To make a long story short, I finished a big writing project of mine recently, and coupled with renewed interest in Darktide, I got bored and decided to put together a squad of ‘rejects’ to write about.
This is the story of those rejects. Hopefully y’all like the introduction.
Chapter 1: Introductions
“Run this by me one more time, Sergeant Major,” Rannick asked, with a faint air of exasperation.
“We’re runnin’ out of Auric class operatives,” Morrow said. “Them, and the Mortis Zone fighters. Warband’s keeping up numbers, but only just. An’ we do have a lot of good fighters to draw on.”
“Our penal recruits, you mean.”
“Maybe so, but most of ‘em are loyal, and the ones that’ve survived more than one or two fights are tough customers. Can’t keep throwing away talent like that, in four-man teams. An’ we need people who can take up the slack from the proper Agents. Let us save 'em for things that’re important.”
“And in the meantime, it would let you stress-test the newer members of the warband.”
Morrow shrugged. “The rejects are new to things. Better to keep it familiar for a little while, yeah?”
Rannick nodded slowly. “Indeed. How many of these larger teams did you have in mind?”
“Two or three at most. I’ll send you the list. Not too many who’re trustworthy enough for replacing lost Agents, after all.”
—-
Glory kept her cool as she stepped into the barracks, following the servo-skull that’d led her there after the morning’s muster, what little she owned in a duffle slung over one shoulder.
They were being moved. And somewhere that didn’t have guards. She wasn’t sure what that really meant, but she’d heard the rumors over the past couple of days. People who’d caught Morrow’s eye, or something.
She doubted any of them would be friendly. Almost nobody was. Not to people like her. But she’d kept herself alive despite the collar round her neck and the ways everyone treated witches, so to Hel with them. She hadn’t fought her way through the hive city countless times, doing the Inquisition’s bidding, to buckle under the pressure of some ignorant insects.
She took a deep breath, ran her hands through her short-cropped black hair, and keyed the door open.
She’d been told to expect six other members of the team - it looked like she was next to last to arrive.
The Ogryn, looming in the background, she disregarded - even the worst of the abhumans were merely standoffish with her, and the rest were too simpleminded to be cruel. She spared a glance for a woman in battered flak armor, who was poking at an equally battered plasma gun. The redheaded ex-soldier - because who else would dress like that aboard ship? - raised her head to meet Glory’s eyes, and Glory repressed a flinch at the shocking burn scar that warped the left side of the woman’s face and scalp, an augmetic eye glowing harshly from the ruined skin.
She took a seat next to the only other person in the room she could trust - one of her ‘siblings’, another psyker wearing hood and collar. His metal armor was adorned with warding totems and Inquisitorial seals, and a force stave leaned against his shoulder. She felt the slightest probe at her mind, silent inquiries and warm welcomes. His name - Aurelius - his job - an Enforcer, once - and a brief summation of how he’d come to be here. She responded in kind, though her own career was hardly as ‘prestigious’ as that of one of the hive’s hired legbreakers. Petty tarot and a reputation as a hexer and wielder of ‘black magic’. But they shared the same trials of the Warp, regardless.
That left two, sitting across from her - one glaring poisonously at the pair of psykers, the other with his head bowed and lips murmuring in prayers to an Emperor that would never listen.
She met the glarer’s eyes, and smiled. Nothing pissed off the self-righteous zealots that made up a quarter of the Rejects more than a psyker who wasn’t afraid of them. The glare of the bald man intensified, self-inflicted penitent’s scars making his sneer even worse to look at. He opened his mouth, and she braced herself for the typical diatribe - only for the other priest to raise his head from his prayers, and stare at his fellow, craggy face set in a stern frown. The bald priest shut his mouth, and looked away from her.
That was…strange.
The other priest favored her with a short nod that was almost polite. He looked…old. Not old old, but old enough to be weathered and beaten, with grey hair and a bushy beard. If it wasn’t for the full suit of plate armor he wore, he’d have looked like a kindly grandfather.
