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In my opinion there isn't enough fluff about living in the Eye of Terror and on Daemon Worlds. We know everything about the average civilian in the Imperium, from what he eats for breakfast to what kind of car he drives (well that's an exaggeration) but we know practically nothing about the trillions of inhabitants of the Eye of Terror. So this is just going to be a short story about a day in the Eye of Terror for a few people. It'll probably be only four or five posts all together. Oh yeah and the three stories are at least somewhat related. Oh yeah and in this story "klik" is a swear in this Daemon world.
Basilius careened after the enemy, shrieking from the dozens of audio systems that adorned his armor. His prey was panicked now, stomping down on the accelerator and holding his breath. His jeep was low on fuel and the Raptor would reach him eventually; it was only a matter of time. The Traitor Legionnaire raised his bolt pistol and fired five consecutive shots to blow out the tires. Sparks flew as the metal wheels cut across the rock, slowly wearing themselves down. "You are mine!" cried out Basilius, surging forward and pushing his jumpack to the limit. Normally the Raptor would've fired an explosive bolt into the engine and just ended the chase, but this prey was to be taken alive. The chase was nearing an end. The fuel was running low, the wheels barely functioning and a steep dropo off was up ahead. It was disappointing in fact.
The jeep suddenly swerved in a massive spray of sparks. Temporarily blinded Basilius continued to surge forward and flew off the edge. His vision cleared just in time to see the ground. The sound of ceramite hitting rock was a loud, deep thump that carried for quite some distance across the landscape. Basilius moaned and spun around to see his prey swerving once again and speeding his jeep towards the drop off. "He's hunting me," hissed the enraged Raptor. He fired his bolt pistol wildly as he scrambled to stand up and reactivate his jumpack. It was too late. The vehicle went over the edge and careened into Basilius' prone body. It crushed his waist with a loud crunching noise, shattering ceramite like glass and reducing his pelvis to dust. Basilius went limp, lying the puddle of his own blood.
The jeep was in an awkward position. The back wheels remained precariously on the ledge while the front wheels lay firmly on the ground with a Chaos Raptor caught under the front bumper. "Yes!" yelled the prey, leaping out of the car. "Yeah, I killed a kliking Raptor! Klik yeah! Nobody will ever believe this! I killed a kliking Raptor!"
Basilius bent his torso up as much as he could and fired his bolt pistol twice, taking out the prey's knees. The prey screamed loudly and begged for his life. "Please don't kill me!" he yelled as he fell to the ground. "I'm sorry! Please don't kill me! Please! Oh klik, I'm sorry! Tzeentch save me! Please!"
"Shut up," ordered Basilius. Crawl towards me until you are five feet away from me. Then lie on your belly and put your hands on the back of your head."
Varin quietly sat in his office, muscles tensed. He was the Ruler of Slythex; the Daemon World was his and his alone. Even the interloping Traitor Legions and violent Renegade Chapters respected his authority. But his positiured was threatened and Varin was afraid. "You will die in five days," the pysker had said exactly five days ago. "From betrayal." His meltagun was readied, the building secured and traitors routed out. Nevertheless the pysker had never been wrong before and it paid to be careful. Suddenly his door started opening. Without hesitation Varin fired. His door, the intruder and the wall behind him were obliterated.
The Governor rushed out to see if he could identify his assassin. Instead he saw the singed upper torso of his chief messenger and dozens of burnt documents spread across the floor. "I was just..." rasped the messenger. "....delivering.... papers."
"Klik," hissed Varin. He reloaded his meltagun and mercy killed the messenger. He knew fate couldn't be stopped that easily. The Traitor was probably still alive, out there somewhere.
"Today we kill him," said Mathew, loading his combat shotgun. Mathew was a tall, muscular man with a short beard and grey eyes. Instead of a left arm he had two slimy, pulsating tentacles. "Definitely today."
"Yeah," stammered Felix, activating his power weapon. It glowed and made a quiet humming noise. Seeing that it worked Felix deactivated the weapon and turned towards his fellow conspirators. "Yeah, today's the day we kill him." He gulped. "Definitely."
"Today," repeated Heron. As he was only armed with a rusty pipe, Heron had no ammo to load or systems to check. "Today's the day."
"Today's the day you better kill him," their employer said from the darkness. "I've put a substantial investment into this and for it to not pay off would be most... unpleasant. For all of us I might add. If you fail to kill him today, you'll likely never kill him."
"Why today?" asked Heron. He was the smallest of the group, standing at only 5'6. The hitman was mostly bald save a few unhealthy looking strands of grey hair coming from the back of his burnt head.
"You do not question me. You've been paid and you are going to kill him; that is all you need to know."
Felix stammered, "Of course sir." The Slaanesh worshipper had already spent his money on an assortment of drugs best not taken together; he had no way of getting out of the job.
Thanks for reading. Comments encourage me but I'll probably finish this story regardless of how many people read or care about it. Also if anyone cares about The Daemon Blade (which is unlikely), it's on temporary hiatus until I get past my horrific writer's block.
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