Ok so I need to thank one of my reviewers, Guardsman Kondoru thanks for that bit of information. After looking into whether or not there were translators in the 40k universe, I found out that yes there were but the only faction that actually has them is the Drukhari.
Ok so I need to explain somethings, this story as some of you have guessed takes place after the Age of Apostasy but before Abaddon's 13th Black Crusade. Which gives me roughly 5000 years to work with.
So hope all of you enjoy, and that this meets your expectations.
The assassin had gotten away, leaving behind little more than a few knives and the half-filled vial of blood that she pocketed in case it was important. She immediately began checking on the Inquisitor. Quickly checking his vitals, she saw that he was just unconscious. She then decided to check on the target of the Death Cultist, aside from the scars he could have come from anywhere in the Imperium, at least the parts she had been to. His black hair was lanky, he had a beard that's hairs looked dried out, his eyes were closed and looked sunken into his sockets, and his skin looked pale and dry, like he had been drinking only enough water to keep him alive and he had been a long time since he had seen the light of a sun. She looked down at the cuts and saw bright red blood steadily oozing from each of the numerous cuts across his torso. She quickly began to dress the prisoner's wounds, not bothering to waste any of the supplies in her medicae kit and instead used simple bandages fashioned from the tattered remains of the prisoners tunic. Once she was done, she nodded and stood up, investigating the scene.
"A member of the Inquisition and a prisoner in the same room," She said aloud, "but instead of attacking the more valuable target they attacked the prisoner, why is that?"
She then went onto the general comms channel and requested guards and medicae support to the cell. She then walked steadily to her original destination, thinking that maybe the head of this enclave would have answers.
In the prisoner's mind…
He groaned, it was raining outside, it was his day off, and he was comfortable in bed with both his dogs curled up with him. So why was the alarm on his phone not letting him sleep? Groaning again he reached over, grabbed his phone, and turned the alarm.
"Alright," he said, looking at his dogs, one being a pit bull and the other being a chihuahua, "up with the both of you."
To emphasize his point, he threw the blanket off himself and opened the door to his room, causing both dogs to bolt out and run to the front door. Then the smell hit him, French Toast, and bacon cooking on the stove. The effect it had was immediate, as evidenced by the fact his mouth began to water from imagining how the cooked slices of bread and pork would taste covered in syrup. He quickly went to the kitchen and saw his mother standing at that stove, humming a hymn she heard in the church.
'Must be Sunday,' he thought as he looked at the table, sure enough his sister were sitting in her chair, looking half asleep, oddly enough his brother's chair was empty, probably because he had decided not to eat, and there was his father, the resting scowl on his face betraying nothing. Smiling he sat down at his place at the table, just as his mother finished with the last slice of French toast and pulled the bacon out of the oven. This was how things used to be, where even when things were at their worst, they still had each other. He smiled, embracing the quiet warmth of the family.
"It's not your time yet," said his father, in his gruff, yet kind, voice. Apparently, the confusion showed on his face.
"Michael dear," his mom said, grabbing his shoulder and smiling, "it's not your time to come home yet."
"What do you mean," Michael asked, looking around the table.
"Your work is not done yet brother," his sister answered. It was then a knock was heard at the door, that is when it finally hit him.
"No, no," Michael urged, trying to will his body to remain seated. Alas, his body refused to obey him as he stood up and walked to the door, his hand just barely touched the doorknob when he was blinded by a flash of light.
Zephyrus Drakon, Commander of Inquisitorial Operations for the Cadian System, was having such a good start to this month. His month had started off with him rooting out and destroying a cult who worshipped the Ruinous Powers, ultimately him bringing the head of the cult leader to prove that the operation was successful, the ultimate opportunity to finally take the fight to the forces of Chaos had landed in his lap, in the form of a person who had been sucked into the Warp and came out of a Warp Rift with no mutations, and his ultimate prize was slowly starting to come into his grasp. Then the servitor that had been placed as the guard for his office buzzed.
"Sister Justine of Adepta Sororitas Order of the Sacred Rose seeks entrance," the servitor announced, most likely already checking his schedule and running her voice through several different identification programs.
