The Prodigy (40k Fanfic)
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Deep in the warp, a presence stirred. It was old, and it was as strong as it was malignant. Its true name would blast the minds of most mortals who spoke it, and its presence was as vast as a star system, even though it had no tangible form. It had no emotions as could be fathomed by a mortal mind. It was beyond the human condition, although it wore manflesh when it could.

However, if its feelings could be translated into words, from the unknowable to the tangible, what coursed through its body now might be described as...excitement. Anticipation. Something immense was going to happen. Something that would change the very face of the galaxy itself, and twist the fate of each life it contained. Its cousins, brothers and sisters were becoming aware of it. Even the Father in Darkness, and his great and Most Feared kin, showed signs of interest. But with them, nothing could ever be certain...

In any case, something monumental would occur. Soon, but not as mortals measured time. There would be much glory and power to be gained. And It planned to be there, this presence, to claim it for the Father... and itself.

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Gunfire rang out, shots ricocheting against twisted pipes and mesh gantries. Sparks flew whenever the bullets hit metal, providing brief flares of illumination in the otherwise near-pitch darkness of the decommissioned refactory.

There were quite a few of the hive gangers, but their numbers were really no match for the advanced night vision tech and weaponry Tholth’s private mercenaries were equipped with. The Lord Chancellor himself did not take part in the firefight. Although he trained with a long barreled Ransome 8 Blastgun often, he was not one to jump into harm’s way when he could hire people to do it for him.

Instead, the firefight was brought to him through the artificial eyes of an intricately wrought mechanical beetle. Cast in emerald and ermine, the beetle, and a matching set of insects like it, in addition to a liquid crystal wafer-screen, had been a gift from a particularly wealthy Rogue Trader, whom Tholth had assisted in the past. The set included insects for everything from spying, such as the beetle was doing now, to golden plated bees which contained nano and digital weaponry. They were of Xenos origin, but the Lord Chancellor had decided long ago not to let that little detail obstruct the usefulness of such things.

While Arbites-issue Hellguns chewed the last of the scum apart, Lord Chancellor Tholth reflected on the current problem. The main thing was, he decided, that the base criminal element was getting a little too full of itself. Of course, merchants and officials like himself had to use their services once in a while, but the past few transactions between Tholth and a few of his associates with these gangers had only served to inflate egos and self worth. From time to time, Tholth mused, they just needed to be put back into their places. Such were the intricacies of running a hive city. Sighing, he was about to shut the wafer screen and pour himself a glass of amnasec and take a relaxing nap, when both the screaming and light intensified on the liquid crystal before him. Tholth sat down again, puzzled. He depressed a small portion of the screen, a green beetle icon, and spoke.

"Status, Captain Lihj."

Deep in the underhive, Lihj flinched, startled by the tinny voice of his employer, broadcasted by a small green insect fluttering near his head.

"I'm not sure lord, I've just lost contact with Brigs and Notal. The gangers appear to have a blast weapon of some sort, and they have taken out some gantries and a refining vat on the left flank. I'll take stock of the situation. Other than that, the remaining filth has routed. We are sending canid-gundrones to hunt them down."

"Very good Captain."

Tholth's beetle followed Captain Lihj and two of his mercenaries down to the vats. They proceeded cautiously, the world bathed in green through their night scope augmetics. They came upon the scene of the weapon discharge. The bodies of Brigs and Notal were plastered and spattered over the twisted metal ruins. The area was coated, strangely enough, with...ice. There was a tang of ozone in the air, in addition to the sharp odor of blood and viscera.

"What in the name of the Throne...?" One of the mercenaries breathed. The Lord Chancellor stared at the wafer crystal screen, and through the beetle's eyes. There were no blast patterns, no scorching, no impact holes to suggest projectile, plasma or special weaponry, and the ice certainly ruled out a flame weapon...

In the darkness, something whimpered.

The mercenaries immediately trained their hellguns in the direction of the noise. Augmetic eyes sliced through the darkness, revealing a small, frail frame huddled under an oil tube, shaking. It appeared to be a boy, about sixteen or seventeen years in Lihj's approximation.

"Lord Chancellor, we have found something. It looks like a child was caught in the crossfire." Lihj spoke into the air, knowing Tholth would hear. "It does not appear to be injured. Perhaps it can provide us with some clue as to what befell my men."
"Gather your data quickly Captain, then kill it. I want the area clear, and any remaining threats neutralized. I also want whatever weapon that did that damage."

