Would be funny if the backrooms would somehow heal Terra and make it green again with every free resource the Imperials find, like the water example you gave.
Those yellowed halls(a Warhammer 40 K backrooms crossover)
- Thread starter petergriffin
- Start date
- Crossover
If I remember right there is some uncanny monster resembling a fucked up starched human that is impossible to kill and will hunt you down until it kills you in that level, if they do find that part of the backrooms, I hope they make servitors get the rations, and not some poor guards.
- Pronouns
- They/Their
This is why I would much rather the OP invent his own Levels than rely 100% on the Wiki, since stuff like an "Unkillable Murder Beast" is utterly irrelevant when you aren't a single person/small group desperately trying to scavenge resources to survive.
So long as a Monster takes some amount of Time to kill people, the Imperial Guard can and will be able to simply drown it in bodies, *triply* so since this is the Sol System and the depths of Terra Herself.
There needs to be more things than just "Her Der Movie Monster Bullshit" to keep the story interesting, IMO.
Thank you all for the feedback. Yesterday I didn't get around to writing the chapter, but I likey will in the next few days. Also, regarding the thresholds location they found the Blueprints for the threshold within the depths of terra but they set up the mechanicus base that holds the threshold in a diffrent solar system in segmentum solar
Wonder what they could do with liquid pain
Make a bullet filled with it that explodes when it enters a victim?
Working on chapter 5
Another chapter will be ready soon. I know I've been saying this a lot. But one will be coming soon.
I cant wait to see them encounter the RUN level
They won't run
They will hold the line
They won't run
They will hold the line
What should the theme of the next chapter be?
X[Hostile machinery]
X[Ghouls]
X[Pipe-things]
X[Write in]
X[Hostile machinery]
X[Ghouls]
X[Pipe-things]
X[Write in]
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[X]Hostile machinery
See how the mechanicus deals with that
See how the mechanicus deals with that
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- Pronouns
- They/Their
[X] Hostile Machinery
Becayse the Abominable Intelligence is such a Rage Button for the Ad Mech, and might even let them Shine instead of the usual Guard stuff.
Becayse the Abominable Intelligence is such a Rage Button for the Ad Mech, and might even let them Shine instead of the usual Guard stuff.
Vote closed
Hostile machinery has won
Those yellowed halls, part five.
New
The Imperium's exploratory push into the backrooms continued with measured efficiency and no small amount of wariness. Two platoons of guardsmen had been tasked with venturing deeper into this unholy labyrinth, accompanied by a contingent of Mechanicus adepts, two heavy bolter teams, and a small squad of eager Ogryns. The latter were surprisingly motivated today, their sergeant promising extra potato-peeling duties if they behaved. The Ogryns took this reward seriously; peeling potatoes was a privilege, after all.
The area they had entered was a sprawling warren of interconnected warehouse-like rooms. Some were cavernously empty, the flickering overhead lights illuminating nothing but rust-streaked blue metal walls. Others were packed with towering shelves that groaned under the weight of strange machinery and forgotten components. The shelves themselves were tall and gunmetal gray.
There was a chaotic variety in the machinery and also the components. Many devices bore the clear stamp of humanity: There were gyroscopes, engines, thermal lances, and remnants of submarine systems.There were cardboard boxes of lugnuts, screws, paperclips and staples. Among the alien-yet-familiar relics, there were also relics of Imperial design—lasgun power packs, Gristedes-pattern auto-cab mufflers, and even a worn-out power field generator for a power sword, though it looked several millennia out of date. The Mechanicus adepts scurried to and fro, clanking as they cataloged and claimed anything that caught their augmetic eyes. One of them hoisted a toaster into the air, warbling excitedly in binary.
The guardsmen established a forward sub-base in the largest room. Standard procedure. Barricades went up at the entrances, vox systems were linked back to the primary base, and small fire teams secured the perimeter. The heavy bolter teams took positions on either side of the room, their gunners casually bantering about the odds of encountering something nasty.
"Bet ya five thrones it's something with too many teeth," Private Harlan muttered, patting the side of his bolter affectionately.
"Nah," replied his loader, grinning. "It'll be teeth and claws. Maybe wings too."
The Ogryns, meanwhile, were setting up crates and stacking supplies under the watchful gaze of their bone 'ead, Grag. The big lunk corrected any misplaced boxes with a cheerful grin, completely oblivious to the wary distance the guardsmen maintained around him.
Unfortunately, even good intentions could go horribly wrong.
One of the Ogryns, specifically Grag, eager to prove his worth ,started to move around various objects for no apparent reason, and he bumped into a towering shelf. A metallic groan echoed through the room as the ancient structure shifted. Guardsmen dove for cover as , air conditioners, a generator- and the largest- even a an ancient bathysphere—a device of Old Earth's oceans— rolled or slid free and fell.