'So, the Battle Sister is here,' he thought, straightening his hair and clothes as best he could. After all it would not do to look unkempt before a fellow member of the Inquisition, the fact it was one of the nigh unachievable and strikingly beautiful Battle Sisters had nothing to do with it.
In walked a rather cold looking woman with sharp features, her ice-blue eyes seemed to scan the room, taking in every detail from the stitching of the rug to the angle and placement of each individual trophy, her red hair, a rarity in the Imperium to be certain, was pulled into a tight bun at the top of her head, her pure white ceramite gleamed in the light of the office, in contrast the black and red lined vestments she wore underneath were tattered with burns around the edges and various holes that lined them, and at her hip was chainsword and a bolter pistol.
"Sister Justine Volantis of the Order of the Sacred Rose reporting High Inquisitor," Sister Justine stated, standing ramrod straight. The Inquisitor nodded and leaned back in his chair, a high-backed red leather chair with gold inlay in the arms and bordering the leather, made of real leather too not the synthetic stuff, such a chair would normally belong to the governor of a whole Segmentum, its previous owner did not need it anymore.
"Sister," he greeted, before gesturing to one of the chairs opposite of his, not as lavish as his but still good chairs, "I trust your trip was uneventful."
"Aside from some Warp turbulence it was," she stated, sitting straight, and looking ahead as if she was staring at something in the distance.
"I see," he replied, noting that she would be difficult to crack but not impossible, "and how have you found our facility so far, is it to your liking?"
"I find your security to be lacking," she answered, now that caught the High Inquisitor's attention.
"Whatever do you mean," he asked, trying his best to hide the small sliver of fear and anger in his voice.
"I was walking through the prison section when I found two inquisitor guards dead," she answered.
"Such an affront to the Inquisition's authority must not stand," he stated firmly and with fervor, "did you kill the assailant?"
"No," she answered, gritting her teeth, and looking down at her fists clenched in lap.
"Did you get a look at them," he asked, already running through a list of possible suspects that ranged from clever heretics to one of his opponents in the Inquisition.
"It was a Death Cult assassin," she answered, Zephyrus Drakon nodded, although that hardly narrowed it down it at least gave him a starting point.
"Did they have any distinguishing marks or emblems," he asked, running through a list of the twenty or so Death Cults that operated in this Segmentum alone.
"Their mouth was stitched closed," the Battle Sister stated, looking up and crossing her fingers over the hardened line of her mouth. Dorn disguised his attempt to get his mind to focus as a curt nod.
"That would probably be the Cult of the Silent Oath," he replied, the image of what kissing those lips would feel like against his still playing at the edges of his mind, "they have proven to be most troublesome lately. Do you know who the target was?"
"An occupant of one the cells," Justine answered. He hummed in thought, running through a somewhat sketchy mental list of all the prisoners they had contained with no prisoner really standing out, save one.
"There's more," she said, causing the Inquisitor to look at her as she pulled four knives and half-filled vial of blood, "when the assassin fled, they left these behind and what's most curious is that an Inquisitor was also in the cell and they only subdued him. Their interest seemed to be wholly on the prisoner."
That told him all he needed to know, because the only cell that had been due to have an Inquisitor in it was the one with the rather intriguing human captive. So that would make the subdued Inquisitor Malek Zeragos, his short-sighted and narrow minded subordinate.
"Thank you for bringing this to my attention Sister Justine," he said, some of the anger just barely lacing the edges of his voice, "this matter shall be investigated with the upmost haste and diligence."
With that the Sister nodded and made to walk out of the chamber, getting ready to head to her own cell to recite her nightly psalms and prayers.
"One more thing sister," Drakon called out, causing Justine to turn and look at the Inquisitor, "the prisoner of that cell, are they still alive?"
"Most likely," she answered, "why do you ask?"
"Oh, it's nothing," Drakon replied, trying to marshal a tone of grim amusement, "it's just that they might have some valuable information that could aid us in our fight against the heretics."
With that, Justine Volantis nodded her head and left the room. When the door closed Zephyrus Drakon let the mask he had kept in place for the conversation drop as he sneered.
"By the Golden Throne," he swore with venom, "if I find out that impudent brat had anything to do with this, I will see him branded a heretic."
