Baptism Of Fire

A Grim Darkness Fan Fiction by Tobias Jaeger

Rain lashed down, as the low-pressure front moved in on the city like some predatory stalker moving in for the kill. Stormguarde, its population used to the area's ferocious winter storms, had battened down the hatches in anticipation of a wild night. However, the forces of justice stopped for nothing, and as such Ordo Malleus Inquisitor Aaron Wolfram continued his research, despite the brazen annoyance of the city-wide power-outage.

"CABAL, how much power left in this terminal's back up energy supply?"

"45% charge remaining." The Inquisition's AI politely informed him.

"Gods-damn these fragging out-of-date computers..." The Overlander cursed, hastily reading the news article that had been brought up on the screen.

Monday, 19th September, 3239

Order Opens New Aerospace Factory In Stormguarde

Hundreds of new jobs created by business venture

By Rohan Brinscott

YESTERDAY, crowds flocked to the grand opening of the Citadel District Aerospace Factory, and were held in shock and awe of the scale of the complex. Rivalling the stature of the great Citadel itself, the CDAF promises to bring new prosperity to a district commonly associated with the past and tradition.

Stormguarde Mayor Travis Ronheimer made a quick speech on behalf of the Order:

"Today, is a new beginning, and an end. The old world is dying, along with its pain, suffering, and poverty. A new world, a new order has begun, which will bring peace and security to all."

With those words, the Mayor cut the dark blue ribbon and declared the factory ready to work...

The Inquisitor had read enough. He knew that it was unlikely that the article would hold any useful information, but he had read it anyway to guage the general public's opinion of the place. As always

when dealing with the Order Of One, their PR division was working against the Inquisitor, stirring up the local population in support of their operations. He turned off the computer, leaving the task of illuminating the Overlander's office to the few ceremonial candles, used in the worship of Tyrus, that the human had lit around the room. Aaron stood up, and reached for his handheld communicator lying next to a cup of cold coffee on his desk.

"Major?" The Overlander spoke into the receiver.

"Sir?" A voice struggled to answer over the loud noise of aircraft engines in the background.

"I am ready to proceed with the operation. Rendez-vous with me as planned at the target."

"Affirmative, Sir. Spectres are en-route now to the target-zone, ETA T-minus 15 minutes."

"Understood. Wolfram, over and out." The Inquisitor closed the link, and turned the communicator off. Radio silence was now in force, and Wolfram wasn't about to let some Order listeners get an earful of Inquisition business. Having returned the communicator to its original place, perched precariously atop a pile of paperwork, the Overlander opened the desk's drawers. Pulling the top drawer out all the way, the human removed the fake bottom and put the contents on his desk. Now revealed, Wolfram's signature pair of chrome-plated Raptor heavy pistols glinted in the candlelight. Replacing the drawer swiftly, the Inquisitor grabbed his universal keycard and Rosarius on the way out. Time to go to work.

*****************************************************************************

Practically owning the road, Wolfram's dark-purple sports gravcar sped through the empty, almost-flooded streets. He had put the car on autopilot, allowing CABAL to handle the driving as Wolfram loaded his weapons. Lightning flashed once in a while, giving the Overlander scant glimpses of the dark world beyond his car's windshield. Admittedly, he had used some of the Ordo Malleus' equipment budget to pay for his vehicle, but since it was his only ride short of bumpy, noisy rides on Black Guard Dropships. He had, however, spent the cash well, the Inquisitor thought as he listened to his favourite piece of classical music. He found this style of audio stimulus soothing, and, much to the grim mirth of his superiors in the Kingdom Of Acorn, beneficial to his reflection on the task at hand. COO Morgan Troag, the head guy at the CDAF, had been named as a Fernex-worshipping cult leader by an almost-delirious piece of scum that had been picked up off the street a few days hence. Subsequently, upon his confession as a cultist, the subject was terminated, but not before divulging information on what they were really manufacturing at the aerospace plant.

Wolfram was now entering the Citadel District of Stormguarde. Older buildings now lined the streets, some made of wood, others stone, and rarer still some a mixture of both, with a few tonnes of plascrete thrown in. The Citadel District was named after the large, forbidding Castle Stormguarde which loomed over the surrounding area from its seemingly haphazard position atop a small cliff. Dating back to before the foundation of the Commonwealth, many rumours abound of hauntings and ghosts and things that go bump in the night, which were effective tools to subdue small children late at night. Of course, most of these wives' tales were false, but as an Inquisitor, Wolfram knew better, and the human made a note to himself to pay Castle Stormguarde a visit one day.

Suddenly, artificial light illuminated Wolfram's rear-view mirror. Roaring out of the rain-swept darkness, a pair Templar patrol bikes pulled out of a side street, and started to follow the Inquisitor as discretely as possible.

"Geez, can't anybody go out on a little late-night drive without the local Boys Brigade having to check up on you?" The Inquisitor remarked to himself, looking back down the road. The two armed Razor attack cycles kept up their pursuit, as the human switched control over to manual. He had five minutes to get to the factory, and these Templar bike-jockeys were going to be a problem...

