a symphony to his ears and his chat's.
HENRY_GOAT SPACE MARINE_MAXIMUS I CAN FEEL THE CHAPTER'S PRIDE!
He was tireless, a demigod of battle lost in the glorious rhythm of combat. He pushed through a crumbling archway into a wider plaza, where Captain Sidornus of the Blood Ravens was holding the line, his forces a stalwart bastion against the green tide.
And then the world warped.
The air behind Sidornus didn't just tear; it screamed. Reality peeled back like rotten fruit, revealing a vortex of impossible colors and tortured whispers. It was a Warp portal, a wound in the fabric of space itself.
Henry's enhanced astartes reflexes meant he saw it all in horrific, crystal-clear slow motion. A figure emerged from the nightmare canvas. Gigantic, even for a Space Marine, clad in baroque, hate-filled power armor etched with the sigils of all four Dark Gods. Nemeroth. Chaos Lord Undivided. The primary antagonist.
Henry's vox was half-formed, a desperate, choked warning. "Sidor—!"
It was too late. Nemeroth's clawed power fist, crackling with malicious energy, punched forward with impossible speed. It wasn't a stab; it was a violation. The talons erupted from Sidornus's chest in a spray of ceramite, blood, and vital fluids. The noble Blood Raven captain shuddered, his weapon clattering to the ground.
Time snapped back to its normal, cruel pace. Henry could only watch, frozen in a horror that was entirely his own, not the character's. Nemeroth hauled the bloodied, limp form of Sidornus into the air like a grisly trophy, held him there for a long, contemptuous moment, and then contemptuously flung the corpse aside. It landed with a sickening, final crunch.
The chat, so raucous seconds before, was a frozen waterfall of horrified messages.
NOOOOOOOO 😭 NOT SIDORNUS! 😭 YOU BASTARD! 🤬 🤬
Nemeroth's voice boomed across the plaza, amplified by psychic power and pure arrogance. It was a gloating monologue, filled with promises of damnation and the inevitability of Chaos. Henry didn't hear a word of it. The sounds were just noise, a dull roar drowned out by the pounding of his own heart and the devastating emptiness in his gut. He had been immersed, but now he was invested. Sidornus was a brother.
The Chaos Lord's final words, however, cut through the haze, sharp and cold as a daemon blade. "…Will you be joining us, soon, Brother?"
And with that, he vanished, the Warp portal snapping shut and leaving only the scent of blood and ozone.
The game released its control. Henry could move again. Captain Titus fell to one knee, his fist, clad in powered gauntlets, smashing into the permacrete floor. The impact was immense, sending cracks spiderwebbing outwards.
"NOO!!" The roar that came from Henry's throat was raw, guttural, and utterly, devastatingly real.
The world dissolved into a haze of red light as the VR pod hissed open. Henry Cavillrine practically fell out of the unit, his face pale, his hands shaking. He stumbled to his expensive gaming chair positioned before a bank of monitors and cameras, his movements jerky. He ignored the thousands of viewers still watching his stream, their chat now a mix of condolences and shared grief. He reached into a small fridge under his desk and pulled out a bottle of expensive imported beer. He twisted the cap off and took a long, desperate pull.
Then he slammed the bottle down on the desk, making the microphone jump.
"FUCK YOU, SAEL VT!" he shouted, the anger in his voice completely genuine, stripped of all performative flair.
The chat instantly agreed, flooding with [FUCK SAEL VT!] and [WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?!] messages. He let them rage for a minute, taking another swig of beer, the cold liquid doing little to quench the hot coals of frustration in his chest.
After a moment, he deflated, the anger bleeding away into pure, exhausted immersion. He ran a hand through his hair.
"Gods... guys, I'm sorry. I just... I was there, you know? I was there. It wasn't a game. He was my battle-brother. That was... that was just cruel." He looked into the camera, his famous blue eyes genuinely hurt.
"The story is just that good. I was completely lost in it. I haven't felt like that since... I don't know when."
He spent the next few minutes talking with his chat, the conversation slowly shifting from the visceral trauma of Sidornus's death to a more analytical appreciation of Warhammer 40k's lore, the genius of its grimdark setting, and the sheer quality of the game Meteor Studio had built.
Meanwhile, I watched it all unfold from my seat on the bullet train. A playful, slightly sadistic smile touched my lips.
'He really did feel that. Excellent'. I felt a connection to him in that moment—not as a developer to a celebrity influencer, but as one fan to another. I understood that pain. I'd felt it when I'd first experienced it on Earth.
I picked up my tablet, navigated to Chirper, and composed a message to the account we both followed each other on.