He then banged his hand against his desk, which caused the knives and vial to clink against it. He looked down and saw the half-filled vial, picked it up, and brought it to eye level, swishing the contents around as he fixed it with a penetrating gaze.
"Although," he stated, continuing to swish the contents around, "that boy may have just given me all I needed, whether he knew it or not."
He then reached under his desk and pressed a button that opened a private vox channel to a trusted Magus Biologis, who specialized in various replicae fields.
"Magus Xander," he said into the vox channel, "I believe I have something that might interest you."
With the Assassin…
The interloper had chased her off, interfered with a kill, surely there would be vengeance for this. But against who? Surely her order would see her punished for this, they had been given a job from one of the holy servants of the Emperor himself, and she had failed in her undertaking. Such a failure had only the harshest of penalties, she would be stripped of her armor, which would disgrace her before the Oathkeepers, the stitches on her mouth would be painfully cut away, then one by one each member would slowly drag a blade of their choosing across her bare flesh, until at last she died from the blood loss and with the only sound she would utter would be prayers of forgiveness that would ultimately be drowned out by screams. But that was if she went back, the other option was to run, hide among the masses and forever look over her shoulder for the Orders hunters. Neither option was particularly appealing, and for the first time in her life, she did not know what to do.
In the Inquisition Apothecarion…
The prisoner was groaning, trying to move his hand to hopefully block out the light and grant him a few more minutes of precious sleep, only to feel resistance. His eyes immediately shot open, before he had to close them again and wait for them to adjust on their own. Once they had adjusted to the brightness he looked down and saw that he was restrained to what looked like a medical bed, but with a few more crude bells and whistles. Looking around he saw he was surrounded by curtains and various devices that he could only imagine the uses of.
'Oh, dear god,' he thought, 'is this some government black site? Did I get kidnapped by aliens? Is some pulling a prank?'
Numerous thoughts that followed along these different trains kept merging, separating, and violently merging again, spinning into numerous different and impossible scenarios. In the middle of this, rather creative and anxiety inducing mental exercise, a figure in a white and red habit, black shiny carapace looking body suit with a built-in respirator, several needles with green liquid inside various vials, and a stylized I with a skull and three horizontal lines going through the middle hung from neck from a cord that had three beads attached to it.
'It's worse,' he thought, 'I am about to be sacrificed in some bizarre and painful ritual to some religious military cult.'
"Calm yourself," the figure stated, looking at him with grass green eyes that would have had a calming effect on him if his mind had not latched onto one key thing. Granted it had been somewhat difficult to make out what with her accent, that sounded like a bizarre mix of French, Italian, and Spanish accents he had heard on TV.
"I understood you," he said surprised, staring at the figure in wide eyed awe, excitement, and joy, "I understood you!"
He then started laughing till tears came to his, writhing against his bonds in joy, and crying out in rapturous delight. Which caused the figure to back away in shock and trepidation, while also reaching for something at their waist.
"Oh, I could almost kiss you right now," he shouted out, before he felt a searing pain across his chest and the cries of joy were replaced with groans of pain as the wounds reopened. The figure then calmly walked back up to the patient and saw the wounds on across his abdomen had started to ooze blood. Quickly the person wiped blood away, sanitize each of the cuts, which caused him to cry out in pain, and then applied a thin coating of some translucent substance over the cuts.
"What's your name," his, was the person a doctor or nurse, asked, most likely in an attempt to keep him calm while they treated him.
"What," he asked, starting to feel drowsy.
"Your name," the person treating him stated, gently and yet somehow more firmly, "what is it, I have to know the name of the person I am treating for my records."
"Michael," Michael answered, drowsiness lacing his voice as his eyelids started to feel heavy, "Michael Rollins. What's your name, my angel of mercy?"
"You may call me Sister Joan," Joan stated calmly, which was the last thing he heard as he finally lapsed into the realm of sleep once more.
So, what did you all think? It would help me immensely if you told me what you liked, what needs work, and what I can improve on.
Anyway, thank you all for taking the time to read this.
Remember things might seem difficult now but there is always a chance for them to get better.
Ave Imperator, may the God-Emperor light your path with his divine light.