Summary:	In which brothers are found in unlikely places.
Source:	"the company of thorin oakenshield with future giants" by Darkdragondude1234.
Continua:	Warhammer 40,000 x The Hobbit.
Timeline:	November 2017; a couple of weeks after the 2017 Halloween Party. (Also after mission five, to "The Empty Vessel," and mission six, to "Draconic Supremacy," both unfinished at this time but presumed to have taken place.)
Published:	February 19, 2018.
Rating:	PG/K+ - Over-the-top violence more typical of DOOM than 40k and a couple gutter-minded jokes we hope our younger readers don’t get.
Co-writer:	Thoth.
Betas:	Calliope and Scapegrace.

---

Derik was looking for a response center with an impossible number: 65536+3i. He didn’t understand its significance, but he knew it was annoying him with its elusiveness. Nearly an hour earlier, he’d received an incredibly vague message from this RC, requesting assistance with a Tolkienverse crossover. Apparently, with all of three missions there under his belt, he was some sort of expert now. This would have been fine—he was happy to break Suvian heads in any world—except that he couldn’t find the damn RC.

For this, he’d left an exquisitely melancholy session with his favorite guitar.

He’d been stoked into a fine simmering rage by the time he finally came upon the correct door. He hammered on it with a closed fist and glared at the lens embedded in the Generic Material. For a moment, all was quiet. Then the small light beneath the lens blinked green.

“Our Tolkien expert?” a friendly voice called. “Come in. We’ve been expecting yo—” The voice stopped, and when it returned, there was an air of surprise about it. “Bloody hell. I knew the RC number sounded familiar. Funny coincidence, eh?”

“I do not believe in coincidence.” The new voice was exceedingly deep, although lacking in emotion. “Enter, expert. My partner is correct: you are indeed expected.”

Derik felt a bit like he’d been punched in the gut, his anger replaced by a shot of nerves and faint nausea. He opened the door and found his fear confirmed, as he knew it would be.

“Tom. Thoth.” He stepped warily into the RC.

They looked different than he remembered. The last time he’d seen them was at the Halloween costume party a couple weeks back. Tom had worn red robes and numerous metallic doodads, but now he looked like a normal young brunet man in cargo pants and a sarcastic T-shirt. And while Thoth was unmistakable regardless of his outfit—it was hard to be mistakable when you quite literally overshadowed most people—the animal pelts and the beard he had previously worn were gone, and his power armor, previously grey and yellow with a wolf’s head emblazoned on the pauldrons, was now blue and gold, bearing an ouroboros.

Derik, too, was different. At the party he’d worn a skin-tight Green Lantern costume and slicked his hair back. Now he was in what had become his default denim jeans, blue shirt, and brown wherhide flight jacket; his dark, shaggy hair was loose about his face. He was also sober now, which he had very much not been by the end of the party. Gall had more or less dared him to take up the challenge of a drinking contest with Thoth, and he had accepted. He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened after that, only that he had talked far too much and, at one point, punched a wall. He had no idea where he stood with these two now, and wouldn’t have been surprised if they told him to push off and found someone else to work with.

However, they surprised him.

“Hey, Derik!” said Tom. “Good to be working with you.” He stuck out his hand, and Derik shook it. “This is one heck of a fic, and we could certainly use the help. Neither of us know Rings, of course, and the other side of the crossover is 40k . . . Even if it wasn’t as bad as it is, an extra hand would be good. And it’s just . . . so dumb.”

Thoth nodded. “Greetings. While I suspected something of this sort, it is still good to see a responsible agent responded to Tom’s call. I would rather avoid having to carry any additional load.”

“Right.” Derik eyed them both, and Thoth especially. There had been, or he thought there had been, something between them that night, but he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing, and Thoth’s face was unreadable. He decided not to be the first to mention it. “Well . . . since I’m here, I suppose we had better be going. Where to first?”

Tom glanced at the console and frowned. “Pack for a warzone. We’re heading to Isstvan V. We’ll need a DORKS, so . . .” he held up an object that presently looked like a banana.^[1] “Got one here. Anyways, brace yourself. Sued to hell and back or no, your first look at the 41st Millenium might be a bit overwhelming. I was a little bit sick myself.” He grimaced.

“I believe you have forgotten to ask Derik his choice of disguise,” said Thoth. “I myself do not require one, but he most certainly does.” He turned to Derik. “Do you, in fact, have a desired disguise? I would advise a Space Marine, given the mission. Is there a Legion you prefer?”

“I would be glad of further advice,” Derik answered. “I have read a little of your world since we met . . . but nowhere near enough to have a preference. Frankly, it’s all very bleak, and a little over my head.” Internecine human warfare was all but unheard of on Pern, and advanced technology was not Derik’s strong suit.

Tom ran over to the console and set up the disguise generator. “Right . . . I’ll go Scars, why not, and as for you . . .” He gave Derik an appraising look. “Bitter, strong, resolute, tendency to injure yourself . . . hmm . . . AH! You’ll make a fine Imperial Fist.” Tom glanced at the other two agents, his face breaking into a broad grin. “Are you ready to go to war?”

With a glower brought on by Tom’s freehanded analysis of him, Derik patted the head of the large sledgehammer hanging at his hip. “Against Suvians? Always.”

Thoth moved to the portal. “Then we shall begin.” He stepped through, Tom and Derik following closely after.

Chaos lay on the other side—both literally and metaphorically, as the forces of Chaos were one side of the ongoing battle. Bolter shells exploded around them as both sides fought in a bloody mix of melee and long-range fire across a black desert plain. And unlike the surrounding combatants, the agents had just been hit by a wall of dense, stilted prose. Tom took a moment to recover. So did Thoth, but unlike Tom, he didn’t fall over and lie on the ground wincing on initial contact.

Derik, a veteran of bad writing at this point, was less bothered by the wall o’ text, but more bothered by the noise and violence swirling around them. Every sound was as clear as though it were right beside him, every edge and hue harshly distinct in the light of crackling energy and combustion. He could almost taste the fumes and blood in the cold air. He dropped to one knee, a heavily gauntleted hand pressed to his forehead in a reflexive attempt to shield his mind. “Great stars . . . what is happening?”

Thoth placed a hand on Derik’s shoulder, now armored in golden-yellow plate. “You have just received nineteen additional organs and a significant change in stature. Without the protection the disguise generator is giving you, I doubt you would be able to walk.”

After a few moments, Derik found that he could filter the enormous input impinging on his enhanced senses. Heartened by Thoth’s presence at his side, he got to his feet and found himself eye to eye with the other man, if not a little taller. He was definitely broader in the shoulders, and that was saying something. He could feel the increased strength in his muscles, augmented by the heavy armor encasing his body, and a powerful energy flowed through his veins. He felt good. A grin stole across the unscarred left side of his face.

Tom also got to his feet, now clad in white and red and of the same stature as the other two. Any agent in the 40k continuum got used to this sort of thing rapidly. “We should get to cover quickly. It’s not our job to take a bolter round to the face in the name of the Emperor and die in glory. Which is what happens to people who stay out in the open on a battlefield around here.”

The agents hurried from the edge of the combat, gritty black sand crunching under their boots, and took shelter in a shallow depression of rock from which they could watch the scene, but would be unlikely to catch any stray weapons fire.

Suddenly, a cry ROARED out. “TREACHORUS BASTARDS! IN THE NAME OF THE EMPEROR OF MAN, I WILL END YOUR LIFE!”

Tom grimaced. “And I think that’s our protagonist, right on cue. Androch Deathblade, as stupid a name as I ever heard. And . . . owww.” He smacked his head, which given his new strength quite possibly hurt even more than what he’d just seen. “He’s the gene-son of Erik Morkai and Roboute Guilliman. That is quite possibly the stupidest thing I’ve seen all day, and it’s not even been five minutes! WHY? The stupid! It HUURRTS!”

Thoth frowned. “You cannot be the gene-son of an ordinary Marine. And it is rare to be one of two Primarchs.”

“I know!” cried Tom. “Even if someone pulled that second part off . . . that would be first-degree, boltgun-to-the-face, full-on-ork-sniper-extermination-Dark-Angels-degree HERESY if anyone could prove it. And after the Cursed Founding, I doubt anyone would attempt it.”

The owner of the ROAR, a huge Astartes in the deep blue armor of the Ultramarines, went charging by them and up an extremely out of place concrete hill, held by a mass of other Marines in metallic sea-green, the color of the Sons of Horus. Abruptly, the world flashed into bizarre technicolor display, people and objects taking on ghostly bluish and reddish hues, afterimages of where they had been and beforeimages of where they would be floating through the field. The whole mess hurt slightly to look at.

Tom turned to Thoth. “What’s—” There are a lot of sights that are inherently entertaining. An at least 7-foot-tall genetically engineered supersoldier giggling is one of them. “Thoth . . .” gasped Tom, between laughs, “what . . . happened to your . . . armor? You look . . . terrible.”

Derik unshaded his eyes, which he’d covered against the glare, to see what had set Tom off. He gave a soft snort of amusement. “Did you disguise yourself after all? I liked the blue better.”

Thoth, for the first time since entering the fic, looked down. And indeed, his armor now seemed purple-ish with a trim that was yellowish-silver. His pauldron still bore a golden ouroboros . . . superimposed on a stylized sun. He seemed puzzled for a moment, but enlightenment dawned quickly enough. “Pay attention to the Words, Tom. Our target is an Astartes bearing Mark 8 power armor. And fighting Sons of Horus on Isstvan V.”

Tom gaped. “That . . . that’s blatantly impossible. Mark 8 didn’t come into being until late M41. And the Sons of Horus attacked Isstvan V precisely once: at the Dropsite Massacre. So . . .”

