Doom/Warhammer Saga

The roar of outside battle above was a distant thunder as Vek and the other Guardsmen descended deeper into the bunker. Their boots clanged against the metal steps, the flickering lumen strips casting long shadows along the walls. The stale air carried the scent of machine oil and old ferrocrete, a stark contrast to the blood-soaked mud of the battlefield they had left behind.

Their orders had been simple—secure and retrieve supplies. But as they reached the lower level, they found far more than they had expected.

Rows of armored vehicles filled the underground chamber, stretching beyond what their dim glow-lamps could fully reveal. Leman Russ battle tanks, Chimera troop carriers, mobile artillery platforms, and more—all of them untouched, their hulls coated in the protective sheen of factory preservative. Some had weapons still shrink-wrapped in maintenance seals, others bore the insignia of regiments long since lost to war.

One of the Guardsmen let out a low whistle. "This isn't just a stockpile. It's a damned war fleet."

Vek ran a gloved hand across the cold steel of a tank's armored plating, the sheer weight of what they had uncovered settling into his chest. If the heretics above knew what lay beneath their feet, they would tear the ground apart to claim it.

The sergeant stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "This is an emergency reserve," he said, his voice steady but grave. "One of many, built for situations exactly like this."

Vek turned to him. "What do you mean?"

The sergeant gestured to the walls, where faded insignias of the Departmento Munitorum were stamped into the ferrocrete. "There are hidden bunkers like this scattered across the plains, each loaded with enough armor and firepower to reinforce entire warfronts. I think we are just one of my regiment sent to secure these. The Imperium doesn't always win its battles with soldiers alone—it wins by being ready for the next one."

One of the troopers checked a data-slate left on a rusted control panel. "Orders say we strip everything we can transport, then destroy the rest." He looked up, expression grim. "We can't let the enemies have this."

Another Guardsman, standing near a cluster of munitions crates, exhaled sharply. "How much time do we have?"

The sergeant checked his chrono. "Not enough."

The Guardsmen worked in tense, hurried efficiency, hauling crates of munitions onto transport platforms and loading the idle war machines. Each whispered a quiet prayer to the God-Emperor, their voices blending with the metallic clatter of ammunition belts and the grinding of tank treads being checked for movement. The weight of their duty was clear—every shell, every weapon they carried out would help turn the tide elsewhere.

But even as they labored, the battle above raged on, shaking the very walls around them.

Vek wiped sweat from his brow, his hands trembling slightly as he fastened a crate shut. Then he heard it—metal groaning, the deep, tortured screech of something being torn apart.

The sealed bunker door.

Every Guardsman froze.

The sound came again, louder this time. The reinforced adamantium of the door twisted, crumpling inward as if crushed by some terrible, unseen force. Sparks rained from the frame as locks meant to withstand bombardments were torn apart in mere seconds.

Weapons were raised. Lasguns snapped to shoulders, barrels trained on the entrance. Some muttered fresh prayers, others clenched their jaws, preparing to die in this hidden chamber beneath the battlefield.

A final, deafening shriek of metal echoed through the bunker as the door was ripped from its hinges.

From the swirling dust and darkness beyond, a massive figure emerged.

It wasn't a tide of heretics. It wasn't a war machine of the Archenemy.

It was him.

The supposed Astartes who had saved them earlier.

The Slayer.

He stepped forward, his armor still bearing the blood of the dead, his form wreathed in the smoke of war. The jagged teeth of a captured chainaxe hung loosely from his grip, the weapon humming with caged fury. In his other hand, a boltpistol idly spun around his finger, its magazine clicking into place as if it were an afterthought.

The Guardsmen remained silent, their fingers hovering over their triggers.

Vek, heart pounding in his chest, was the first to lower his weapon.

"Emperor's mercy," he breathed.