Swerving abruptly into a side street, Wolfram accelerated as the cycles gave chase. The alley was narrower than he had thought, and the Inquisitor swore as his car scratched and bumped the safety railings either side of the road. Thankfully, the Razors were having a hard time too, opting to go single-file down the street rather than braving the alloy railings.

Let's see how good these guys really are, Wolfram thought, as he took another sharp turn into yet another alley. Accelerating to full speed, the Inquisitor's vehicle was almost airborne, and by now the Templar were racking up credits for him on a speeding ticket. Out of the gloom, a hired-out garbage skip emerged to one side of the street. Connecting to said skip was a large ramp... and Wolfram grinned. Time to show these amateurs how it's done. With a throaty roar, the car's grav-engines threw the Inquisitor up the ramp, causing the Razors to suddenly swerve to a halt in awe. The sports car flew through the moisture-ridden air for a few long seconds, before landing back on terra firma with nothing more than a low hum. For once, Inquisitor Wolfram laughed, and continued his journey to the factory.

******************************************************************************

"Bastards." Wolfram cursed, as he stepped out of the now-parked sports car. Somehow, those wannabe-cops had caught him, in a cunningly-executed ambush operation just as he left the alleyways and onto the main street. He applauded their crime-fighting skills, but he had to smirk when he explained that he was an Inquisitor and had political immunity. After blessing them with 'good luck, and good hunting,' he simply took his leave in his car and drove the remaining distance to the CDAF. He was now 10 minutes late for the operation, and he was operating under a strict time-frame

"Major, you still here?" Wolfram spoke into his communicator as he walked up to the visitor access door of the factory.

"Affirmative, Sir. We figured that you would have a run-in with the local constabulary." The Major replied, well aware of the Inquisitor's habit of 'testing' the local law enforcement agencies.

The night watchman outside had thankfully gone to sleep, and the Inquisitor had actually began to speculate whether the fellow was a victim of a Nox round, such was the man's slumber. The black-wearing Wolfram put on his favourite pair of silver sunglasses, as he approached the door. Unlike other Inquisitors, he prefered to keep noone privy to his identidy, and especially with the country in the midst of Order-mania, anything could happen.

The sliding doors opened dutifully for him, as the Inquisitor casually strolled into the entrance hall. An Order adjutant sat behind a desk drinking coffee, still enjoying the power supply given off by the factory's back up generators, as she was listening to the radio. A talk-show host's grainy voice almost whispered from behind the desk, annoying the Inquisitor slightly.

"I'd like to have a little chat with Mr. Troag, please." Wolfram asked politely, as he placed his Rosarius down on the desk. The adjutant, barely 20, the Inquisitor guessed, simply stared at him for a few seconds, before the request registered in her brain.

"Uhm...er....Mr. Troag, isn't here at the moment....He's....he's at a board meeting." The Order secretary stumbled her words, whilst secretly summoning security by pressing a button beneath her desk.

"A board meeting, you say? At this ungodly hour? It must be a pretty secret and special board meeting, then, in which case you really shouldn't be telling me about it." The woman scowled, unafraid to show her feelings towards the Inquisitor.

"Now now, no need to get angry, I'm just-"

"Excuse me sir, but will you leave the premisis, please." Wolfram looked up to see two armed Templar standing there, having being called by the secretary. The Inquisitor cocked an eyebrow, assessing the situation.

"I only wanted to talk with COO Troag. Perhaps if you were to direct me to this...uh....board meeting I hear he's having..." Inquisitor Wolfram suggested, retaining his politeness. One of the Templar reached for his holstered weapon, but Wolfram was faster. With fluid ease, the Inquisitor drew both of his pistols in a extravagant fashion, a technique that had earned him the nickname 'The Gunslinger.'

"Now, that board meeting?" The Templar nodded, solemnly, withdrawing his hand away from his weapon.

"This way, please, sir." The other guard turned around and beckoned Wolfram to follow him.

"Excellent!" Wolfram positively beamed. "I knew you'd reconsider."

As the Inquisitor followed the security detail into the factory, the adjutant cursed the Inquisition infidel under her breath, and continued working.

*******************************************************************************

"Well, this certainly is an interesting board meeting." Wolfram announced, upon entering the main production area of the factory. COO Troag, or so it appeared, was wandering up and down the production lines with a pair of aides, seemingly inspecting his products.

"Who is this? What is he doing here?" Troag demanded, his face flushing red suddenly with anger.

"Inquisitor Aaron Wolfram, of the Ordo Malleus." Wolfram stated, coldy, in a sudden change of mood. As Troag realized whom he was talking to, his demeanor changed as dramatically as the Inquistor's.

"My apologies, Mr. Wolfram. And what makes you grace us with your holy presence?" The Chief Of Operations made a small bow, and shooed the Templar away with a sudden flick of the wrist.

"Well, for starters, you may refer to me as 'Inquisitor.' Secondly, your aides must leave as well. And lasty, I've come for a little chat." Wolfram ordered.

"Why, yes of course..." Troag acknowlegded him, as he sent his helpers away as well. Now, they were alone. "...but surely if you came for some light conversation, you'd visit us in the morning, not at 11 o'clock at night."