The unlucky soldier below it had no time to react. The enormous metallic sphere crushed him instantly. Gasps and shouted curses rippled through the room.
"Emperor's mercy!" Rylan hissed, his stomach turning as he took in the grisly sight.
Commissar Gluridon began reprimanding the ogryn responsible. Grag was just picking his nose absentmindedly even as he was chastised.
Grag, then noticed the crushed guardsman, and lumbered over, effortlessly hoisted the bathysphere with one massive hand, and began performing what he assumed was CPR on the flattened remains. Blood coated his massive fingers, but Grag only frowned in confusion as the guardsman failed to spring back to life.
"Grag help! Grag fix!" the Ogryn said, his face scrunched in concentration as he pushed down on what was left of the soldier's chest. He then started to sort of shake was left of the man, as if trying to get someone out of a haze.
"Grag, stop!" Sergeant Varn barked, stepping in to pull the hulking soldier away. "He's—by the Emperor, just stop!"
The Ogryn's confused expression deepened. "But... Grag helping!"
"You crushed him!" Varn snapped, waving a hand at the mess. "He's dead! You can't fix this!"
Grag's face fell, his lower lip trembling. He mumbled something about "not meaning to," but before the sergeant could reply, the Mechanicus contingent interrupted with a burst of binary chatter.
Apparently, the adepts had already moved on from the accident and were eager to start disassembling some of the larger machines for analysis.
"Move him out of here," Varn said grimly, gesturing for the other Ogryns to carry the remains away. "And try not to break anything else."
As the Ogryns shuffled off, muttering apologies, Rylan shook his head. There were no creatures this time—no ghouls, no TV headed monsters, no tumor-men—but he still felt uneasy. The oppressive silence of the place was worse than any enemy.
The guardsmen worked quickly to secure the area, and the Mechanicus wasted no time in setting up their operations. They didn't encounter anything else that day, but the bloodstain on the floor lingered, a grim reminder that even without enemies, the backrooms could still claim lives. Or technically ogryn's could still claim lives, he supposed.
Tomorrow, they would push further.
The area they had entered was a sprawling warren of interconnected warehouse-like rooms. Some were cavernously empty, the flickering overhead lights illuminating nothing but rust-streaked blue metal walls. Others were packed with towering shelves that groaned under the weight of strange machinery and forgotten components. The shelves themselves were tall and gunmetal gray.
There was a chaotic variety in the machinery and also the components. Many devices bore the clear stamp of humanity: There were gyroscopes, engines, thermal lances, and remnants of submarine systems.There were cardboard boxes of lugnuts, screws, paperclips and staples. Among the alien-yet-familiar relics, there were also relics of Imperial design—lasgun power packs, Gristedes-pattern auto-cab mufflers, and even a worn-out power field generator for a power sword, though it looked several millennia out of date. The Mechanicus adepts scurried to and fro, clanking as they cataloged and claimed anything that caught their augmetic eyes. One of them hoisted a toaster into the air, warbling excitedly in binary.
The guardsmen established a forward sub-base in the largest room. Standard procedure. Barricades went up at the entrances, vox systems were linked back to the primary base, and small fire teams secured the perimeter. The heavy bolter teams took positions on either side of the room, their gunners casually bantering about the odds of encountering something nasty.
"Bet ya five thrones it's something with too many teeth," Private Harlan muttered, patting the side of his bolter affectionately.
"Nah," replied his loader, grinning. "It'll be teeth and claws. Maybe wings too."
The Ogryns, meanwhile, were setting up crates and stacking supplies under the watchful gaze of their bone 'ead, Grag. The big lunk corrected any misplaced boxes with a cheerful grin, completely oblivious to the wary distance the guardsmen maintained around him.
Unfortunately, even good intentions could go horribly wrong.
One of the Ogryns, specifically Grag, eager to prove his worth ,started to move around various objects for no apparent reason, and he bumped into a towering shelf. A metallic groan echoed through the room as the ancient structure shifted. Guardsmen dove for cover as , air conditioners, a generator- and the largest- even a an ancient bathysphere—a device of Old Earth's oceans— rolled or slid free and fell.
The unlucky soldier below it had no time to react. The enormous metallic sphere crushed him instantly. Gasps and shouted curses rippled through the room.
"Emperor's mercy!" Rylan hissed, his stomach turning as he took in the grisly sight.
Commissar Gluridon began reprimanding the ogryn responsible. Grag was just picking his nose absentmindedly even as he was chastised.
Grag, then noticed the crushed guardsman, and lumbered over, effortlessly hoisted the bathysphere with one massive hand, and began performing what he assumed was CPR on the flattened remains. Blood coated his massive fingers, but Grag only frowned in confusion as the guardsman failed to spring back to life.
"Grag help! Grag fix!" the Ogryn said, his face scrunched in concentration as he pushed down on what was left of the soldier's chest. He then started to sort of shake was left of the man, as if trying to get someone out of a haze.