The Slayer's helmet tilted slightly, as if regarding them. He stepped forward, his heavy boots echoing through the chamber, eyes scanning the rows of war machines before turning back to the trembling soldiers. Sefirot's crackling voice, cold and mechanical, echoed through the bunker's steel walls.

"If you have questions, ask them now. Otherwise, I will begin asking mine."

The Guardsmen tensed, weapons aimed, eyes flicking between each other. The voice wasn't human. It wasn't even the warrior before them—his stance remained unchanged, silent and unmoving. No, the voice had come from him. From his armor.

The Sergeant hesitated, then stepped forward. "…The enemy outside. Have they been halted?"

A pause. Then the voice responded.

"Affirmative."

Flat. Precise. Then it continued.

"Confirmed kills: Over sixteen hundred enemy combatants, including their commanding officer. Forty-six armored war engines destroyed."

A weight settled over the room. Those numbers weren't just high. They were impossible. The Guardsmen had braced for heavy fighting, but an entire battlefield had been reduced to a graveyard—by one.

The Sergeant exhaled. "…The enemy commander. He's dead?"

"Confirmed. Permanently neutralized."

The finality in the voice left no room for doubt. Whatever horror had led the enemy ranks, it was gone. A ripple of relief passed through the Guardsmen.

Then the voice resumed.

"Your mission. Explain it."

The Sergeant hesitated before falling into routine. "Secure as much of the armory as possible. Transport it back to command. Destroy the site after withdrawal."

The moment he finished speaking, the voice answered without delay.

"Acknowledged. I will be joining you."

The words sent a ripple through the ranks. Uncertainty. Confusion. Fear.

Vek swallowed. "…Joining us? As escort? Travel companions?"

The Slayer's helmet tilted slightly, but the voice remained cold and detached.

"Correct. Your mission aligns with my immediate objectives. Proceed."

No explanation. No elaboration. Just facts.

The Sergeant weighed his options, then gave a sharp nod.

"…Understood."

If this Astarte—or whatever he was—wanted to join them, who were they to argue?

As the last of the cargo was secured, heavy machinery locked in place, and the final crates of weapons stacked inside the transports. The Guardsmen moved fast, driven by the unshaken discipline of survival, but even still, they couldn't ignore what they were seeing.

The Astarte—or what they assumed to be one—moved methodically through the armory, plucking grenades, explosives, and ordinance off the shelves and simply making them disappear. Krak grenades, plasma charges, melta bombs—each one vanished the moment it touched his armored hand. It was as if the wargear was being absorbed by his armor itself.

No one spoke. No one questioned it. They just watched.

The Sergeant gave one last nod of approval at the loaded transports before stepping toward the reinforced rear wall. He planted an explosive charge against it and motioned for his men to stand back. A moment later, the wall erupted in a controlled detonation, revealing a tunnel stretching beyond the bunker. Dust and debris settled as the opening widened, leading into a vast underground path.

The Mole transport sat waiting—a massive, drill-equipped vehicle built for excavation and battlefield breaching. The Sergeant climbed aboard, gripping the controls.

"The tunnel's unfinished," he announced. "I'll dig through the end when we get there. Everyone else—set the charges and get moving. Maximum load on each vehicle. We're not leaving anything behind."

The Guardsmen hurried to plant explosives along the bunker's structure, ensuring its destruction once they cleared the tunnel. Engines rumbled to life as transports and haulers were filled to capacity, towing heavy loads behind them.

Then, for the first time, the voice from the Astartes' armor spoke again.

"A request."

The Sergeant turned.

"I require an immediate tactical assessment of this war. Assign someone to brief me."

A moment of silence passed between the Guardsmen. The voice wasn't a mortal. It was… something else. And the fact that it was requesting rather than ordering unsettled them even more.

The Sergeant exhaled, then looked toward the nearest available soldier.

"…Vek."

The rookie stiffened.

"You'll handle it."

Vek paled. His mouth opened in protest, but no words came out. He forced himself to nod, feeling sweat bead down his temple.