Thoth gritted his teeth, his eyes half-closed. “Timeline distortion. We seem to be in the 41st and 31st millennia simultaneously. My armor was repainted since M31. It’s not purple, it is both red and silver and blue and gold at the same time. I believe I have just discovered a sensation more painful than daily life in the Eye of Terror.”

Derik squinted at the surrounding landscape. Sure enough, it was possible to see not only the direct past and future, but also the aftermath of the battle, and of other fights in other times. Everything was just a bit unreal, and the shrill keen in the air was more than just the wind in the dunes.

“That’s . . . horrible,” Derik grunted, and had to shut his eyes against the vertiginous light. While the Astartes’ inner ear and ocular lobe implants wouldn’t allow them to actually get dizzy, this managed to be both nauseating and painful anyway.

Tom winced, trying to focus on the battle in front of him. He started to feel the headache coming on as his brain attempted to earnestly process the insanity, impossible to ignore now that it had been pointed out. He followed Derik’s example, shutting his eyes. “I am . . . going to try not to pay attention to that. Not sure if it will work, but I’ll try. Let’s just . . . try to see what Androch’s doing.”

On the concrete hill, Androch was laying into the Chaos forces with an enormous hammer, its head wreathed with lightning, and leaving shocking human devastation in his wake.

With a massive swing of his hammer did he shatter the space marines brains all over the concrete ground.

The sight of whole brains popping clean out of their skulls and shattering as though frozen in liquid nitrogen, the pieces blurring with Dopplered blue and red, was almost as funny as it was disturbing. Derik felt his stomach turn and quietly marvelled that such a thing was still possible in his current form. Tom turned his head altogether.

Androch came under heavy fire from a gun nest at the top of the hill, but the bolter rounds bounced off his armor as though they were made of rubber.

At that, Derik did laugh. “Oh, even I know that’s not right! Those things are supposed to explode on impact!”

The battle came to an abrupt conclusion the minute Androch conquered the top of the hill. The Ultramarines with him chanted his name as he walked back down again. The agents took advantage of the commotion to join the edge of the group, doing their best not to look at anything too closely even as they picked their way around trenches and old bones that may or may not have been there. For one thing, it was creepy. For another, not looking at specific objects eased the headache.

Tom pulled up a dataslate and began to write when they were settled. “Charge . . . the Adeptus Astartes . . . are not . . . cheerleaders.”

The captain, Donus Kyrastus snapped "QUIET!" he gave a quick nodd but he walked away. The space marines became furios. "He should give you a promotion." Marterious growled angrily. Androch shook his head "drop the issue brother. Its not worth spilling a brother's blood over.

“A promotion is indeed not worth spilling the blood of a brother over. Unlike this Stu’s horrific distortion of the Adeptus Astartes.” Thoth’s fists were clenched. “We vary to a great degree. Some of us were loyal. Some of us were not. But none of us were children. Do the loyalists not say that doing your duty for their Emperor is reward enough?”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Derik replied, frowning, “but I do know that flagrant showboating is a good way to get yourself or your fellows killed and should certainly not be rewarded. And isn’t this Captain Kyrastus the same commanding officer who told him to do it in the first place?”

“He would be,” said Tom. He sighed. “I’d say the captain wanted him dead, but that would be an extremely unprofessional desire to act on, seeing how valuable Androch seems to be. Who knows, seeing how insane these people already seem to be.” The cluster of OCs began to head towards the evacuation point, now that the threat of the other side of the battle had mysteriously vanished. “At least the battle was short. Once I was stuck in one for most of a mission. Took ages for my ears to stop ringing . . .”

Before he’d even finished speaking, the ground began to shake.

Derik gave him a mordant look. “You had to say it, didn’t you?”

Androch shouted for the Marines to take cover, and the agents joined them in diving for the nearest old trench. A swarm of bright blue Tyranids-from-the-future appeared out of nowhere and overran the area in a screaming rush.

Androch toke out his stormbolter after hefting his stormshield and power hammer and he roared over the sound of the gunfire "MAKE EVERY SHOT COUNT MEN! OPEN FIRE!"

“Huh. I didn’t know you could smoke storm bolters . . .” Tom scratched his head, pondering the new information as the smoke from the hit he’d just taken flowed out of Androch’s mouth. Unfortunately, Androch didn’t seem to be in any way intoxicated by it.

Thoth dragged Tom’s arm down, as it had begun to stick out from cover. “Pay attention to what is important―survival, and charges. I was not present when they arrived in this galaxy, and know little. Should the Tyranids be here?”

“Jeez, okay! As for the ’nids . . . maybe. Not during the Drop Site Massacre, or anything of the sort. But Istvaan V’s somewhere in Ultima Segmentum. So it’s not out of the question.”

Androch noticed the ammunition counter were starting to run low and he noticed that the tyranid were starting to slow down.

“Better question,” Derik said, raising his head in puzzlement. “Now that they are here, should they just . . . stop?”

“Nope!” responded Tom cheerily, raising a camera over the edge of the trench for a photograph. “Insectoids, pick planets dry, ceaseless horde . . . they’re like the Formics or the Zerg, but with no self-awareness. Adorable, really. They won’t stop until we’re dead, or we’re gone.” Then he noticed what had just happened. “Oh, bloody hell . . .”

"MAKE A BREAK FOR IT! IF WE STAY HERE WERE ALL DOOMED!" the space marines nodded and they ran for the evac site. The tyranids seemed hesitant to run after them.

“HOW DO YOU MAKE TYRANIDS OUT OF CHARACTER?” Tom cried, sheer bafflement having overwhelmed him.

Thoth just stared. “After what we have just seen . . . that is your question.”

“It’s a fair question,” Derik said, shaking his head. “Why introduce these ferocious enemies only to make no real use of them—unless you count letting Androch show off his impossible ability to hold a shield, a hammer, and a gun all at once?”

“. . . Given, if I could do that, I’d be showing it off as much as possible. But still.” Tom focused his attention on the retreating Marines, watching as they reported in―even as they ran from a hungry horde. Then his jaw dropped.

"captain look. Androch is still alive and he has the cohort with him!" the space marine pilot shouted with relief. The captain snarled as he turned around and stared down Androch. Androch continued his sprint without fear as he looked into the eyes of the traitorus captain. "Start the engines. Were leaving." the captain ordered.

Tom just stared.

“What. Sort. Of. Child. Would. Waste. Troops. Over. A. Personal. Grudge.” Thoth spoke very deliberately, the anger clear in his words. He took a breath to calm himself before speaking again. “Were such a captain under my command, they would not have survived this long.”

Derik, too, was livid, his lip curled in disgust, but for a different reason. “Charge,” he bit out. “Forcing a man to be a Designated Antagonistic Bastard for the purpose of cheaply making the Stu look noble and good by comparison.”

Luckily for Androch’s squad, the pilot of the ship had some backbone and refused to leave the men behind. The captain actually pulled a gun. Whether he meant to shoot the pilot or the Stu was unclear, but before he could pull the trigger, Androch “slammed into the captain and he slammed his head into the walk way with a great clang.”

Derik winced. “Let’s remember it isn’t his fault,” he said as the Marines tied up Kyrastus and dragged him onboard. “He’s just a bit character. Ultimately, this is Androch’s doing.”

“Then his death will be painful,” responded Thoth. “But before that, we must relocate. I do not wish to be eaten today.” Indeed, the Tyranids were starting to get entirely too close to their trench for comfort.

“Yup.” Tom fired off a few rounds at the nearest ones with his bolter. “They krump easily, but there are a lot of them.”

Derik glanced at Thoth to see if he recognized the odd word, but got only a blank look in return. He shook his head at Tom. “Stop that, you’ll attract their attention. We should just portal to the next . . . to the . . .” He had looked at the Words to identify the next scene, and his face contorted with mirth. “Sheep!”

Tom looked puzzled for a moment. Then, as he glanced ahead at the Words, he burst out laughing. “Okay, this I have to see.”

He opened the portal and the agents filed through, putting them inside the small Thunderhawk that had just taken off. Now that they were on the ship, the glow of the time distortion lessened significantly: there were fewer contradictions now. A few of the nameless Astartes glanced at them, but their gazes slid right off again.

Androch stared into the emptyness of space at the massive warsheep floating infront of them.

Sure enough, before them in space floated an enormous ovine clad in full urple armor. Tom let out another laugh. “Warsheep! It’s just as absurd as I imagined! And . . . oh dear sweet betentacled monstrosities the urple. It burns!”

Tom’s laugh was infectious, and Derik chuckled along with him, one hand pressed to his forehead in disbelief. “Will your camera work through the viewscreen?”

Tom fished out his camera. “It bloody well should . . . hang on . . . disable SCORPION STARE . . . okay, we’re good.” The camera clicked once. “Yeah, that’s going on the wall. Even if it hurts.”

Thoth, still gazing at the Words rather than the sheep in front of him, caught something else. “Speaking of absurdity . . . it seems our Stu was born in a ‘test-tub.’ Though this is not how Astartes are created.”

Tom, finally breaking away from looking at the warsheep, looked at Thoth. “Actually, Bile pulled it off. But . . . those were unstable. And heresy. I assume Androch is incorruptibly pure, as is standard.” He chuckled to himself. “Should have just made him a Grey Knight and had done with it. But Thoth, have you seen the sheep? Is it not glorious?”

Derik grinned. “It really must be seen to be believed. I can’t imagine how we’re going to dock.”

Thoth raised his eyes to the sheep. He blinked rapidly. “Impressive. Somewhat amusing, and rather painful.”