"Grag, stop!" Sergeant Varn barked, stepping in to pull the hulking soldier away. "He's—by the Emperor, just stop!"
The Ogryn's confused expression deepened. "But... Grag helping!"
"You crushed him!" Varn snapped, waving a hand at the mess. "He's dead! You can't fix this!"
Grag's face fell, his lower lip trembling. He mumbled something about "not meaning to," but before the sergeant could reply, the Mechanicus contingent interrupted with a burst of binary chatter.
Apparently, the adepts had already moved on from the accident and were eager to start disassembling some of the larger machines for analysis.
"Move him out of here," Varn said grimly, gesturing for the other Ogryns to carry the remains away. "And try not to break anything else."
As the Ogryns shuffled off, muttering apologies, Rylan shook his head. There were no creatures this time—no ghouls, no TV headed monsters, no tumor-men—but he still felt uneasy. The oppressive silence of the place was worse than any enemy.
The guardsmen worked quickly to secure the area, and the Mechanicus wasted no time in setting up their operations. They didn't encounter anything else that day, but the bloodstain on the floor lingered, a grim reminder that even without enemies, the backrooms could still claim lives. Or technically ogryn's could still claim lives, he supposed.
Tomorrow, they would push further.
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There will be a fight scene next chapter. I just wanted to establish this area.
Well the biggest noise just announced their location to whatever is in there
- Pronouns
- They/Their
Probably gonna see some Tech Heresy next chapter, if the Gribblies continue being On Theme for their area.
Though, damn, RIP that guy and the Orgryns deserve All the Hugs.
Though, damn, RIP that guy and the Orgryns deserve All the Hugs.
Also they discovered toasters lmao
I'm liking this fic so far, I can't wait for the next chapter, oof, poor Garg, he was just trying to help, for a bone'ead I feel should've been a bit more attentive about his scolding but all in all well done!
If you need help writing Ogryns I recommend Nomans ogg the Ogryn series, a really good series and how I learned to write Ogryns, alongside Gav and Bob and Darktide.
Keep up the good work lad! I can't wait to see our big boys do some crumping next chapter! Have a good one!
(PS, love the Gav and Bob reference with the potato peels, I miss those two lugs)
If you need help writing Ogryns I recommend Nomans ogg the Ogryn series, a really good series and how I learned to write Ogryns, alongside Gav and Bob and Darktide.
Keep up the good work lad! I can't wait to see our big boys do some crumping next chapter! Have a good one!
(PS, love the Gav and Bob reference with the potato peels, I miss those two lugs)
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thank you I really appreciate the feedback. And I like that you got the reference.
- Location
- colombia
a big thing about the backrooms is just how vast they are and the sheer amount of locations,entities and factions (tho spread out very thinly,so chances are unless you go to a hub location,you will never meet them)
i can think of emstable for example,level based around mall parking buildings turned into a settlement,that eventually devolved into civil war
I am beginning working on the next chapter
Those yellowed halls (part six)
New
The next day, the guardsmen had expanded their operations further, establishing another forward sub-base in one of the massive empty warehouses close to the main route leading back to the growing Imperial stronghold. The room was a cavernous, dusty void—tall ceilings disappearing into shadow, shelves devoid of purpose, walls streaked with rust and grime. The Mechanicus were preoccupied cataloging and disassembling strange machines elsewhere, leaving the guardsmen to occupy themselves.
The sub-base was calm, for now.
A makeshift mess area had been set up where guardsmen from other patrols drifted in and out. Some were grabbing quick meals before returning to their posts; others lingered, nursing their exhaustion and trying to enjoy what passed for food. Ration packs were ripped open with mechanical apathy, flavorless grox-meal shoveled into mouths without enthusiasm.
Rylan sat on an overturned crate, gnawing at his third ration bar. He chased it down with a swig of water from his canteen, grimacing as the foul metallic taste clung to his throat. Emperor preserve him—this stuff was borderline undrinkable.
Nearby, another group of guardsmen were decidedly less miserable. Somehow, a shipment of gaup liquor had ended up in their supplies, likely the result of some scribe's mistake—or the Emperor's mercy, depending on who you asked. It wasn't long before a few of the more enterprising guardsmen had cracked it open, and now the air was filled with their slurred laughter and off-key singing.
One particularly drunk soldier, Private Kellis, staggered to his feet, unsteady as a newborn grox calf. "Gotta piss," he announced to no one in particular, swaying on his feet. His friends hooted as he stumbled off, their attention already lost to another half-empty bottle.
Kellis wobbled through the door into an adjacent room, mumbling some off-tune hymn to the Emperor as he went. The room was dark—unexplored, untouched. A maze of towering shelves rose up around him, cluttered with strange machinery. Engine blocks, turbines, and heaps of unrecognizable scrap loomed like silent sentinels in the gloom.