“Good morrow,” the priest said, in a voice that was deep enough to resonate in Glory’s chest. “I understand we’re one short, but perhaps now would be a good time for us to make introductions. For once, we might actually be expected to fight alongside each other for longer than the span of a single mission.”
He paused for a moment, looking directly at Glory. “My name is Hugot Tarnatin. Once, I was a preacher of the Adeptus Ministorum, on Rocyria.”
Ah. That backwater agri-world. She was hardly surprised.
“Then I was accused of sedition for ministering to my flock in ways some of the highborn of my world objected to. I thought death would come, and prayed to the Emperor for salvation. It appears this is the method by which I shall earn it.” He half-smiled. “I was not a man of violence prior to this. But it appears that I am well-suited for it. There are very few things that can withstand my hammer. Now, what of the rest of you?”
Well. Hel. She couldn’t exactly not speak up. Not with him staring at her.
“Gloriana,” she said evenly, biting back the urge to mock both of them with her introductions. She’d rather not take a shot in the back on a mission. “From Mornax. You know what that place is like.” Nods all around, even from the soldier, who was trying hard to make it seem like she wasn’t listening. “They found out my gifts much later than usual, apparently. I was going to be on a Black Ship, but instead was brought into this.” She shrugged. “Not all too different from fighting off mine-gangs and petty enforcers back home. They stink about as badly, and my pistols still bring them down.”
“You don’t use your powers?” the bald priest asked, suddenly intent.
“I use them when I need to. But I’m not opening myself up to the Warp to kill something when I have a laspistol and a revolver with manstopper rounds, I don’t have enough power to make that worth it.” She spread her hands. “I can make little…knives, really. Send them flying. Figure out weaknesses. It’s let me survive this long.”
“Hey, so long as you’re alive, witch,” the soldier said - but the old insult had no heat to it. She pulled a lho-stub from some pocket, and in a display of either suicidal overconfidence or sheer idiocy, lit it off the coils of her plasma gun. “Sal. 19th Moebian Infantry, until some prick in supply decided to turn me in. Plasma specialist. That’s all you need to know.”
“Hmph.” The bald priest was, as Glory expected, unimpressed. “Very well. I am Pyrophantus-”
Really? And she’d thought her chosen name was excessive.
“-and I was unfairly sentenced. But the Emperor has given me a chance to do the work He requires once more. With flamer and blade are the heretics expunged. Thus it is written.” He sat back, still frowning thunderously.
“I am Aurelius,” the dark-skinned psyker next to her said. “A psyker of Zeta level. My talents are more considerable than those of my sibling, and I was once employed by the local Enforcers before…all this.” He shrugged. “I am more skilled in telekinesis, though, and can create shields and the like - they will not stop heavy weapons, but they can hold against most of the things we’ve fought against. I believe that just leaves you, brute.”
The Ogryn leaned forward. “I is Grond,” it said. “I krump for Emprah. Simple as. Pleasure working with ya, sahs.”
…
She wasn’t even going to object. This was why she liked Ogryns - they were ugly, dumb as bricks, and smelled like a grox, but they were straightforward. If more humans were like them, the Imperium wouldn’t be the festering dungheap it currently was.
“I think that is all of us save one, then,” Hugot said. “We still have a few minutes before our last is late, but -”
The door hissed open. A tall man in flak armor, face hidden behind a gas mask and helmet, stepped through. The lenses swept over each of them with cold, mechanical precision. The man’s mind…Glory pulled herself away from the bone-deep cold that permeated the man’s thoughts. Even the fanatic seemed more human. He wore an Inquisitorial rosette at his neck, and carried a lasgun slung over his back. A battered power sword hung from his hip.
“You’re all here. Good,” the man said, in flat, clipped tones.
“And you are, my good sir?” Hugot asked.
“Saldar. Inquisitorial agent.” the soldier answered. A pause. “Your field commander, until you all die or I do.” Another pause, like he was reading his lines from a script. “Mission in half an hour. Armory is down the hall. Your idents are in the system. Arm yourselves. Meet at the hangar bay in twenty-five minutes. Dismissed.”
With that, he was gone.
Oh, this was going to be a lovely working relationship.