As it turned out, the ship didn’t dock at all. Instead, the agents were thrown as they and Androch were suddenly transported to the Generic Corridor of a ship. Derik overcorrected, bounced off a bulkhead, and collapsed to all fours with a curse. Thoth fell to one knee. Tom fell on his face. “Gah! Charge for spatial distortion! And for not showing us how to dock with a giant sheep!”

“Tom,” Derik said seriously, “some things are better left unknown.”

The agents picked themselves up and followed Androch and the Ultramarines along the corridor. It was as wide as a street, and it was filled with Space Marines of various chapters as well as a number of Imperial Guardsmen. The Imperials, for unfathomable reasons, had all painted faces on the sides of their fists and were pretending to talk through them.

“Is this a strange tradition that was established in my absence?” inquired Thoth. “If so, I disapprove.”

Tom shook his head. “No . . . this isn’t normal.” He scanned the Words. “Ah, of course. There’s murmurs coming from the ‘imperial’s fists.’ Do the wonders of misplaced apostrophes never cease?”

The murmurs of the imperial's fists and the other chapters made Androch look down in shame. He stared at his hands as he walked past them.

“So it’s only the Ultramarines who worship him?” Derik observed. “Tom, I’m pleased you gave me the colors of a more sensible lot.”

Tom gave a grin. “Come on, we couldn’t have you dressed as a Smurf, now could we? I’d choke on the smug, and I work with a bleeding sorcerer. The Fists are . . . more sane. Ish. Well, aside from the masochism.”

Derik sighed, subconsciously flexing his right hand, and mumbled something that started “One bloody caprine . . .”^[2] and mercifully trailed off.

Chapter master Marneus Augustus Calgar walked forward and stared down at the soldier infront of him."what is the meaning of this?" he asked sternly and not without a hidden hint of rage.

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Why’s Calgar here? I mean, it’s not technically a canon violation, but . . . why is this place so important that the Smurf-in-Chief himself shows up?”

“He is a Chapter Master. Not a Smurf. Whatever that is,” Thoth replied.

Tom sighed. “My brilliant comedy is wasted on you. In any case, let’s hear what these people have to say for themselves.”

Calgar received a recap of everything that had happened on Isstvan V, all of it praising Androch despite the supposedly shameful murmuring.

Marneus Stared at Donus and asked "is this true?" the captain spat "of course its true. That... that thing, is not a true space marine."

“He’s not wrong,” Derik said, regarding Captain Kyrastus thoughtfully. “I don’t say he’s recruitment material, but credit where it’s due for insight.”

“Not unless he can get past his Evil Jerk Syndrome,” muttered Tom. “Space Marines are hard enough to get along with as it is.”

Thoth glared at Tom, but he was distracted when Calgar ordered Kyrastus to be sent to “prison,” which was not exactly a standard feature of an Imperial Navy ship. The Chapter Master then took Androch off on a walk to tell him that he had a special mission.

Derik leapt into action. “Follow my lead.”

He stepped up to Kyrastus and seized him by one arm. Tom took the other, while Thoth watched a few paces behind. They marched the captain off into the ship, stopping only when they came to a place devoid of other people.

Derik fished around in his gear for his neuralyzer. “Scorch it, everything is all disarranged . . . ah, here we are!” He faced the captain, who glowered sullenly up at him. “Captain Kyrastus, you are charged with being a Designated Antagonistic Bastard, and a particularly cruel one. However, I believe this is mitigated by the fact that Androch deserves your hatred, so I’m giving you the chance to reintegrate with your canon and do some good. Kindly look at the small red light.”

Tom and Thoth turned away obligingly as the flash went off.

Derik unbound the captain’s hands. “You are Donus Kyrastus,” he said, “a captain of the Ultramarines with the values and standards that entails. You just returned from combat and you should report for . . . whatever you ought to be doing right now.”

“And you firmly believe in the excellence of your Spiritual Liege Marneus Calgar!” Tom interjected as Kyrastus walked away, earning him a glare from Thoth. “What? Nobody will notice the difference . . .”

“It is still technically against regulations,” Thoth pointed out.

“Well, it’s sort of canon . . .” Tom shrugged. “Never mind. We should probably be heading back.”

They returned to the hall to find Androch still walking with Calgar, who had just revealed that Androch was to be part of an assault on a Sons of Horus Forge World.

It was then that Androch asked if they had finally discovered “were he is hiding.”

A silence fell over Tom and Thoth, but it was Tom who broke it first. “No. I mean, I knew the timeline was confused, but . . . he can’t be alive. Horus has to die.”

Thoth’s teeth were visibly clenched. “If he is, indeed, alive . . . then I will kill him with my own hands.”

Tom tensed, concerned at what might follow.

Derik looked at Thoth in alarm. “No—no, he’s a canon character. Even if he is supposed to be dead; that will sort itself out.”

“Then I cannot even kill the man who was partially responsible for making me and my brothers the shadows we are? I cannot crush the breath from his body, and have my own revenge? I cannot use the weapons we have at our disposal to that end?” For a moment, Thoth looked like he was going to hit something, but he took a breath and relaxed slightly, although he was still clearly tense. “Very well. So be it.”

As had happened at Halloween, Derik felt his own smouldering choler leap in response to the pain of the other man’s betrayal and loss, a poignant echo to his own. To be denied the outlet of vengeance that Derik got with each Suvian slain . . . he didn’t think he himself would show as much restraint. He gripped Thoth’s arm, and his words had a flinty edge. “I don’t suppose I really know how you feel, but I can imagine. All the same . . . save it for Androch.”

Thoth nodded slowly. “He will pay for what he has done, then, brother. And for whom he has brought back. If we cannot kill him now . . . I wish to find more grievous charges. So that his death at my hands will be justified.”

“Tom,” Derik said, “add a subjective charge for rubbing salt in a PPC agent’s wounds. For that . . .” He gave Thoth a dark smile. “My brother, I can’t promise I’ll let you have the sole pleasure of ending him.”

The edges of Thoth’s mouth turned upwards. “I am eager to see what we may devise.”

It was then that Androch chose to return to his quarters. As the agents followed, Tom indicated the normal humans passing in the hallways, having relaxed visibly. “See those, Derik? Those are Chapter Serfs. They serve the Marines, and help keep the chapter running, as well as doing various tasks, like helping the Marines out of their armor―which, having had to help Thoth with it once, is no mean feat. I’m really glad this fic remembered to include them. At least it’s doing something right.”

Derik nodded absently, focused on their target. “It’s the same in a Weyr. The riders are responsible for themselves and their beasts, but the weyrfolk feed us, clothe us, and perform all manner of other necessary tasks.”

Tom shrugged. “Makes sense.”

Androch entered his quarters. This, far from leaving the agents stymied outside the door, revealed a whole new dimension of fascinating charges.

There was a kitchen. A full-sized, fully furnished kitchen, fit for a master chef. Androch needed it “to make dinner as he had not eaten a real good home made meal since the years start.” Thoth muttered angrily about the waste of resources, but on the plus side, it gave the agents plenty of room to slip inside the quarters. At Thoth’s gestured suggestion, they ducked into the fridge—a full, master-chef-class, walk-in fridge—from which they could peer out through the cracked-open door and watch how Androch took care of his armor.

Not that he nedded to remove it piece by piece as they now had the advance contraction technology that made the armor store itself in some kind of form. Androch's was that of a cross shaped necklace.

Thoth and Derik were alarmed by a rhythmic clanging noise. This was caused by Tom banging his head against the wall. Repeatedly. This caused Androch to look up, but Derik pulled the door shut just in time.

“Why. Are. You. No. That. GAH! HERESY!” Tom whispered angrily.

“I take it that’s not a real thing,” Derik deadpanned.

Tom recovered himself. “Firstly, armor can’t do that. Remember what I said about taking it off? If it could, I did all that work that one time for nothing. Secondly, if that technology existed, it would probably be considered tech-heresy. Thirdly, Androch is either a rationalist or a religious fanatic. Probably the latter. He would never wear a cross either way! How many charges can you have in a single sentence?”

It got better, or worse, depending on one’s perspective. Androch went about his “personal life rutines” until he settled down to relax on his bunk, and “music from the churches of tera” filled the rooms.

Pie Iesu Domine, it went. Dona eis requiem. Thwack.^[3]

Tom banged his head on the nearest piece of wood, which happened to be a crate of frozen meat, probably some sort of steak. “Sorry. Instinct.”

Derik’s sides shook as he laughed as quietly as he could.

Tom suddenly paled. “Wait. Did he just . . . misspell . . . ‘Terra’?”

Still smiling, Derik checked the Words. “He did, which I suppose explains the world’s interpretation of ‘church music’. Why?”

“I’ve never seen a 40k mini before,” said Tom, nervously, “but . . . it’s Warhammer. Just imagine. Mini-Tyranids. Mini-Orks. Mini-Daemons, who knows?”

“. . . Or that?” Derik pointed at the gap of the doorway. A horned, scaly snout was sniffing at it, and it seemed particularly interested in Thoth’s boot.

Thoth gave a small smile. “Yes. Or a grox. Fear not; they are somewhat violent, but largely harmless.”

“Ahh, that must be Tera!” Tom pulled Tera the mini-grox into the fridge, brightening immensely as he began to stroke it gently. It was a vaguely reptilian creature, with a large hump, horns, tusks, and a series of spokes running down the center of its back. In mini-form, it was the size of a puppy. “It’s adorable,” he said. Tera promptly headbutted him. “Ow.”

Derik eyed the mini-grox dubiously. “It isn’t supposed to be a sort of dragon, is it? It reminds me of some very unflattering descriptions of watch-whers. Totally inaccurate ones, mind you.”

Tom shrugged. “Nah, they’re basically space cows. Space lizard cows. Relatively violent space lizard cows.” He paused. “. . . Now that I think about it, that’s kind of awesome.”