Kellis stopped beside what looked like an engine block, propped haphazardly against a wall. He unbuttoned his trousers, leaned one hand against the cold metal, and sighed in relief.
As he pissed, a faint noise reached him—low and rhythmic. Clank. Hiss. Clank. Hiss. Mechanical, almost like the sound of gears grinding together.
Kellis frowned, blinking blearily into the shadows. "H-hello?" His voice slurred. "Anyone there? You cogboys messin' about?"
The noise stopped. For a moment, there was only silence. Then—
CLANK.
Something sharp and heavy whistled through the air. Kellis didn't even have time to turn. The jagged edge of a rusted blade sheared clean through his skull with mechanical precision, splitting it in half. His body dropped bonelessly to the ground, the spreading pool of blood soaking into the dust.
The unseen figure loomed over him. It was not alone.
Rylan was mid-chew when he heard something—an odd clattering sound from the direction Kellis had gone. He paused, frowning at the door.
"You hear that?" he muttered to Corporal Varn, who was seated nearby.
Varn grunted, wiping grox-meal from his mouth. "Probably Kellis knockin' somethin' over. Idiot can barely walk straight."
The sound came again, louder this time—heavy, irregular footsteps. Like metal grinding against metal. Rylan's stomach twisted. That wasn't Kellis.
He stood up slowly, grabbing his lasgun from where it leaned against a crate. Others began noticing too, conversation fading into wary silence. A pair of glowing red orbs appeared in the dark doorway. Then another. And another. They bobbed up and down as they approached.
"Oi!" one of the drunken guardsmen called, staggering to his feet. He squinted at the shifting shadows, a sloppy grin on his face. "Mechanicus? You lot finally—"
He stopped, the words dying in his throat as the figures stepped into the light.
They were not Mechanicus. They were not anything remotely human.
The things that emerged from the darkness were abominable—humanoid shapes cobbled together from scrap metal, gears, and forgotten machinery. Their limbs were mismatched and jagged, each appendage was either lunch or jagged with pieces of scrap metal or machinery, or were a horrifying tool: saws still dripping with oil, hydraulic jackhammers twitching ominously, clamps studded with rusted nails. Their bodies were crude amalgamations of piping, engine parts, and plates of metal bolted together in ways that defied logic.
The first one hunched forward, its torso covered in spikes. Its head was an ancient cogitator core—pre-Imperial, maybe—glowing red through a cracked viewport. It moved with an unnatural jerking motion, dragging a serrated length of rebar where its right arm should have been.
The drunk soldier let out a nervous laugh. "Heh… cogboys gone funny-lookin', eh?"
The scrap-thing lunged forward with terrifying speed. The jagged rebar pierced clean through the guardsman's skull, the wet crunch silencing him instantly. His body spasmed once before the creature wrenched its weapon free, leaving him to collapse in a heap.
"CONTACT!" Rylan bellowed, raising his lasgun. The room exploded into chaos.
"Get the bolters ready!" Corporal Varn roared, grabbing his vox. "Command! This is Sub-Base Theta! We are under attack! Unknown mechanical hostiles! Reinforcements required immediately!"
The heavy bolter teams scrambled into position, their gunners racking the slides and prepping their belts. Other guardsmen took cover behind crates and overturned shelves, lasguns snapping up as shouts echoed through the room.
Rylan's eyes stayed locked on the doorway. More of the creatures were emerging—dozens of them, their glowing red orbs cutting through the dim light like predatory eyes. They filled the corridor beyond, clanking and hissing as they advanced. Each one was different but equally grotesque. Some carried spinning saws that whirred with a hungry screech. Others dragged rusted hammers or spikes studded with scrap.
"Emperor's teeth…" Rylan whispered.
The lead scrap-thing raised its rebar arm, pointing toward the guardsmen with a horrible grinding noise. The swarm behind it began to charge, their footsteps an unholy chorus of metal on metal.
"OPEN FIRE!"
Rylan's finger hovered over the trigger. The room shook with the thundering roar of heavy bolters spinning to life.
The heavy bolters roared like angry gods, their shells slamming into the advancing horde of scrap-creatures and detonating in brilliant bursts of sparks, oil, and twisted metal.
The first creature—a lumbering heap with a head resembling a rusted pre-Imperial camera—was the first to fall. The heavy bolter tore it apart, its "head" blown clean off and flying across the room, split open like a cheap tin can hit by buckshot. It staggered forward, taking a few aimless steps before another salvo of bolt shells tore vertically through its body, splitting it in half with a shriek of tortured metal. It crumpled to the ground, limbs flailing like a broken puppet.
Lasgun fire lanced out in furious volleys. Guardsmen hollered as they squeezed off shots, the bright beams melting holes through the creatures' improvised bodies. Rylan gritted his teeth, sighting one of the monstrosities— the humanoid one with a cracked cogitator core for a head. He pulled the trigger.