"Exactly. But, something has been brought to my attention that you might be interested in." Wolfram replied, walking along the production line, showing interest in the craft being built at the factory. "What sort of craft are these? Havoc gunships, yes?"

"Eh? Yes, yes, the finest ships for our noble Templar." Expecting the topic to continue about the 'something' the Inquisitor had found out, Troag had to beam with pride to cover his worry at the Inquisitor's exploration.

"Interesting...." Wolfram trailed off, examining one craft in particular. He himself had been a pilot in the Commonwealth Air Force, and was impressed by the Order's designers. "How many do you create in a day?"

"About 150 a day." Troag smiled his best, despite the situation. "I hate to be rude, but didn't you have something to tell me?"

"Oh, yes, indeed, it's pretty important....Hang on, what's this?" The Inquisitor dropped to hands and knees, in order to get a better look at the underside of the Havoc. "You've replaced the underslung minigun with a Rodinian railgun....I didn't know the Order had this sort of technology?" The Inquisitor put a hand on the railgun turret, to check its fire arc.

Suddenly, a bestial growl emerged from the gunship, and it seemingly came alive with a roar. "Upgraded the AI as well, I see... ...to something Fernexian?" The Inquisitor, ignoring the sounds of anger and rage coming from the aircraft, drew a pistol and aimed it directly at Troag's forehead.

"Morgan Tobias Troag, you have named as a Fernex-worshipping cult leader, and to be in possession of a daemonically-possessed craft. The penalty for these crimes is death." Wolfram said coldly, taking the safety catch off his weapon. Troag merely laughed.

"Ah, my good Inquisitor, you know naught of your predicament. Your inane questions have miraculously found me out, but you will not be leaving this place alive!" Abruptly, the possessed Havoc roared up over their heads, trying to find a way out.

"Major, drop in please." Wolfram ordered, as he put a round in Troag's skull. The Former COO's corpse slumped to the ground with a dull thud. The sound of glass shattering filled the hall, as two Spectre Dropships entered through the roof, boxing the Havoc in above the Inquisitor. Its twisted and currently mutating engines screaming infernally, the possessed craft dropped down low to avenge it's master's death. Ducking to avoid the aircraft, the Inquisitor readied a psyk-out grenade.

"Spectre One, watch that thing's railgun, it has a nasty punch." Wolfram warned, as the Daemon-Engine worked out how to fire its weapons. High-velocity rounds lit up the dark production hall as the Havoc opened fire with its miniguns, the shells ricocheting off of Spectre One's armoured airframe. Suddenly, with a high-pitched whine, the craft's dreaded railgun threw a slug at the dodging dropship. The round cut through Spectre One's left wing like it was tin foil, and Inquisitor Wolfram turned off his communicator for a few seconds to stop the pilots' screams from reaching him. The Spectre erupted in a ball of flame, and crashed onto the floor in a shower of sparks and shrapnel.

"Spectre Two, don't make One's mistake. Blast the abomination with psyk-outs, NOW!" Wolfram ordered once the com-channels were clear. Obediantly the remaining Spectre opened fire, ripping the rear of the Havoc to shreds. Shrapnel blew everywhere as the rounds impacted, and as the Daemon-Engine weakened the aircraft crashed to the ground, groaning like a wounded animal.

"Good work, Two." Wolfram complemented the surviving pilots' shooting as he approached the daemon-craft's cockpit with the psyk-out grenade. Kicking the cockpit's canopy in, the Inquisitor was met with a grisely sight. A young boy's body sat in the pilot's seat, having been dead for some time. His features were warped by the daemonic possession, his face a frozen death mask, his face still screaming as it had been when he had been sacrificed. Cables and electrical cords wrapped around the boy's otherwise naked form, at times entering his skin. His feet and hands had fused with the Havoc's flight controls, and other vital instruments. The boy's lifeless eyes stared out at the Inquisitor, who felt physically sick at this heresy against the Divine Powers. Offering a small prayer of thanks to Tyrus for allowing him to bring justice to the man who did this, Wolfram walked away from the wreckage of the craft as the psyk-out grenade detonated, destroying the last remnant's of the Daemon-Engine's host.

*****************************************************************************

Friday, 23rd September, 3239

Citadel District Factory In Ruins

Production line accident blamed to be the cause of devastation.

By Rohan Rohan Brinscott

LAST night, the hopes and dreams of many of Stormguarde's unemployed came to an end, as a ferocious blaze consumed the new-constructed Citadel District Aerospace Factory late last night. Fire-fighting teams and rescue crews rushed to the scene despite the fierce storm, but found no survivors. Some locals report hearing gunshots and aircraft engines roughly before the fire, which leads this reporter to suggest that a major accident may have occured on the production line. The inferno went out quickly thanks to the heavy rain, but not before burning the pride of the Citadel District to a cinder. The Order news agencies have quickly placed the cause of the disaster on a faulty AI in an aircraft, as reports suggest Templar finding the almost-indiscernable wreckage of an Order aircraft amongst the rubble. When pressed for more information in regards to these rumours, Order officials declined comment...

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------