“Is Androch sleeping?” asked Thoth. While the other two had been talking, he’d been peeking out the cracked-open door. “He appears to be sleeping. Unprofessional. He should be training right now.”

“He’s sleeping,” confirmed Tom, once he’d sent Tera back to HQ. “And dreaming of Middle-earth, it seems. Derik?”

Derik took a look.

He was dreaming of a great war between pointy eared woman and men and different beasts of dark natures. He suddenly saw the great enemy. A man in great armor. Androch frantically searched for his hammer. "you have no power, strange one. Here in this realm I have absolute power." the dark being said.

“That is incredibly vague,” he said. “He could be talking about almost any fantasy universe at all. Or this one, for that matter!”

“He could,” said Tom. “But I’m still relieved that we got to see someone telling Androch he’s incapable of something. The dolt could do with being taken down a peg.”

Derik scowled. “I’d like it better if I could tell which ‘dark being’ that’s supposed to be, Sauron or Morgoth. Either way, he’s lying about having absolute power.”

He stopped talking when Androch started awake.

He grabbed his power armor and some clothes and walked to the observation deck where he stared out into the dark void.

The agents followed him. Since Androch had only grabbed the necklace and clothing, not put it on, they were treated to a long look at a Space Marine wandering around buck-naked through the ship.

“It’s almost a pity Gall isn’t here to see what she’s missing out on,” Derik said with a wicked grin. His Viking partner had relentlessly hit on Wolf-clad Thoth at the party, much to the Thousand Son’s annoyance.

Tom did his best to avoid looking at the sight before them. “I suppose. No idea what she sees in them.”

“Large muscles,” Derik answered. “I’m fairly certain that’s all she wants in a man.” It was the only sane criterion that he himself fit, anyway.

Thoth frowned. “In a moment, the Words state that he is larger than an ordinary Space Marine. It seems he has also been given a disproportionate size in several crucial areas. I do not know how he fits into power armor, but I imagine it is painful.” He smiled ever so slightly. “A fitting punishment from canon, then: giving him precisely what he wanted. Worthy of my own former master.”

Tom sighed. “Do you have any shame, Thoth?”

“I do not. I see no reason to.”

Of course, Thoth was an Astartes: he was practically sexless. Why would he be ashamed? All the same, Tom had a sneaking suspicion Thoth just did this to make him uncomfortable. He continued to avert his gaze.

Derik, by contrast, unabashedly took another look and chortled at the cruel irony. Dragonriders, if they had any shame to begin with, usually lost it in the course of life with psychic beasts who broadcast their amorous feelings loudly.

A random Astartes in the golden yellow of the Imperial Fists went up to Androch and asked if he was having trouble sleeping. If the strained, almost sneering quality of his tone was any indication, he was at least trying to resist the Stu’s Aura of Smooth.

Androch looked into the deep void staring at the burning stars. "i had... I don't know what I had. A dream, a vision. Perhaps a varning.”

Androch spontaneously started speaking with a fulsome Swedish accent as he continued.

“Nothing is very clear. The event itself was quite clear but nothing beside that is really clear for meaning." Androch calmed down and turned. "thanks for the talk but I must return to my chambers."

“That, by him, was a talk?” Derik reviewed the Words. “Ten sentences. That scene was a meagre ten sentences long, and the other Marine spoke once. Just so Androch could tell us nothing is clear, which we already knew, because we were paying attention.”

“Yeah. And that Fist seems, at least from here, to only exist for Androch’s benefit,” Tom added. “I don’t think Androch’s once asked anyone else how they feel. It’s always about him. How typically Sue-ish. He’s like that girl I almost asked out in the fifth grade.”

Androch walked back to his quarters. Since he did nothing there but put down his armor and go back to sleep, the agents didn’t bother following him, but lingered on the observation deck.

“Apparently,” said Thoth, “the other Astartes find it strange that he sleeps like a mortal. I do not.”

“Oh?” asked Tom. His eyebrows were raised.

“No. I find it a blatant attempt to evade responsibility and shirk his training. It is a wonder he has not been chastised for his actions as of yet.”

“Rather, his master honors him by including him in the aforementioned mission to this Forge World,” Derik growled. “Which we had better go observe, unless you two have some way you’d like to pass the hours between now and then.”

Tom shrugged. “I have my Homeworlds set, but . . . I’d rather not get in trouble for Not Doing My Duty Correctly. Again. And it gets us out of here faster.”

“I shall follow,” said Thoth.

Derik gave him a nod. “On to the next day, then.”

They portalled ahead to the “hangarbay,” a large hangar that also contained a sandy beach, where the meeting of the task force was starting. Apparently, it was made up of Imperial Fists, Grey Knights, and Ultramarines. They all started whispering when Androch walked in, as he was expected to be the leader.

Tom sighed. “I’m pretty sure Space Marines have a bit more professionalism than that, usually, at least.”

Derik raised his eyebrows and turned to Thoth in feigned shock. “You mean your lot aren’t a clutch of gossipy apprentice lads? You’ll have to set a better example going forward, man.” He lightly thwacked Thoth’s arm with the back of his fingers.

Thoth cuffed Derik on the shoulder. Not hard enough to cause damage, but certainly hard enough to be felt. “Please do not attempt to touch me in such a manner again.”

Derik chuckled and flexed his arm as though it were nothing, but he had gotten the message. In a conciliatory tone, he said, “I’m joking with you, brother. Forgive me—I will remember you don’t enjoy it.”

Thoth gave a firm nod. “Your respect is much appreciated.”

The gathered Astartes and the agents fell silent as Chapter Master Marneus Calgar stepped up to a podium that was in the middle of the hangar for some reason. He briefed the task force on their mission: “You will be sent to the strike barge there you will make your way towards the central information hub where you will find the main computer that contains all the information regarding Horus next movement.”

Tom blinked. “Funny. I don’t think Horus would leave something like that lying around . . . Unless he suddenly developed a Terminal Case of Stupid. Like everyone el—oooh.”

“No, that’s one thing he isn’t,” Derik agreed, keeping an eye on Thoth. “If anyone in this stood within a dragonlength of canon, it would no doubt be a brilliantly orchestrated trap, but I’m not optimistic.”

“I have not been optimistic for millennia,” said Thoth. “This fic is not where I would start.”

Calgar dismissed the Marines, and they filed aboard an indistinctly realized “boarding ship,” gossiping like hens as they went. The agents went along as though they were meant to be there and listened in.

"i heard that Androch took down a whole army of tyranids with nothing but a small cohort as well as getting them all home." a imperial fist whispered amazed.

“That’s a damn lie,” Derik said. “As I recall, the Tyranids got bored and gave up the chase. Shards, and here I’d been proud of the fellows in my colors up ’til now.” He palmed his golden-yellow breastplate.

“They do not seem entirely right,” said Thoth. “Their behavior remains childish.”

"that's nothing. I heard he faced a champion of khorne alone." a grey knight whispered back.

Tom smiled at that. “He’s impressed the Grey Knights. Maybe he’s secretly one of them. It would make sense, given the number of Sueish types in their ranks.”

“I recall from my readings,” said Thoth. “Are you sure that their leader—this ‘Kaldor Draigo’—is not a Stu and thus a target?”

“He’s definitely canon,” Tom responded grimly. “As much as some of us wish he weren’t.”

Everyone took seats on the transport, the agents across the aisle from Androch and another Imperial Fist. This one, by his voice, was particularly wide-eyed and overawed by Androch’s supposed exploits.

"sir, if you don't mind me asking." Androch turned his head and said "very well, ask away." "well, I heard that you single handedly defeated a whole waaagh of orcs alone."

Derik sighed. “Son, didn’t anyone ever tell you not to believe everything you hear?”

Tom facepalmed. “By Nyarlathotep . . . Even Cato Sicarius himself would find such a proposition ludicrous.”

“Who is Nyarlathotep?” Thoth looked at Tom curiously as he spoke.

Tom paused for a moment, thinking. “. . . Um. It’s not important.”

The Imperial Fist didn’t hear any of this, of course. Androch was talking, and the young Marine hung on his every word.

Androch shook his head "it was just a small warband of twenty orcs along with a small warboss." the group of astartes laughed at the poor foes that meet his hammer.

There was a sound of whining servos as Derik’s fists clenched. “Yes, very funny. We’ll see how amusing it is when he meets my hammer.” Abruptly, a puzzled look chased the anger from his face. “Speaking of which, why is he called ‘Deathblade’ when he wields a bludgeoning weapon?”

Thoth gave a tiny smile. “I am sure that I cannot say. I suspect it may be because this work of fanfiction has made little sense up to this point and it isn’t going to start now.”

As though the agents’ words had been a cue, the fic stopped in its tracks.

Androch suddenly frooze as he noticed the people around him had frozen in space and time. He looked around and blinked as he watched a woman sit at the opposite end of him.

Androch reached for his force-hammer but noticed that it had turned into a massive two-handed blade, well massive for a normal human but for an astartes of his size it was a simple were one-handed sword. The woman smiled and said "greetings to you Androch deathblade. Or should it be deathhammer. I don't really know why you astartes have thoose kind of names."

Derik slapped a hand to his forehead (and gritted his teeth to stifle a groan of pain). “Teach me to ask questions,” he mumbled.

Tom began writing. “I think that naming violating causality is a charge, yes?”

The Harper nodded. “Not to mention the fact that Middle-earth people use bynames extensively. No one from that universe should so much as blink at them, particularly its Great Powers.”

To the Gary Stu, it seemed that one Great Power was much like any other.

Androch snarled "what do you want Slaneesh." the woman looked offended. "i'm not that foul demonic woman. My name is varda the queen of the valar."