The las-bolt drilled a glowing hole clean through its chest. The creature froze, then collapsed in a heap like an articulated statue whose strings had been cut.
But they just kept coming. And they showed no sign of stopping.
One of the things bounded into view, a horrific quadrupedal figure with grotesquely backward-jointed hydraulic legs. Its body was a writhing mess of pipes, wires, and bolted scrap, and its head was no better—a tangled, seething ball of wiring, with cracked glass lenses poking out like hideous eyes. Worst of all was its "mouth"—a bear trap, rusted and streaked with black oil.
It scuttled up the wall like some hideous parody of a spider before launching itself straight into the mess hall. It slammed into a guardsman hard enough to crush his ribcage like a tin of recaf, the impact flinging him across the room. He smashed into a table, slumped to the floor, and didn't get back up.
The creature spun, pouncing on another guardsman, its jaws snapping open with a sickening clunk. Blood sprayed as it ripped the man's head off.
BOOM!
The quadruped's head disappeared in a shower of metal fragments as a shotgun blast took it clean off. The headless body wobbled for a moment before crashing down, oil pooling beneath its twitching limbs.
"COME GET SOME!" a booming voice roared.
The door exploded inward, and an ogryn lumbered into the mess hall. Massive, crude club in hand, the giant barrelled straight for the horde. A spider-like creature—spindly, covered in lenses and wiry limbs—skittered toward him. The ogryn swung his club in a bone-jarring arc. The mechanical arachnid crumpled into a mess of crushed parts, oily fluid splattering four feet up the nearest wall.
"Grag SMASH GOOD!"
Grag—another ogryn nearly as big as the first—stormed in after him, wielding his ripper gun like it was a club. A scrawny creature with a cage for a head lunged toward him, swinging razor-sharp claws. Grag growled, brought his ripper gun around, and smashed it flat with a single thunderous swing. Metal splinters and gory oil sprayed everywhere.
"Grag ANGRY!"
Another ogryn wasn't so lucky. A swarm of mechanical monstrosities leapt onto him, clawing, hacking, and stabbing. He bellowed, flailing like an enraged grox, but the weight overwhelmed him. Saws screeched as they cut into flesh, and his roars became pained screams that abruptly stopped. Another ogryn was pinned down by a dozen of the creatures even as he fought back. He grabbed one and crushed it, even as the metal deeply scratched his hand,, then his struggles stopped as his head split open with a jackhammer, the tool belonging to a spiked ramshackle construct.
"GRAG NO LIKE THAT!" Grag bellowed, enraged. He grabbed one of the mechanical creatures— the spiked abomination with a jackhammer arm (which was grabbed by the jackhammer arm)— and hurled it against the wall. The impact ruptured its body, metal plating bursting apart in a shower of sparks.
And still they came.
Rylan blew a molten hole through another creature, this one a misshapen thing with a pair of treads as a lower body and a propeller for a hand, when he noticed the beast approaching.
One of the largest creatures yet lumbered forward. It had two mechanical heads consisting of amalgamated masses of sensors and lenses, the heads spun in lazy, asynchronous circles on neck-limbs attached to a spinning large metallic gear on the top of its lumpy body,. Its body was an ungodly fusion of machine parts, with eight clawed legs and a massive, spinning buzzsaw mounted on a piston arm.
Lasbolts merely ricocheted off pieces of metal or made inconsequential wounds in relatively soft areas on the scrap creatures bulk.
The buzzsaw screamed to life.
The first guardsman it hit didn't even have time to scream. The saw struck his leg, the saw quickly started slicing up the length of his leg through flesh and bone, then continued through his torso and out his opposite shoulder. The two halves of his body fell in opposite directions, blood arcing in graceful sprays across the floor.
"BLOODY—"
The creature stomped another guardsman into paste before he could finish swearing, and swatted another one aside. A guardsman lunged at it, bayonet in hand. He stabbed forward, severing a mess of wires near the creature's abdomen.
It froze for half a second. Then the wires sparked.
The guardsman convulsed violently as electricity surged through him, smoke rising from his scorched body before he collapsed, steaming. The giant creature did not stop. The giant creature continued to rampage. The giant creature tore a guardsmen to pieces and snatched another one, and threw him into the horde where he was reduced to something barely recognizable in seconds.
Another guardsman had his head smashed to a bloody mess by a thing that was essentially two spindly pipe-legs, a small static covered screen, and a hinge with a sledgehammer, that was smacking up and down on the remains of the guardsman's head.
"THEY'RE AT THE HEAVY BOLTERS!" someone screamed.
The heavy bolter team was attacked, as a jagged clamp crushed the gunner's legs like twigs. The gunner's scream cut off abruptly as a jackhammer pounded into his skull, turning his head into a ruin of bone and brain matter. The loader turned to flee—
FWOOOSH!