@Henry_CavillrineOfficial: Be Strong, My Brother. For the Emperor. P.S.: Curse me again, and I will make a character that you would love so much, and then kill it. 😈
I hit post.
On stream, Henry's phone, placed just off-camera, lit up with a notification. He glanced down distractedly, then did a classic double-take. His eyes went wide.
"Is he— Did he just—?" He picked up the phone, a laugh of sheer disbelief bubbling out of him.
"Chill, man! Chill! I was just venting! It's a compliment! Your game is too good!" he said, addressing me through the camera as if I could hear him.
His chat exploded, the meta-layer of the developer watching the stream live and interacting adding a whole new level of hype.
Instead of putting on a Hollywood star persona, Henry slipped effortlessly into the role of an excited fan.
"Okay, okay, Sael, if you're watching... was that... was that a faithful adaptation of the lore? That whole thing with the Warp portal?"
I grinned and typed a quick reply.
@SaelVT: Yes.
"Will we see more of the Chaos Gods? Will there be daemons?"
@SaelVT: No. (A lie, but a fun one).
The back-and-forth continued, him asking questions to the air, me answering with cryptic yes/no answers on Chirper, driving him and his chat into a delightful frenzy. I gave nothing of real substance away, but the interaction itself was pure gold.
I watched Henry lounge back in his gaming chair, a wide grin on his face as he had this one-sided, full-blown conversation with me. It was surreal. Henry Cavill was my friend. Well, my internet friend. Same thing these days.
Then I saw a message flash in his chat, barely noticeable in the torrent.
Wait, where is Sael? That pic on Chirper looks like he's traveling.
Henry saw it too. His brow furrowed. "Hey, that's a good point. That picture you posted... the background. Are you going somewhere IRL?"
Shit. The "thirst trap" selfie I'd posted a few days ago—me shirtless after a workout—had already caused enough internet chaos. This one was more innocent, just my tablet on a train table, but the window behind it showed a blurred, speeding landscape. I'd been careless.
I quickly typed a reply.
@SaelVT: Maybe….Shit.
Henry burst out laughing, a rich, full-bodied sound. "He didn't think that through! Oh man, you gotta up your selfie game, dude! You made the same mistake I did!"
I mentally smacked my forehead. I know for sure that the internet sleuths will work on this. They were bloodhounds. The best in the world. I posted one last message.
@SaelVT: gotta go.
I didn't stop watching, though. I just put the tablet down and watched Henry and his chat laugh at my apparent retreat.
"And he's gone! He's running for the hills!" Henry chuckled, leaning towards the camera conspiratorially.
"Alright, chat. You heard the man. He thinks he can get away. What do we say?"
It was like unleashing a pack of cybernetically-enhanced cyberhounds. The chat shifted from grief and game talk to a single, unified purpose: Operation Find Sael.
I watched, equal parts horrified and impressed, as they got to work. Someone screenshots my Chirper post and began a digital dissection worthy of the Adeptus Mechanicus. They analyzed the reflection in my tablet's screen, identifying the manufacturer of the train's interior light fixture. Another enhanced the blurred scenery outside the window, comparing the color of the soil and the shape of the distant, pollution-hazed mountains to known geoscape data of New USA.
Henry became the conductor of this chaos, standing up from his seat and pointing at messages as they flew by.
"Okay, okay! 'The table is a standard-issue model used on Bullet Express lines!' Good! What else?"
" 'The angle of the shadow from the overhead luggage rack suggests a southerly trajectory!' Amazing!" he narrated, utterly engrossed.
It took them less than ten minutes. One viewer, with the handle [GeoGuessrGod], posted the definitive message that made Henry's jaw drop.
[GeoGuessrGod]: Confirmed. On Bullet Express line B7-NS, somewhere in New Texas, possible heading… California?? ETA to Hollywood terminal approx 3 hours.
Henry slowly sank back into his chair, a look of utter awe on his face. "You magnificent bastards. You actually found him." He looked directly into the camera, a new, playful challenge in his eyes. "
You hear that, Sael? We're coming for you. Hollywood, huh? Big things coming."
I let out a long sigh, a smile finally breaking through my panic. So much for a quiet entrance. The game was on. I shake, Kate beside me, "Babe, Change of plans. The internet knows I'm coming…. Tell Ramona to expect a crowd…. And tell security to look out for a very determined, very handsome man who might be yelling about Space Marines."
"….Gosh, for fuck's sake, Honey… we really need to get you trained on taking a good and proper selfie next time…" Kate woke up visible annoyed at me.