In a nearby corner, Slaneesh the mini-grox popped into existence, wearing what looked suspiciously like a female undergarment on his head and looking rather proud of himself. Tom quickly sent him on his way.

Meanwhile, Derik’s jaw dropped. “How . . . ?” He shook his head. “Hold on. Hold on . . .” He fumbled around his armor until he came up with a communications device, and dialed in a connection. He wasn’t used to it, and he made his speech rather louder and slower than it needed to be. “Hello, Huinesoron? This is Derik. We worked together once . . . yes. . . . Yes, I got a comm. Listen, are you familiar with Warhammer 40,000 at all? . . . I'm in a Middle-earth crossover—yes, it's bizarre. Quick question: exactly how would you rate the chances of anyone mistaking Varda Elentari for Slaanesh?”

The reply came screeching with feedback, and Derik jerked the device away from his ear, grinning madly.

“What? That . . . you . . . Yelwa! Norto! Elentari anvanya, nan Hroafelmë anúvanë! Eleni Cuiviéneno! Tana hyóla saura, salma mordo, nandë quamata! Cauca! Ulca! Amba tanwë mis quen!”^[4]

Derik nodded, though of course Agent Huinesoron couldn’t see him. “That’s what I thought. Much obliged!” He closed the connection and put the comm away.

Tom winced. “I think you might have broken him . . .”

“I’ll make it up to him with a drink or a song later,” Derik said, still grinning, but at least a little ashamed of himself.

“At the very least, this fic does not have She Who Thirsts in it,” Thoth said, his tone serious. “That is one of the few things I wish to meet even less than my former master.”

“Indeed.” Derik finally lost the grin. “I think she may be the one of your Four I despise the most, for the crime of perverting the order and harmony of music.”

Tom gave a shrug. “Well, Tzeentch is the one that gives me nightmares, so take that as you will.”

Varda went on to explain that while the Valar were prohibited from direct interference with the course of events in Middle-earth, there was no rule about them taking champions. Apparently, she thought Androch was ideal for the job.

Derik grew thoughtful. “That’s not complete nonsense. The Valar do refrain from directly interfering with the affairs of mortals, and if they did choose mortal champions, it would be poetic for the Star-Queen to choose one from among the stars.”

“If I am not mistaken . . .” Thoth’s brow wrinkled at the thought. “I believe that you just gave this badfic a compliment.”

“What? It’s not a compliment,” Derik huffed. “I don’t think for one moment that the connection is deliberate. Only that it would be a pretty thing if it were done properly.”

“Whatever you say, Derik.” Tom had an infectious grin on his face.

Meanwhile, the exposition continued. It seemed the Stu’s weapons and armor would continue to be ludicrously powerful in Middle-earth, but would revert to non-powered versions of themselves. Androch agreed to go after the mission he had just been given (attacking Horus) ended.

Androch’s squad landed on the Forge World and fought their way to the “central information hub,” where their “engineer” (who, seeing as it was the improper term, the Words chose to depict as a Space Marine wearing a hard-hat) downloaded all of Horus’ secret plans onto a data slate, and then they left again. Androch and Marneus angsted about the loss of good men, and Thoth was irked by the fic insisting that Androch was Marneus’ “son of gene.” Again.

“Why do they persist with such inaccuracies?” The Thousand Son had no doubt seen more sanity-destroying things than this, but it seemed to irritate him, nonetheless.

“Yeah,” said Tom. “I mean, if he was born in a tub, he clearly wasn’t fathered by some guy called Gene.”

Derik grinned at the joke, and then snorted when Varda reappeared and “stared amazed at the ship.”

“I don’t blame her!” the Harper said. “They certainly don’t have warsheep in Middle-earth.”

Tom thought for a second. “Now, that’s an idea. What if we trained the sheep of Middle-earth to form a sort of front line against the forces of Sauron, delaying the enemy forces? Could we somehow arm the sheep with deadly weapons? How would this impact the result of the War of the Ring? This could be interesting and I am getting entirely carried away by an irrelevant detail, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” said Thoth. There was little point in saying much else.

Varda opened some sort of vortex and chucked Androch through it. He was dumped out the other side into a Generic Fantasy Glade beside a dirt road, with merrily chirping birds and all. In transit, his power armor was transformed into a set of fairly standard medieval plate, and his hammer became a sword.

The agents followed via their own portal and hid behind the trees screening the glade on the opposite side from the road.

Tom looked to Derik. “Well, we definitely need new disguises. I think this is your area of expertise?”

Derik scanned the Words. “We should be Rangers,” he said. “They roam throughout northern Middle-earth at this time, and keep its more peaceful corners from harm.”

“Oh yeah!” said Tom brightly. “Like Aragorn.” He fumbled with the DORKS (now an uncomfortably large rock). “Now where is the . . . bloody . . . nrgh . . . fsfaf . . . grr . . . AH!”

With a sufficiently sci-fi BWEEMing noise, the DORKS did its work, and soon three Rangers stood where the Astartes had been previously.

Thoth looked down at himself. “I feel weak. I had forgotten how it was to be a mortal. So . . . incapable.”

Derik raised an eyebrow, looking more like himself in weather-beaten brown leather and a grey cloak. “Speak for yourself, brother.” The hint of a smile played at the left corner of his mouth. “And be glad we’re Dúnedain. Distant Elven lineage makes them more hale and longer-lived than other humans of this world. Not so different from good Pernese stock.”

Thoth gave a small nod. “All the same, brother, you must understand that such a mortal frame is still far weaker than what I am used to dealing with. This pathetic mortal body is a significant decrease in my level of power.” His expression was one of mild amusement.

“What is it with you two?” Tom asked, chuckling. “You’ve been calling each other brother on-and-off since Halloween, and Derik, Thoth’s taken a liking to you faster than almost anyone else we’ve met, at least when I’ve been around him. It’s honestly kind of funny, in a ‘have I suddenly been trapped in a mashup of a Hallmark film and a Shonen anime about the power of friendship’ kind of way.”

Derik, somewhat taken aback by Tom’s observations, glanced at Thoth to see that the Marine’s expression had grown more stony than usual—although, being human at present, there was an odd, gentle quality about it as well. Was he offended? Derik didn’t understand, and it worried him.

Perhaps fortunately, the fic provided a distraction in the form of a Grey alien appearing and greeting Androch.

He spotted a grey man leaning on a staff. Androch blinked "hello." the man smiled at him benevolently. "i'm looking for someone to partake in a adventure. I'm also trying to take a special hobbit on this adventure. Mind taging along?" he questioned.

Tom gaped. “That . . . the alien . . . he’s not . . . can’t be . . . can he?”

Derik’s head slowly tilted to one side. “It shouldn’t be, but it is.”

gandalf smiled. " well then let's go to bree first we have a meeting with a special dwarf to keep."

Grey Man!Gandalf had an extremely disconcerting lipless smile. The way it said the word “special” was particularly unsavory.

“That’s not something from your universe leaked in by accident, is it?” Derik asked Thoth.

Thoth gave the Grey Man a long stare. “No . . .” he said slowly. “I do not believe that the Changer of Ways would choose to warp an individual in that particular manner.” Then he realized what he had just said. “Then again, perhaps.”

Derik shook his head. “I hope it goes away on its own.”

Tom winced. “Yeah. I do not want to have to clean that thing up.”

With Gandalf named as such, though, the world quickly restored his Hobbit-movieverse appearance. Androch and the wizard set off toward Bree, Androch nattering on about how he’d been sent by the Valar. The agents trailed them from afar, keeping to the trees and hedges. They’d not gotten far before the Random Bandits popped out of nowhere.

suddenly a couple of bandits appeared and the leader said "hand over all your valuables or else."

Derik snorted. “Ah, wonderful. Mindless goons. At least this lot don’t have a feisty redheaded leader like the last ones. One of those in my life is more than enough.”

Tom gave a slight smile, but kept watching. “20 Zorkmids Gandalf tries the ‘helpless old man’ routine? Any takers who don’t believe that I read the Words before trying to cheat you out of your money?”

Indeed, Gandalf said to the lead bandit, “you wouldn't want to keep ous here for long as we have business to make.”, and then “he played the weak elder card.” The period where there should have been a comma resulted in Gandalf fishing from his robes a business card reading “Weak Elder” in fancy faux-Elvish script and presenting it to the lead bandit, who rightly sneered at it.

Derik grinned at Tom. “If you’re ever on Pern, avoid Bitra Hold. They’d eat you alive there. But, what’s a Zorkmid?”

Tom tossed a small, coppery coin over to Derik. On one side was a very flatheaded man, and on the other some sort of poorly drawn castle. The phrase “In frobs we trust” arched over the image. “This is a Zorkmid,” he said. “Some odd corner of HQ seems to be leaking them or something, because I keep finding them around.”

Derik examined the coin dubiously. “And what’s it worth in pints of—”

Androch had been slowly reaching for his sword, and the bandits were stupid enough to attack him. He quickly stabbed one through the chest, cleaved him in half for good measure, and cut down the rest, too. Derik gaped and Tom paled slightly, averting his eyes, while Thoth looked on dispassionately.

“Great Golden Eggs!” Derik hissed. “You’d think he could have run them off with a warning!”

“It is a resolution,” said Thoth, simply. “There may have been more expedient ones, but it was effective nonetheless.”

Tom’s eyes were fixed firmly on the ground. “W-well . . . that was . . . violent. I don’t think I was quite ready for it.”

Derik gave up trying to think of a retort to Thoth and turned to Tom instead. “Nor I. Are you all right? There’s a convenient bush there, if you need it.”