A literal barrel waddled toward him on spider-like legs, a crude pipe-nozzle sticking from its top. A pilot flame, consisting of a blow torch, hissed to life. The guardsman had time for one strangled yell before the flamer turned him into a screaming fireball. He thrashed around a bit before he collapsed to the ground
"GRAG TIRED OF THIS!"
Grag roared, grabbing the barrel-creature mid-flamethrower. It flailed in protest, hissing and spitting fire, but the ogryn hurled it into the horde like a bowling ball. Scrap-things went flying, crashing to the ground in tangled heaps.
"RYLAN, SHOOT IT!"
Rylan didn't need to be told twice. He squeezed the trigger, las-bolts slamming into the barrel creature. The improvised fuel tank ruptured—
KA-BOOM!
The explosion was magnificent. Fire and shrapnel erupted outward, immolating a dozen of the scrap-horrors. Several staggered, their components ablaze as they let out bizarre buzzing and screeching noises before collapsing like broken toys.
The room fell momentarily silent.
The surviving creatures—what little remained—paused as if considering their odds. Then, with a shriek of metal on metal, they retreated back into the dark room they'd emerged from, their red "eyes" disappearing one by one as they retreated away
Rylan's shoulders sagged as he exhaled, trembling slightly. He glanced around the mess hall. Bodies lay everywhere—guardsmen and abominations alike. Oily black fluid mixed with blood on the floor. Sparks rained down like fireworks from exposed wiring. One guardsman was screaming even as he tried to find his severed right arm.
Grag, still panting, stood in the middle of the room. He wiped a smear of oil from his massive club and bellowed triumphantly.
"Grag WIN!"
The guardsmen didn't celebrate ,as a dozen other troopers ran into the room and surveyed the carnage. Rylan wondered why they were even in this place.
The sub-base was calm, for now.
A makeshift mess area had been set up where guardsmen from other patrols drifted in and out. Some were grabbing quick meals before returning to their posts; others lingered, nursing their exhaustion and trying to enjoy what passed for food. Ration packs were ripped open with mechanical apathy, flavorless grox-meal shoveled into mouths without enthusiasm.
Rylan sat on an overturned crate, gnawing at his third ration bar. He chased it down with a swig of water from his canteen, grimacing as the foul metallic taste clung to his throat. Emperor preserve him—this stuff was borderline undrinkable.
Nearby, another group of guardsmen were decidedly less miserable. Somehow, a shipment of gaup liquor had ended up in their supplies, likely the result of some scribe's mistake—or the Emperor's mercy, depending on who you asked. It wasn't long before a few of the more enterprising guardsmen had cracked it open, and now the air was filled with their slurred laughter and off-key singing.
One particularly drunk soldier, Private Kellis, staggered to his feet, unsteady as a newborn grox calf. "Gotta piss," he announced to no one in particular, swaying on his feet. His friends hooted as he stumbled off, their attention already lost to another half-empty bottle.
Kellis wobbled through the door into an adjacent room, mumbling some off-tune hymn to the Emperor as he went. The room was dark—unexplored, untouched. A maze of towering shelves rose up around him, cluttered with strange machinery. Engine blocks, turbines, and heaps of unrecognizable scrap loomed like silent sentinels in the gloom.
Kellis stopped beside what looked like an engine block, propped haphazardly against a wall. He unbuttoned his trousers, leaned one hand against the cold metal, and sighed in relief.
As he pissed, a faint noise reached him—low and rhythmic. Clank. Hiss. Clank. Hiss. Mechanical, almost like the sound of gears grinding together.
Kellis frowned, blinking blearily into the shadows. "H-hello?" His voice slurred. "Anyone there? You cogboys messin' about?"
The noise stopped. For a moment, there was only silence. Then—
CLANK.
Something sharp and heavy whistled through the air. Kellis didn't even have time to turn. The jagged edge of a rusted blade sheared clean through his skull with mechanical precision, splitting it in half. His body dropped bonelessly to the ground, the spreading pool of blood soaking into the dust.
The unseen figure loomed over him. It was not alone.
Rylan was mid-chew when he heard something—an odd clattering sound from the direction Kellis had gone. He paused, frowning at the door.
"You hear that?" he muttered to Corporal Varn, who was seated nearby.
Varn grunted, wiping grox-meal from his mouth. "Probably Kellis knockin' somethin' over. Idiot can barely walk straight."
The sound came again, louder this time—heavy, irregular footsteps. Like metal grinding against metal. Rylan's stomach twisted. That wasn't Kellis.
He stood up slowly, grabbing his lasgun from where it leaned against a crate. Others began noticing too, conversation fading into wary silence. A pair of glowing red orbs appeared in the dark doorway. Then another. And another. They bobbed up and down as they approached.
"Oi!" one of the drunken guardsmen called, staggering to his feet. He squinted at the shifting shadows, a sloppy grin on his face. "Mechanicus? You lot finally—"
He stopped, the words dying in his throat as the figures stepped into the light.