The boy lifted his head at those words, and glanced tentatively about, trying to locate the source of the sound. Fear clouded his eyes, and he drew his knees farther up to his chest. His clothes were tattered and filthy, at it looked like he had not eaten in a good while. An underhiver, Lihj mused, a nameless no one who would not be missed. A shiver of sadness ran through him. The boy was so small... but he was not being paid for mercy.

Captain Lihj reached out to the boy. "Come here son, we have a few questions for you..." he began.

The boy convulsed, eyes rolling back into his head, the whites blazing through the darkness with unnatural light. The mercenaries had no time to react, as cold blue light roared forth from the boy's eyes, nose and mouth. Captain Lihj and his men were incinerated where they stood. Ice fanned out from where the boy sat. He recovered from his fit, and began to rock back and forth, whimpering.

Lord Chancellor Tholth sat back in his heavily padded plastiflex chair, staring at the wafer screen, now filled with white static-snow. The emerald beetle had been destroyed as well. But not before the Lord Chancellor had gotten a good look. He knew what he was dealing with. Something very illegal, and very lucrative, if he played his cards right. A raw, untouched psyker.

He needed to contact The Onyx.
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Once Alane gathered the courage to start running, he couldn't stop.

He splashed through puddles of filth, noxious chem waste and acid rain from the tainted storms far above, in the upper and mid levels of massive Thainhive. Garbage and detritus filled the alleys and gutters, and the weak illumination provided by faded lumin-posts stabbed into the molded plasticrete road, was barely enough to make out the twists and turns of the sprawling underhive Alane rushed through.

Eventually, he left the abandoned refinery levels behind, and came into a more populated area. Greasetown, in sublevel 19.

Greasetown was not the original name of the underhive shanty where Alane made his home. It was a very old section of Thainhive, and no one knew what it originally had been called. However, the new name fit the town very well indeed. Alane had grown up there his entire short life. He had been born in a Medi-center, two levels up, and had not ventured any farther upwards than that. He wasn't sure how old he was- years blended together in a place where no sunlight ever entered. He told everyone he was nineteen anyway.

Eventually he slowed down, panting and retching.

Alane dragged himself to a filthy alley, and pulled himself up to vomit the rest of his stomach into a trash vat. He shuddered. It was not the first time he had hurt people like that. In his youth, gangers had burst into the hab flat his family shared. They had been angry, and their eyes had the sickly yellow glow of greyjuice. His father had owed them money, and had bargained with the life of Alane's mother. But the ganger's wanted blood, and had set about getting it. Alane had been about six. At the first blow to his face, he snapped. The resulting explosion had killed the ganger's, his parents, and leveled an entire hab block. The Arbites had officially labeled it a gas line fracture, but had unofficially brought in psyker hunters.

Alane had slipped away into the bowels of the underhive, and made his living running errands for gangers, in exchange for food, smokes, and fixes. Which is what he needed now, Alane mused to himself. He would head over to Jak's, and get a mindcrash or two from him. He needed something to settle his nerves...
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The presence in the warp watched the progress of its chosen. The encounter with the mercenaries had been most fortuitous. The small human's mind was more vulnerable than it had ever been, and the blast from its terrified psyche had sent waves through the warp. Of course, this attracted the attentions of other warp-spawn, but the presence was strong enough to keep them away. Soon, it thought to itself.

Soon.
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"Pardon me, Lord Chancellor, but you have a visitor for you in the anteroom".

Tholth looked up from the ledger he was reviewing, and at the servant who stood behind him. "I am obviously busy" he said, gesturing at the group of well dressed men sitting around the meeting table. "Tell whomever it is that they can wait".

The servant leaned in, whispering. "My lord, the visitor mentioned something about 'the business on Jantid Prime'. I am unsure of the meaning of this, however he thought that it would be important to you".

Tholth nodded and turned back to the table. "Gentlemen, urgent business calls me away at the moment. I shall be back shortly". Heads nodded in respect as the Lord Chancellor walked out of the room, and into the chamber beyond.

Waiting for him there was a smartly dressed man of perhaps forty years. He was portly and balding, but did not project a sense of joviality- quite the opposite. He made people feel ill at ease. That was his business. Tholth had dealt with him many times in the past however, and was not intimidated. He also did not bother with pleasantries or introductions.

"Is The Onyx ready?" Tholth asked.

"He is" the balding man replied. "However, the price has gone up. The Inquisition has increased its presence in the sector. In addition, the recent presence of the Orks on Balur has opened many opportunities. The services of the Onyx are in great demand."