“No . . . I think I’ll manage.” The color slowly returned to Tom’s face and he drew himself up, although he was shaking slightly and still avoided looking directly at the bodies. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen violence, exactly. But I’m not quite so used to it.”

Gandalf had simply watched the fight, frowning slightly.

"poor fools." gandalf said and they continued to make their way to bree.

Tom’s fist clenched. “Gandalf. Would not. Be so accepting of slaughter.” He knew he was getting more worked up than usual over this. He welcomed that: it would keep his mind off of what had just happened.

“No, he would not,” Derik agreed. “And yet . . . he didn’t approve of it, either. They say the Elven-ring Vilya aids Elrond in resisting the Suefluence. I wonder if the same goes for Narya and Gandalf.”

“That may be.” Thoth finally focused on the other two agents for a moment. “I would, perhaps, probe their psychic defenses in an attempt to understand how. But I believe this would be too intrusive an act to perform on a canon character.”

The aghast expressions of the other two agents answered that.

Thoth nodded. “A pity: much could be learned from it.”

Tom looked up from his notebook, having finished putting down the latest set of charges. “Right. We should be hitting the next chap—”

They reached a small clearing a few miles from bree and they were cornered by bandits.

Suddenly, Androch and Gandalf were back where they had been moments ago, as if they had not moved on. So were the bandits. But it seemed things were playing out differently.

“—ter . . .” Tom said. “Wait, what? Why are we . . .?” He paled as Androch began to strike the bandits down once again, this time before they could even speak a complete sentence.

"hand over all of your..." the bandit started to but androch charged forward raising his sword in a cross slash over head strike. The blade flashed and the man was cleaved in half.

Once again, the rest of the bandits stupidly charged at a man who was ridiculously larger and better armored than they were, and once again, Androch wasted no time killing them all. Only this time the gore was more elaborately detailed.

androch blocked the man to the left of him and slashed the man to the right as the poor fool charged the giant. Androch blocked the man's blade with his shield and slammed his weight into the shield into the man. The man was squashed beneath the weight of his opponent. Androch spun around and punched the third man in the chest. The man had his entire back explode with spinal cord and all.

Tom threw up. He tried to make it to the bush, but the reaction was far too immediate for him to do so in time. He stayed on his hands and knees, quivering.

Derik had to sit down, himself. He was no stranger to injury and death, but this was so extreme it was unreal. He found himself in the grips of a sort of nauseated mirth and smothered his laughter with one hand.

Thoth once again looked on, dispassionate, as Androch continued his slaughter of the now-cowering bandits. “Wasteful,” he said. “Once they had ceased to attack, there was no point in killing them. Perhaps Androch worships the Blood God.”

“T-g-g-g-g-g-g . . .” Tom’s eyes were squeezed shut, and he was still shivering. If he was, indeed, trying to say something, it wasn’t coming out.

“He can’t do that,” Derik finally managed. “Even if it were physically possible, which I doubt!”

“He can,” said Thoth, “and he did. Whether he should have been able to is another matter.” He looked down at his ill partner. “Tom, to what extent have you recovered?”

“I think . . . I’ll be . . . okay,” Tom managed, still on the ground.

“No, you don’t understand,” Derik said, shaking his head. As he spoke, he pulled a leather water bottle out of his pack and offered it to Tom, who took an emphatic drink. “This is a universe with clearly defined good and evil. He’s supposed to be a champion of good. Barbarically slaughtering those weaker than yourself is an act of evil. Unless there’s some poignant character arc about changing his bloodthirsty ways afoot, it doesn’t work.”

Tom got shakily to his feet, averting his eyes from the recent bloodshed. “S-so . . . that’s another charge. Binary morality, huh . . . I could get used to that.”

Derik, too, got up, and took his water bottle back.

Thoth, meanwhile, stood silent, seemingly contemplating.

With all the bandits dead, Androch started looting the bodies. Gandalf helped, though he at least looked grim about it. Their spoils consisted of a handful of copper coins and some odd-looking leather with black-spotted yellow fur still attached.

“‘Cheat leather’,^[5] apparently,” Derik said, choosing to focus on what was least insane. “We’ll have to make sure that’s not left behind when we leave.”

Tom took a quick glance at the leather. “Looks odd. But I do like cheating . . . and finding more reasons to kill this fic . . .”

But being unsettled by the bloodshed, the agents hadn’t bothered to look ahead, and were suddenly yanked to the gates of Bree with the abruptness of a poorly written transition. Because it was a poorly written transition.

Tom, of course, fell over again, as he was still unsteady on his feet. “Right, another charge,” he said, scrambling up. “Here, at least, I know what I’m doing.” He turned to look at Thoth, only to discover that he was . . . still on the ground. It seemed that the combination of being lost in thought and the loss of some of his improved reflexes had led him to also fall.

“. . . This,” said Thoth simply, “did not happen. And is another reason why I find being a mortal distasteful.”

Derik, whose dragonrider reflexes were completely intact, suppressed the urge to make a smart remark to the tune of “can and did,” and simply offered the other man a hand up. Thoth didn’t accept.

“I am still capable of returning to my feet,” he said. “Although I understand I am to appreciate the gesture, theoretically.”

Stung by the reproof and not sure what he’d done to deserve it, Derik shrugged. “Have it your way.” He wiggled his fingers as he withdrew the hand, suggestive of the thought evaporating into nothing, and turned back to watching the fic.

Androch and Gandalf, having arrived at the west gate of Bree, had been duly challenged by the gatekeeper. And then the gate itself.

the gate sneered "i don't like ya so ya don't get to come in, now scram."

“Can we keep the talking gate?” asked Tom.

“I do not believe that would be practical,” responded Thoth, his tone indicating that this was a variation on a conversation they’d had before.

“But it would be awesome!”

“It is not worth the cost or space.”

The banter was interrupted by a BOOM when Androch, borrowing a move from the Nazgûl’s playbook, pushed the gate over. It fell on top of the gatekeeper, who screamed in agony.

Tom winced. “Let’s just . . . go. I’d rather not lose my lunch again.”

“Oh, but Androch has made a funny joke,” Derik said in the dangerously sarcastic tone that made people check for falling chandeliers, even when there were none. “The gatekeeper’s opinion is noted! How amusing. And Gandalf simply smiles and asks him nicely to put the gate back. Once again, offering no criticism of a blatantly evil act.”

“Yeah,” added Tom bitterly. “Believe me, I’m only uncomfortable and close to vomiting on the outside. On the inside, I think this is hilarious . . .”

Fortunately, once the gate was lifted, the gatekeeper was able to run off more or less unscathed. The agents pursued Gandalf and Androch to the Prancing Pony, where Androch quickly spotted a well-dressed dwarf who had to be Thorin Oakenshield.

Androch sniffed the air due to his Space wolf heritage and he let a snarl erupt from his throat. The dwarf smelled of greed and grief. The most dangerous combination that could happen together.

Tom looked to Thoth. “Do . . . Space Wolves actually do that?”

Thoth thought for a moment, his expression fixed in a snarl as he did so. “. . . They do. Unfortunately, it seems to actually have some effect. The fools do at least have some fine senses.”

A little behind them, Derik muttered, “Greed and grief is not the most dangerous combination of emotions that can happen to a man.”

Meanwhile, four “rough men” had decided Androch was a good target for some reason. The stupidest of them dropped his drink, accused Androch of bumping into him, and demanded that Androch buy him two drinks in return. Surprisingly, Androch decided to ignore him instead of turning him into a splotch on the floor, but the ruffian was serious about his death wish.

androch felt something hit him in the back of his head and he spun around and grabbed the man, tossed him over his shoulders and send him flying into a table. The tavern stared at him in shock and fear. They soon returned to what they were doing before the little scene.

“I am shocked—shocked and amazed,” Derik said, “to find him capable of such restraint. I suppose he turns it on or off at will.” He eyed the bar speculatively, but he was on the job and there were rules about that sort of thing.

Gandalf smiled and the stunned dwarf "don't let his though act fool you, he's a real softy once you get to know him."

Tom felt vaguely ill at the words. “. . . Can we charge for having a character be deemed soft after he slaughtered countless relative-innocents?” he asked. Then he paused for a moment. “Actually . . . you know what? I don’t care. We are now.”

Derik nodded firmly. “I’m fairly certain this falls under ‘causing canon characters to behave stupidly’, at the very least.”

“If you choose,” added Thoth, “you may additionally charge for him having no objections to being called a ‘softy’. Marines are not supposed to be soft.”

“Although,” Derik speculated, looking over the Words, “it’s possible that Gandalf is being extremely sarcastic. What with the awful writing, it’s hard to tell.”

“Sarcasm is in the eye of the beholder,” opined Tom. “If we can’t see it, it might as well not be there.”

Gandalf and Androch joined Thorin at his table and ordered food. For Androch, this consisted of “five whole meals fit for a full grown muscular man.” The food appeared out of nowhere thanks to the fic just assuming it was there when needed, and since it was undescribed, it manifested as a nicely canonical, if plain, roast of mutton.

Derik walked past the table and smoothly nicked a platter. Androch glanced at the spot where it had been and looked vaguely confused for a moment, then shrugged and went back to staring intently at Thorin while Gandalf pressed the dwarf to reclaim Erebor.

“Anyone else hungry?” Derik asked, rejoining his fellow agents at a nearby table and offering the platter around.

Tom recovered from laughing long enough to grab some food off the plate. “Somehow, it seems tastier knowing that we stole it from a Stu . . .”

“Yes, it does.” Derik grinned and chowed down.

Thoth didn’t bother taking anything. He sat in silence, watching and waiting.