They were not Mechanicus. They were not anything remotely human.
The things that emerged from the darkness were abominable—humanoid shapes cobbled together from scrap metal, gears, and forgotten machinery. Their limbs were mismatched and jagged, each appendage was either lunch or jagged with pieces of scrap metal or machinery, or were a horrifying tool: saws still dripping with oil, hydraulic jackhammers twitching ominously, clamps studded with rusted nails. Their bodies were crude amalgamations of piping, engine parts, and plates of metal bolted together in ways that defied logic.
The first one hunched forward, its torso covered in spikes. Its head was an ancient cogitator core—pre-Imperial, maybe—glowing red through a cracked viewport. It moved with an unnatural jerking motion, dragging a serrated length of rebar where its right arm should have been.
The drunk soldier let out a nervous laugh. "Heh… cogboys gone funny-lookin', eh?"
The scrap-thing lunged forward with terrifying speed. The jagged rebar pierced clean through the guardsman's skull, the wet crunch silencing him instantly. His body spasmed once before the creature wrenched its weapon free, leaving him to collapse in a heap.
"CONTACT!" Rylan bellowed, raising his lasgun. The room exploded into chaos.
"Get the bolters ready!" Corporal Varn roared, grabbing his vox. "Command! This is Sub-Base Theta! We are under attack! Unknown mechanical hostiles! Reinforcements required immediately!"
The heavy bolter teams scrambled into position, their gunners racking the slides and prepping their belts. Other guardsmen took cover behind crates and overturned shelves, lasguns snapping up as shouts echoed through the room.
Rylan's eyes stayed locked on the doorway. More of the creatures were emerging—dozens of them, their glowing red orbs cutting through the dim light like predatory eyes. They filled the corridor beyond, clanking and hissing as they advanced. Each one was different but equally grotesque. Some carried spinning saws that whirred with a hungry screech. Others dragged rusted hammers or spikes studded with scrap.
"Emperor's teeth…" Rylan whispered.
The lead scrap-thing raised its rebar arm, pointing toward the guardsmen with a horrible grinding noise. The swarm behind it began to charge, their footsteps an unholy chorus of metal on metal.
"OPEN FIRE!"
Rylan's finger hovered over the trigger. The room shook with the thundering roar of heavy bolters spinning to life.
The heavy bolters roared like angry gods, their shells slamming into the advancing horde of scrap-creatures and detonating in brilliant bursts of sparks, oil, and twisted metal.
The first creature—a lumbering heap with a head resembling a rusted pre-Imperial camera—was the first to fall. The heavy bolter tore it apart, its "head" blown clean off and flying across the room, split open like a cheap tin can hit by buckshot. It staggered forward, taking a few aimless steps before another salvo of bolt shells tore vertically through its body, splitting it in half with a shriek of tortured metal. It crumpled to the ground, limbs flailing like a broken puppet.
Lasgun fire lanced out in furious volleys. Guardsmen hollered as they squeezed off shots, the bright beams melting holes through the creatures' improvised bodies. Rylan gritted his teeth, sighting one of the monstrosities— the humanoid one with a cracked cogitator core for a head. He pulled the trigger.
The las-bolt drilled a glowing hole clean through its chest. The creature froze, then collapsed in a heap like an articulated statue whose strings had been cut.
But they just kept coming. And they showed no sign of stopping.
One of the things bounded into view, a horrific quadrupedal figure with grotesquely backward-jointed hydraulic legs. Its body was a writhing mess of pipes, wires, and bolted scrap, and its head was no better—a tangled, seething ball of wiring, with cracked glass lenses poking out like hideous eyes. Worst of all was its "mouth"—a bear trap, rusted and streaked with black oil.
It scuttled up the wall like some hideous parody of a spider before launching itself straight into the mess hall. It slammed into a guardsman hard enough to crush his ribcage like a tin of recaf, the impact flinging him across the room. He smashed into a table, slumped to the floor, and didn't get back up.
The creature spun, pouncing on another guardsman, its jaws snapping open with a sickening clunk. Blood sprayed as it ripped the man's head off.
BOOM!
The quadruped's head disappeared in a shower of metal fragments as a shotgun blast took it clean off. The headless body wobbled for a moment before crashing down, oil pooling beneath its twitching limbs.
"COME GET SOME!" a booming voice roared.
The door exploded inward, and an ogryn lumbered into the mess hall. Massive, crude club in hand, the giant barrelled straight for the horde. A spider-like creature—spindly, covered in lenses and wiry limbs—skittered toward him. The ogryn swung his club in a bone-jarring arc. The mechanical arachnid crumpled into a mess of crushed parts, oily fluid splattering four feet up the nearest wall.
"Grag SMASH GOOD!"