Tholth smiled. "I will pay whatever he asks- As long as he is able to deliver what I want. He can, I assume?"

The balding man said nothing, but slowly raised an eyebrow.

"Excellent", Tholth said. "Now, if there is nothing further, I will return to my work. The funds will be transferred in the usual manner. I expect...expedient results." The balding man nodded, and Thoth walked back to the door, which was opened by a servant.
Tholth smiled again. "Now gentlemen, where were we..."

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The Onyx might have been given his name for many reasons. He wore all black, all of the time. His hair was black, his eyes were black, and he had a dark, brooding complexion. But the darkest thing of all was his heart. It was a twisted, black thing. It reflected his soul.
He was an unsanctioned psyker, missed by the Black Ships because of his ability to hide his mind, and made immensely wealthy because of his willingness to rent that mental power to people who had need of it.

Right now, one of those people had a job for him. The job entailed his going into the underhive, that black pit of human waste and suffering. He chuckled to himself. He should feel right at home.
Normally, he would have hunted for the boy by projecting his mind into the city, and casting about for him. But the thrice damned Inquisition had recently increased their presence in the sector. Whispers of cults and Chaos ran rampant.

The Onyx grinned.

So he had taken a multitransport down to Undergate, and then proceeded on foot down to Sublevel 19, following the psyker spoor unleashed in the refectory sector.

As he moved through the squalor, he could feel the minds of those around him- petty emotions and thoughts, some directed at him, a dark figure moving through the streets, and some directed at life in general. Hate, fear, sadness, depression, desperation, and the numbing emptiness of drug addiction. As well as aggression. Plenty of aggression.

Reaching out mentally, he pushed away the minds of the pickpockets, gangers, murderers, and thugs who otherwise would have made him as a mark. He was subtle and gentle, so as not to attract attention. Life was especially dangerous for unsanctioned psykers these days, and discretion was needed. Besides, he was hunting a fellow mentalist, and wanted to take advantage of the element of surprise.
So he followed the psy-trace like a bloodhound searching for a wounded grouse. And it led him to a place called Greasetown.

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Alane was feeling good. Jak had owed him, and the boy was now flying high on a mixture of obscura and freeweed, which he had taken back to the shattered remaines of a commonfood store. The horror of the last few hours were slowly fading away, replaced by a warm, fuzzy glow. It looked like the surface of everything was coated in a fine, golden mist.

Alane started to hum, and was just lighting an Iho stick, when things began to turn sour.

The golden hue of the world began to turn reddish, the color of old, dead blood. A smell began to invade his nostrils, and the counter on which he was leaning began to frost with psy-ice. Alane knew that this was not just another bad trip. Something horrible was about to happen.

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The presence in the warp stirred. It knew that the time had come- they prey’s mind was weak and open, ready for influence. It made its move.

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Alane cried out in agony. It felt as if his head was going to explode. His ears and nose began to bleed, a deep, arterial red. Then it stopped. Alane whimpered. He sat up, and looked around. His high was gone, his surrounding no longer gleamed dull red. But there was a thin coat of melting ice on the counter. He swallowed.
Alane clambered unsteadily to his feet, wiping blood from his face.

Then the voice spoke.

Scrambling in terror, he frantically looked around for the source of the whisper. When it spoke again, he realized with horror that it came from inside his head.

*Hello little one,* came the sibilant whisper.

*I have come a very long way to find you, to help you,* it continued.

Alane pulled at his hair. "Get out, get out!" He screamed.

*Pay heed,* the voice insisted. *You are in a great deal of danger right now. Do you know what the Inquisition is?* It asked. That brought Alane’s struggles up short. Even a weedy underhiver like him knew what that meant. But they did not really exist, did they?…

*They are no myth, my sweet,* the voice purred, reading Alane’s thoughts like an open date slate. *They will have sensed my birth into this world, and will be coming to excise me from it. And that means ending you as well. We must hurry, if we are to survive.*

Alane swallowed again. "What must I do?" He asked aloud, to the voice inside his head.

"Just stay where you are, boy, and I’ll do the rest" came the answer, this time from outside of his head.

Alane whirled around to face the direction of the reply. The speaker was a dark man, dressed in black. There was a heavy Tronsvasse pistol in his steady grip. Even to Alane’s untutored psysenses, his mind reeked of strength and malice.

Alane froze. Then his mind shifted, and his nose started to bleed again. He fell to his knees. Through the haze of pain, he saw a dark form coalesce near the man in black. It looked like the two were... talking. He heard the man’s responses of, "yes my lord. As you command". Then the dark form faded, and the pain in Alane’s head did as well.