Thorin, meanwhile, protested that the “seven families” had sworn oaths to whoever held the “arcenstone.” The misspelling spawned a mini-Balrog that scuttled over to hide under the agents’ table. It didn’t have a collar, so they sent it to OFUM for training.

Apart from the mini, the “arcenstone” was a problem because Thorin didn’t have it; it had been stolen by Smaug. Gandalf was aware: he had a burglar in mind to retrieve the stone, and he wanted Smaug stopped so the dragon couldn’t be used by the Enemy whom Gandalf feared had returned.

Thorin looked towards Androch and asked "and what is he for." Gandalf smiled "he is going to kill the dragon for us."

Derik reacted before his brain had even properly processed the words. In a shift that was all the more violent for taking him so far from the relative relaxation he’d been enjoying, he snapped into a black fury and shot to his feet. He knew they were talking about Smaug; he knew Smaug was evil and not a proper dragon at all. He still unslung his sledgehammer and started for Androch with murder in his eyes.

Thoth reacted rapidly, grappling the other agent before he knew what he was doing, even as Tom began to rise to his feet: sure, his superhuman reflexes were gone, but near ten millennia of training and mental conditioning weren’t. He pulled back sharply, restraining Derik. “Cease,” he said, his voice calm.

“Let go,” Derik snarled. He struggled, but with his arms pinned to his sides, his right hand weighed down by his hammer, he couldn’t break Thoth’s grip.

Thoth didn’t react substantially to Derik’s struggles, doing just enough to keep him in place. “I will not cease restraining you. While I do not understand the origin of your rage, I can feel its intensity. And I believe your present course of action is . . . unwise. Think before acting. Do not let your emotions control you.”

Derik tried again to break free, tossing his head and growling in frustration, but it was a half-strength effort. The Astartes’ low, steady tone was having an effect. Finally, the fight went out of him, his anger subsumed back into the grief at its root. His head and shoulders drooped. He stood breathing heavily and trembling with the flood of adrenaline in his veins. “I will kill him,” he said. “But I will wait.”

Thoth slowly released the other agent. “That is understandable.” He looked at Derik for a long moment. “You should invest more work into controlling your emotions, I think.”

He shot Thoth a dark, wounded look. “Don’t you think I would if I could?” He twisted his hands around the neck of his sledgehammer before sliding it carefully back into its loop at his hip, then returned to the agents’ table and sat down heavily. He leaned on one elbow with his hand covering his eyes.

Tom remained quietly standing, unsure quite what to do. He usually took it upon himself to try and even things out when his partner did something like this, but he didn’t think he could do anything without making things worse. Eventually, he took a seat, as did Thoth, the three of them contemplating as the fic continued to unfold around them.

During the scuffle, Androch had protested that he would have nothing to do with fighting any fire-breathing dragon, thank you very much, since he didn’t fancy being cooked inside his armor. He also voiced his opinion that it was Thorin’s grandfather’s fault for amassing enough gold to attract Smaug’s attention in the first place, which earned him a charge of being a victim-blaming asshat. However, he did agree to help Thorin get his home back, comparing his fiery spirit to that of a Salamander.

“Imperial Fist, more like,” Tom muttered. “I don’t think he’s exactly doing this out of the goodness of his heart . . .”

All the same, it was a nice, respectful moment . . . that lasted about half a second. Then Gandalf asked Androch to explain Space Marine chapters, and Androch used that bit of pointless exposition as a springboard to launch into his favorite subject: himself.

"I.." here androch hesitated but he continued "was tankborn from the gene-seeds of Marneus the primarch for the space marine ultramarine chapter and Erik Morkai of the space wolves so I would say that I would belong to the ultramarines if any chapter but that is something that is up for debate between us marines. But that is pretty much it i'm afraid."

“Holy run-on sentences, Batman! And that’s not all: this single quote brings us up to a shocking I-really-stopped-counting number of charges for gratuitous angsting!” said Tom, using his best announcer voice. “And . . . hang on. Thoth, did he just . . . ?”

“. . . Imply that Marneus Calgar was a Primarch and furthermore name the incorrect gene-fathers?” responded Thoth. “Yes.”

Tom blinked. “. . . I was just asking if he really didn’t capitalize an ‘I’. But that’s sure as heck going in the charges.”

Derik looked up and gave a derisive huff when Thorin, for some unaccountable reason, decided to make fun of Androch’s choice of weapon, as though swords were somehow inherently inferior.

Per the movieverse, Gandalf showed them a bounty on Thorin’s head, which he claimed to have taken off “some strangers on the road.” This attracted the attention of the remaining ruffians lurking around the common room, but Androch had only to reach for his “slammed together” sword to send them scurrying off. All the same, they’d managed to intimidate Androch into wanting to leave as quickly as possible. The three of them paid for their food and headed for the exit.

Derik immediately pursued them, though he did pause long enough to make sure his companions followed him. “They’re going to split up outside of town. Come on: this is our best chance.”

Tom got behind him. “Who’s taking point?”

“I believe Derik should have it,” said Thoth. “So, brother, what is your plan?”

Unsure quite what to make of this show of deference, Derik regarded him warily before answering. “Once Gandalf is away from the others, we neuralyze him and send him off. Thorin and Androch set watches on the road, so we take care of Thorin while Androch is asleep. Then we portal Androch away somewhere. Somewhere we can deal with him properly.” His good eye glinted dangerously.

Tom flipped out a neuralyzer. “Sounds like a plan to me. So let’s see what happens when it goes wrong. I’ll take Thorin, you take Gandalf. Thoth, you can keep watch and help drag off Androch when the time comes. I have a feeling you’ll get more action in the next bit.”

Gandalf went quietly. Since he’d so easily accepted everything that had happened so far in the fic, it wasn’t difficult for a one-eyed Ranger to hail him on the road and request a quick word. Afterward, all the wizard remembered was a brief exchange of news on the state of things in Eriador, and he went on his way to Bree, where he was fated for a canonical meeting with an exiled king of the Dwarves.

Thorin was a bit trickier, but there were a few saving graces: Androch and Thorin had left Bree, but they were headed to . . . Bree. So they simply walked in place just outside town limits. This would have gone on for several days, but on the first night Thorin thought he heard something in the bushes while he was on his watch, and went over to investigate. There was a red flash. Then Thorin didn’t remember his watch. Or looking in the bushes. Or Androch. Or really much beyond what he should have been doing, which was entering the town and meeting up with Gandalf. Properly, this time.

Tom quickly pulled in the other agents and grabbed the DORKS. A few BWEEMS later, and they were once again Space Marines.

Thoth stretched slightly. “Ahh . . . it is a pleasure to leave behind that weak, mortal form once again.”

“I can’t say I mind the shift in stature,” said Tom. He grinned. “The better to beat up a Stu with. We still need a place to portal hi—hang on.” His grin grew broader. “I think . . . I have an idea. The best idea. Who here’s up for more war?”

Derik rose from looting Androch’s pack for the copper coins and ‘cheat leather’ and rolled his shoulders, settling himself back into this larger, more powerful body. He was itching to get down to business, and he frowned skeptically at Tom. “What do you mean?”

“He says he’s an Ultramarine. I say we give him a taste of what the Horus Heresy was really like.” Tom fiddled with the DORKS. “I just have to change our colors . . .”

Thoth frowned, his eyes narrowing. “I do not believe I will like this.” Indeed, when their armor was repainted with the red and emblems of the Word Bearers, his general dissatisfaction was palpable.

“Oh, suck it up,” said Tom, rolling his eyes. “Now could one of you help me out? We need to portal him out before he wakes up, or this could get nasty.”

“You’ve got the thing,” Derik said. “Set it underneath him and drop him wherever you have in mind.”

Tom blinked. “. . . Riiight. Yeah. I knew that.” He crept over to where Androch was sleeping. “. . . Wait. Dang. We have to charge him first. Thoth, kindly do your best to restrain him before I wake him?”

“With pleasure.” Thoth gave a cold smile. Slowly but surely, Androch rose into the air until he was held spread-eagled, seemingly by some invisible bonds.

Derik chuckled unkindly at the Stu. “That’s a good trick.”

Thoth didn’t look away from the task. “Centuries of focus and training provide many a reward. But we should hurry: I am far weaker outside my home continuum.”

“Right,” said Tom. He activated the portal, placing it just beneath Androch’s feet. “Drop him when I’m done.” He took a rather large stick and poked Androch with it. The Stu, of course, began immediately struggling, and issuing insults against “the forces of chaos.”

“Androch Deathblade, son of—oh, who even knows at this point, your backstory’s such a mess; you are hereby charged with—”

Unfortunately, Androch was a Stu. A Stu with unusual strength. And thus a bit more than Thoth, in his degraded state, had bargained for. So everyone was rather surprised when Androch broke Thoth’s hold on him . . . and dropped straight into the portal.

“No!” Derik charged and leaped right in after him. Thoth followed just behind.

Tom shrugged, rifling through his pack. Soon enough he found what he was looking for. “Here goes . . .”

Derik and Thoth landed hard in the midst of a raging inferno. Wherever they were, it was on fire, and more flaming pieces of debris crashed to the ground around them every second. In almost every direction, there was some commotion: ships streaking by overhead, ground vehicles mustering, hulking figures in deep blue or blood red armor engaged in tumultuous combat. A few miles distant from them was the epicenter of the disaster: a wreck the size of a metropolis, gutted and twisted beyond recognition, gouting black fumes into the atmosphere.

A mortal wouldn’t stand a chance here, but they were Astartes, and their biology compensated for the toxic, superheated air.

They’d dropped almost on top of Androch. He’d had a harder impact, on his back rather than his feet, and he was still in normal steel plate instead of the power armor whose fluid circulation helped the agents regulate their temperature. However, he, too, quickly overcame the environment and lurched to his feet.