Grag—another ogryn nearly as big as the first—stormed in after him, wielding his ripper gun like it was a club. A scrawny creature with a cage for a head lunged toward him, swinging razor-sharp claws. Grag growled, brought his ripper gun around, and smashed it flat with a single thunderous swing. Metal splinters and gory oil sprayed everywhere.
"Grag ANGRY!"
Another ogryn wasn't so lucky. A swarm of mechanical monstrosities leapt onto him, clawing, hacking, and stabbing. He bellowed, flailing like an enraged grox, but the weight overwhelmed him. Saws screeched as they cut into flesh, and his roars became pained screams that abruptly stopped. Another ogryn was pinned down by a dozen of the creatures even as he fought back. He grabbed one and crushed it, even as the metal deeply scratched his hand,, then his struggles stopped as his head split open with a jackhammer, the tool belonging to a spiked ramshackle construct.
"GRAG NO LIKE THAT!" Grag bellowed, enraged. He grabbed one of the mechanical creatures— the spiked abomination with a jackhammer arm (which was grabbed by the jackhammer arm)— and hurled it against the wall. The impact ruptured its body, metal plating bursting apart in a shower of sparks.
And still they came.
Rylan blew a molten hole through another creature, this one a misshapen thing with a pair of treads as a lower body and a propeller for a hand, when he noticed the beast approaching.
One of the largest creatures yet lumbered forward. It had two mechanical heads consisting of amalgamated masses of sensors and lenses, the heads spun in lazy, asynchronous circles on neck-limbs attached to a spinning large metallic gear on the top of its lumpy body,. Its body was an ungodly fusion of machine parts, with eight clawed legs and a massive, spinning buzzsaw mounted on a piston arm.
Lasbolts merely ricocheted off pieces of metal or made inconsequential wounds in relatively soft areas on the scrap creatures bulk.
The buzzsaw screamed to life.
The first guardsman it hit didn't even have time to scream. The saw struck his leg, the saw quickly started slicing up the length of his leg through flesh and bone, then continued through his torso and out his opposite shoulder. The two halves of his body fell in opposite directions, blood arcing in graceful sprays across the floor.
"BLOODY—"
The creature stomped another guardsman into paste before he could finish swearing, and swatted another one aside. A guardsman lunged at it, bayonet in hand. He stabbed forward, severing a mess of wires near the creature's abdomen.
It froze for half a second. Then the wires sparked.
The guardsman convulsed violently as electricity surged through him, smoke rising from his scorched body before he collapsed, steaming. The giant creature did not stop. The giant creature continued to rampage. The giant creature tore a guardsmen to pieces and snatched another one, and threw him into the horde where he was reduced to something barely recognizable in seconds.
Another guardsman had his head smashed to a bloody mess by a thing that was essentially two spindly pipe-legs, a small static covered screen, and a hinge with a sledgehammer, that was smacking up and down on the remains of the guardsman's head.
"THEY'RE AT THE HEAVY BOLTERS!" someone screamed.
The heavy bolter team was attacked, as a jagged clamp crushed the gunner's legs like twigs. The gunner's scream cut off abruptly as a jackhammer pounded into his skull, turning his head into a ruin of bone and brain matter. The loader turned to flee—
FWOOOSH!
A literal barrel waddled toward him on spider-like legs, a crude pipe-nozzle sticking from its top. A pilot flame, consisting of a blow torch, hissed to life. The guardsman had time for one strangled yell before the flamer turned him into a screaming fireball. He thrashed around a bit before he collapsed to the ground
"GRAG TIRED OF THIS!"
Grag roared, grabbing the barrel-creature mid-flamethrower. It flailed in protest, hissing and spitting fire, but the ogryn hurled it into the horde like a bowling ball. Scrap-things went flying, crashing to the ground in tangled heaps.
"RYLAN, SHOOT IT!"
Rylan didn't need to be told twice. He squeezed the trigger, las-bolts slamming into the barrel creature. The improvised fuel tank ruptured—
KA-BOOM!
The explosion was magnificent. Fire and shrapnel erupted outward, immolating a dozen of the scrap-horrors. Several staggered, their components ablaze as they let out bizarre buzzing and screeching noises before collapsing like broken toys.
The room fell momentarily silent.
The surviving creatures—what little remained—paused as if considering their odds. Then, with a shriek of metal on metal, they retreated back into the dark room they'd emerged from, their red "eyes" disappearing one by one as they retreated away
Rylan's shoulders sagged as he exhaled, trembling slightly. He glanced around the mess hall. Bodies lay everywhere—guardsmen and abominations alike. Oily black fluid mixed with blood on the floor. Sparks rained down like fireworks from exposed wiring. One guardsman was screaming even as he tried to find his severed right arm.
Grag, still panting, stood in the middle of the room. He wiped a smear of oil from his massive club and bellowed triumphantly.
"Grag WIN!"
The guardsmen didn't celebrate ,as a dozen other troopers ran into the room and surveyed the carnage. Rylan wondered why they were even in this place.
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