The Slayer—still silent, still unreadable—turned toward him. Then, without a word, he climbed into the transport and sat next to him. The machine's weight shifted under his presence.

Vek swallowed. 'Emperor, help me.'

The tunnel stretched ahead, dark and unyielding, as the convoy rumbled deeper through the earth after leaving the bunker collpased with explosives behind. Inside the transport, the only sounds were the steady hum of the engine, the grinding of rock against the drill, and Vek's own heartbeat hammering in his ears. Sitting beside him was him—the Astarte.

Vek gripped the wheel tighter, doing his best not to glance sideways. The towering figure was motionless, but his presence was suffocating. The others were probably whispering about it, but Vek had the misfortune of being the one stuck closest.

Then, the voice came again.

"Report."

Vek swallowed hard. "You… you mean the war?"

"Affirmative."

He hesitated, eyes fixed on the tunnel ahead. He didn't want to talk about it, but refusing wasn't an option.

"Alright," he said, voice tight. "I don't how it's related but first the sky turned red for weeks. Then suddenly fightings started with uprisings at multiple spots everyday but nothing we thought we couldn't contain. Then the recent food shortages hit the hives, and people got desperate. The heretics used it as an excuse to stir up trouble, preaching against the Imperium. We crushed them in the south, but in the west? They dug in deep. PDF couldn't root them all out."

His hands clenched tighter on the controls. "Then the storms came. Warp storms. Cut us off completely. No supply runs, no off-world comms. And when the storms finally cleared, that's when it arrived."

He exhaled, jaw tight. "A Space Hulk. Massive. Bloating out the stars massive. It spewed out an entire army—millions of them. Heretics. Mutants. Traitors. The worst of them, the Red Monstrous Astartes… they landed first. They butchered everything. Half the PDF turned against us right then and there, pledging themselves to the enemy. We lost Prime and Hive Cities there in days. The rest of us had to retreat south, into the jungles."

The transport rattled as the wheels rolled over uneven ground. The tunnel walls grew narrower.

Vek swallowed. He didn't want to think about this next part, but the words kept coming. Maybe because saying it out loud made it feel real. Maybe because not saying it wouldn't change anything.

"My family… they were in Prime." His throat tightened. "My little brother. My sister." He forced his voice to stay level. "Didn't even get to say goodbye. Didn't even know that was the last time I'd see them."

Silence.

No comfort came. No words of sympathy. Nothing.

Good. He didn't want them.

He pushed forward.

"But we held," he said, voice steadier now. "We had time. The bastards wasted days building their blood-soaked shrines instead of pressing the attack. That gave us time to dig in, reinforce Secundus. And we weren't alone."

He hesitated. This next part wasn't something he had seen—only heard. Stories. Reports. Rumors that spread through the ranks.

"The Legendary Astartes came. The Space Wolves." He let out a slow breath. "I haven't seen 'em myself, just heard the reports. They say their Chapter Master, Logan Grimnar, is leading them personally. Are you one of them, sir?"

"No."

His fingers drummed against the wheel. "Then maybe it's still true. Maybe not. But someone's out there, holding the line. If they weren't, we'd already be dead."

The transport jolted slightly as it rolled over another patch of uneven stone. The tunnel stretched endlessly ahead.

Then the voice came again.

"You were unprepared. Your enemy struck first. You were outnumbered. And yet, you still fight."

Vek frowned slightly. "Yeah."

"Explain."

Vek exhaled. "…Because we don't have a choice." His grip tightened on the controls. "Because if we stop fighting, then that's it. There's nothing left. No home. No future. Just ashes."

Another pause.

Then, at last, the voice replied.

"Acceptable."

Vek didn't know if that was approval or judgment. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

The tunnel stretched ahead, unfinished, the weight of the earth pressing in around them. The engines hummed. The convoy pressed forward. And outside, the war raged on.