“TRACHEROUS SCUM!” he shouted at them. “whatever your plan is it wont work.” He drew his sword.

At this point, Tom decided to make his entrance. And whatever other failures he may have, Tom liked making entrances.

Outside his pack, Tom brought two things with him through the portal: a megaphone, and speakers. And the speakers were already playing loud, epic music—Tom had chosen “They Are My Space Marines,”^[6] which was debatably relevant to the situation at hand and startling enough to stop Androch in his tracks.

Tom raised the megaphone, roaring over the din. “ANDROCH DEATHBLADE: YOU ARE HEREBY CHARGED WITH . . . UMM . . . HANG ON . . . RIGHT! NONSENSICAL DESCRIPTIONS, WANTON CRUELTY TO THE COMMON COMMA; BEING GROWN IN A ‘TEST TUB’; MAYBE HAVING NON-PRIMARCH GENE-FATHERS SERIOUSLY I COULDN’T EVEN TELL; CREATING DESIGNATED ANTAGONISTIC BASTARDS; FORCING SHEEP TO BATTLE IN SPACE; BLATANT TECH-HERESY, TO WIT, EXCESSIVELY MAGICAL ARMOR; MAKING TYRANIDS ACT OUT OF CHARACTER; BEING SIMULTANEOUSLY LOOKED DOWN ON BY EVERYONE AND UNIVERSALLY ADMIRED; MAKING TRAINED MILITARY FORCES ACT LIKE FIVE-YEAR-OLDS; EXCESSIVELY GRAPHIC VIOLENCE; DISTORTED GEOGRAPHY; MISTAKING VARDA FOR SLAANESH; AND,” Tom took a deep breath, “BEING A BLATANT GARY STU. YOU GET NO APPEAL, AND YOUR PENALTY IS DEATH.” He dropped the megaphone and grabbed a chainsword. “Any questions?”

“Don’t forget,” Derik said, hefting his hammer—now transformed into its powered equivalent and crackling with energy. “Completely disarranging the timeline and keeping Horus Lupercal alive well beyond his canonical death.”

“Indeed,” said Thoth, arming his bolter. He paused. “And I believe that driving a PPC agent to near homicide is a charge as well.”

Tom awkwardly grabbed the megaphone again. “WHAT THEY SAID.”

Androch glared at them defiantly. “i may be just a tub grown experiment but i will end your life corrupt bastards!” He raised his sword again and ran at them.

Derik glanced at Thoth, and Thoth gave a quick nod. Derik nodded back and leaped at Androch, swinging his hammer like a baseball bat.

The Stu tried to block, but a plain steel sword, while a fine weapon in the proper context, was no match for a power hammer. The head slammed into his chest, crumpling the plain steel armor like a tin can and giving him a jolt of electric shock to boot. He convulsed and fell backward.

Thoth followed up with a few bolter rounds to Androch’s chest. And unlike badfic!bolter rounds, these ones exploded. There wasn’t much left afterwards, and no one would notice the extra debris anyway.

“Well,” said Tom, packing up the speakers and megaphone. “That . . . was a thing. And we get to go home now!”

Derik looked up from Androch’s remains and spun around as though noticing his apocalyptic surroundings for the first time. “. . . Come to that, where are we?”

“Calth,” replied Tom. “A prize Ultramarines agri-world right after an orbital dock hit it in the face, courtesy of the colors we’re wearing, if I’m not mistaken.”

“I see!” Derik examined his armor. “Gall would appreciate this. She enjoys playing the villain.”

Tom chuckled. “Does she like playing a religious nutcase?”

The conversation was cut short by a white-hot chunk of metal slamming into the ground a mere dozen meters from where the agents stood. They felt the impact through their boots.

Derik said quickly, “This was good thinking. Let’s get out of here.”

Thoth pulled the RA from Tom’s back. “Indeed.” He pressed the button and the portal appeared before them.

On the other side, Tom found two mini-grox waiting for them. “Oh, man, I almost forgot about these guys! I better find someone to take care of them.” He picked up one under each arm, ignoring their attempts to attack him, and strolled out of the RC. “Let’s find you guys a home . . .”

Derik shook his head and, with reluctance, made himself face up to Thoth, who once more towered over him. “I should thank you for what you did back there, stopping me. I’m sorry to have been an extra load. Perhaps we’ll see each other again when the Quiddich league resumes.” He did the gentlemanly thing and stuck out his hand, which Thoth shook.

After a brief moment’s hesitation, Derik nodded, turned, and went on his way.

“Brother,” said Thoth, peering into the corridor after Derik.

He paused and looked back. “Yes?”

Thoth stepped into the corridor. “Earlier . . . you spoke of not being able to temper your emotions. You, as an individual . . . interest me somewhat. And I am always eager to learn of other continua. In return for such knowledge as you may provide on these matters, I would be willing to teach you what I can of how to control your own mind. And, perhaps, of how to channel your own psychic talents, though I do not know if yours function similarly to mine.” Despite his size and typically confident stance, he seemed awkward, somehow.

Derik was slow in responding. First ready to be offended, then cautiously flattered, and finally confused, he said, “Channel my what, now?”

“Your psychic talents,” spoke Thoth, calmly. “They are weak, by mortal standards or otherwise, but they are most certainly present. It makes sense: as I recall, Nurse Robinson spoke of you possessing a telepathic connection with your dragon. This would have been impossible without some sort of ability.”

Again, Derik didn’t answer right away. His expression had clouded over with signs that, brother-in-spirit or no, Thoth was on thin ice and should tread lightly. “Be that as it may . . . if any faculty of mine had a part in it, it’s a lock without a key now.”

“The telepathic connection, yes. But your talent . . . that remains to be seen. You are clearly capable of empathy, at the very least.”

Derik folded his arms impatiently. “Wherryteeth. What are you talking about?”

“Your ability to feel for others, on the basis of psychic ability or no, is well documented,” said Thoth. “Throughout this mission, you have shown yourself capable of empathy, and indeed inclined towards it, whether it be for a man whom a Stu slammed against a ship; myself, when you felt and expressed anger upon my behalf; or your kindness towards Tom when he demonstrated his weakness in the face of violence.”

“But that’s all just basic human decency.” Even as he said it, though, Derik was examining the incidents from this new angle and finding it went beyond that. He’d sympathized with Donus Kyrastus as a fellow Suvian pawn, but he’d felt the impact of his head on that walkway. He couldn’t tell Tom’s queasy stomach apart from his own unease at the scene they’d witnessed, but wasn’t that just the point? And as for Thoth . . . there was definitely something not normal there. The Astartes largely kept his feelings under rigid control, but the times he slipped, Derik was all too readily swept up in the surge.

Thoth gave a slow nod. “I no longer read minds, but your emotions tell me that you think there may be more to it. I concur. And whether there is or not . . . I offer you an opportunity to train under me. At the very least, it will give you some control of your mind.”

“This training,” Derik said warily. “What would it entail?”

“Much of it would be spent upon meditative exercises. I suggest training daily, for several hours. Although the schedule can be reduced, as circumstances require.”

“Several uninterrupted hours daily is asking rather a lot in this environment,” Derik agreed, carefully not saying he thought it was asking the impossible of him, personally. However, he was intrigued. And while he still wasn’t certain he and Thoth were friends, exactly, in the short time they’d known each other, a connection had formed. It was worth a shot. “All right. Name the time and place.”

Thoth gave a short bow. “Tomorrow, then. Three o’clock. RC 2112r, currently disused.”

Derik inclined his head in return. “I’ll promise to show up, if the Duty permits. Beyond that, we shall see.”

Thoth moved back into his RC. “Very well. Until then . . . brother.”

1. It was, in fact, a BananaPhone™. Well, actually, it was a DORKS disguised as a BananaPhone™.
2. caprine: adj. of or pertaining to goats. n. Pernese term for a goat. (Derik has clearly picked up some of Agent Suicide’s terrible sense of humor.)
3. A certain setting of “Pie Iesu.” Worship the Python, for it is very Monty.
4. Quenya: “Disgusting! Horror! The Star-Queen is beautiful beyond all others, where the Thirster is the most hideous! Stars of Cuivienen! This is a trump of foulness, a lyre of darkness, a harp of sickness! Twisted! Evil! More machine than man!”
   1. Huinesoron’s notes: Sorry, I had to. ^_^
   2. Hroafelmë is a canonical Quenya word for “body-impulse,” and covers hunger, thirst, fear, lust, and any other feelings of the body. As hS’s personal coinage for Slaanesh, I think it works.
   3. Also: good grief.
5. This is a The Cheat. He helps Strong Bad cheat at stuff.
6. “They Are My Space Marines” (Instrumental Symphonic Metal Version) by StringStorm. Everyone headbang with the Emperor!

Guess who recently joined the 40k fandom! {= D (Me. It’s me. Stop acting like you’re confused.)

This co-write was an absolute joy to do, and I look forward to working with Thoth more in the future. Derik does, too.

As for the badfic, there’s not much to say about it that hasn’t already been said. The crossover is about as implausible as it gets, and the author really needed to do more research on both canons to have a prayer of making it work. “The Star-Queen chooses a champion from the distant stars” as a hook might have done the trick. If anybody wants to take that as a prompt, be my guest!

ETA 12.10.2018:

Thoth’s Notes: Hi, I’m Thoth. And . . . it’s been a few months shy of a year? Jeez . . . time flies and I probably should have done this earlier. This is technically the first canon story featuring my agents, so I hope that the battle-scarred Thoth and his rather sillier partner came across well, even if you haven’t read their interludes and such.

I also hope that you had as much fun reading it as we did writing it, because this was a blast.

Oh, and . . . Warsheep.