"Looks like you have a guardian angel" the man in black said.

And he began to laugh.

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The Onyx had found the boy, as he knew he would. What he did not, could not, have counted on, was what else had found the youngling. Briefly, his hand strayed to his chest, where a large symbol was tattooed. He traced the eight points of the star… The Lord Chancellor would not be pleased, but the Lord Chancellor was nothing compared to what the boy now housed.

A master was here. A master of great power, by The Onyx’s’ guess. And a master who needed his help at the moment. The Onyx turned to the boy, still smiling and chuckling.

Then the world exploded in fire.

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"Imperial Inquisition!" was the bellow that followed the roar of the fragmentation grenade blasts. The Onyx moved faster than the eye could track, slamming into Alane and dragging him into cover.

Las and stubber fire raked across the counter where they were sheltering. "Stay here!" The Onyx shouted. Alane nodded, and watched as the man in black checked his Tronsvasse, and then leapt up, into the firestorm.

The Onyx surged out from behind the counter, literally dodging bullets, and firing his own weapon at the same time. The commonfood store was filling with Inquisitorial Stormtroopers. The odds looked grim.

The Onxy had faced worse.

The Tronsvasse spat death. Every shot the Onyx fired found a mark- faces were torn, heads sheared, throats punctured. The Onyx weaved and bobbed impossibly through the hail of fire, deflecting shots he could not evade with his mind. There was no sense in subtlety now.
The Onyx quickly checked the ammunition light on his weapon, as he ducked behind a long abandoned produce display case. He ejected the clip, and slotted another into the grip. "You still alive boy?" He called across the room. Alane replied a weak affirmative. The Onyx chuckled.

"I am Inquisitor Damien Fry, of the Ordo Hereticus. Surrender now to the mercy of the God-Emperor, and you may yet redeem your souls in the cleansing fires of confession. Continue to resist, and you will die unclean and tainted!" The Inquisitor’s words were carried by a voxhorn, echoing throughout the shop. In reply, the Onyx focused his mind, and stood up.

Immediately, gunfire barked out at him. The shots were deflected from him by an invisible bubble of mindforce, pulverizing the wall behind him. He reached out with his mind, and tore through the troopers. A shimmer passed through the air, barely noticeable except for the devastation it wrought- minds were mashed as it passed, bodies were torn and broken. The floor was washed with blood.

The Onyx stopped only when he felt the last Imperial life snuffed. He walked to the pile of bodies, searching… but the Inquisitor was no where to be seen. Had he pulped him that badly? He walked back to Alane, who sat, shivering in a pool of blood, squeezed from the troopers by the psychic might of the Onyx. "I think it is time we leave," he said. Alane could only nod in agreement. The Onyx was helping him to his feet, when a clicking sound froze him in his tracks.

More than fear, The Onyx felt puzzlement- he had swept the room and the surroundings with his formidable mind- there had been nothing other than Alane left alive. Then he felt it- it shifted ever so slightly. His mind had been blocked by another. It was as if a wet, dark blanket had been put over his eyes.

And he knew where it had come from. He turned to Alane, who was smiling.

"You little…" He began, ignoring the Inquisitor and bolt pistol pointed at his head. Alane smiled, and cocked his head to the side, as if listening to something.

"I did? Thank you!" He said. The Inquisitor watched the exchange with steely, albeit puzzled, eyes. But the Onyx knew with whom the boy was conversing.

"I don’t understand" The Onyx said, desperation thickening his voice. "Why?"

The Inquisitor had enough. He put a bolt round through the Onyx’s’ head.

He turned to the boy. "Get up", he ordered, gesturing with his gun. "I wont pretend to understand this at the moment, but you will come with me, and you will provide the answers. Move."

Alane struggled to his feet, slipping in blood. He finally stood, and looked at the Inquisitor. The man was dressed in a blood-spattered greatcoat and now torn black hat. His face was lined with scars, his nose broken several times. The Inquisitorial rosette hung from his throat. He was an intimidating figure, and doubly so with a matte black bolt pistol in his hand.

Alane incinerated him with a gesture.

*Look at the mess we have made, my pet,* purred the voice. *The man in black was a good start, but we will need more souls, more minds to eat, before I can be brought into full being. Can you feel them, the ones we need?* Alane nodded. *Then take me to them.*

With a happy sigh, Alane picked his way through the bodies strewn about the floor, and headed unerringly towards the offices of the Guild Astropathicus, many levels up. He would feed his new friend well.