Prime megatron, disregarding season 5 of the boys portrayal of homelander (he seems to be far weaker the most recent season). They have no prior knowledge of eachother.
Round 1: the two combatants start 100m apart
Round 2: start in melee range
In a flash of eye-singing, otherworldly light, a heretic Astarte appears on the ruined plains of the planet Reach. He will be competing with Noble 6 (they spawn far away from eachother) in his final mission with but a single objective: survive.
In 2 days a black crusade war fleet will emerge in the system through a rend in reality to relieve their battle brother.
Round 1: A standard chaos marine of the black legion, equipped with a bolter, bolt pistol, and chainsword. He has 6 extra mags on his person.
Round 2: A chaos lord in terminator armour, with iron halo and grenade harness, as well as a combi plasma and a daemon power maul. By the will of the gods, he has infinite ammo.
Round 3: Ahriman and a squad of 5 rubric marines (unlimited ammo). They must last 4 days.
Bonus round: there is no fleet coming to relieve him, no reinforcements to support him, not a single soul to aid him in his task. Daemon primarch Magnus the Red must undertake this mission alone. His objective is to destroy every last alien in sight, on the plains of Reach and all of the covenant fleet in the burning skies above.
Kharn, herald of the blood god, is teleported deep into High Charity–bypassing its outer fleet and defences. Master Chief is also inside, reaping a bloody tally of alien warriors. Kharn has all of his standard equipment. After 8 days, the Conquerer will arrive to bail him out, with the avatar of rage, daemon primarch Angron, at the helm. Can he survive? If not, how long for?
Round one: as above
Round two: Kharn is accompanied by a squad of 8 Khorne berserkers equipped with chain blades and a few plasma pistols, as well as plenty of meltabombs.
Round three: Angron is summoned into the heart of High Charity. He must work his way outwards-destroy the station itself as well as the entire surrounding fleet single handily without being banished. Can he do it?
Bonus round: same as round one, but Abbadon the Despoiler takes Kharn’s place. The entire Black Legion fleet will arrive to rescue him after one week inside.
She awoke earlier than yesterday. Her body had anticipated the vox-blare and waked her before it had the chance to activate. She stared up at the ceiling with crusted, squinty eyes-underlined with dark bags that sunk into her face. Her bed was a compact metal slab shoved into one of the grimy corners of her hab-space, a stained cloth blanket over its top. She flicked the switch of a small lamp on her bedside and a dull orange light fell upon the room. It was a mess. Dirty rags were scattered on metal tiles, patchy with sweat from previous work shifts–there were books and parchment too–strewn over the floor in a similar manner. She breathed a heavy sigh. Four hours of sleep a night for four months had devolved her, her skin was pale and dotted with red blood spots–apart from her face–coloured a yellowish white from the greasy air of Hab block-441. The thought of falling back to sleep, of sinking into the iron brick and rooting herself into the earth was a pleasant one indeed, but the power tunnels beneath Hive Pasol needed tending to, and she had to go to work.
The lamp beside her hummed loudly–and she turned with a heavy head to meet its orange gaze. It was, by far, the most ornate thing in her room of muck and metal–its bulb was expertly moulded into the shape of the Aquila–wings splayed out proudly and twin heads looking in either direction. It sat upon a glossy black stand carved with the letters; “The Emperor protects”. She stared into it for a few moments in an attempt to wake herself more. It wasn’t as effective as what came next.
There was a heavy click that echoed through the grills of a dark vox unit encrusted into the walls of her hab space. Tinny static followed. Then the vox-blare emerged, a sharp piercing noise that stabbed into her ears and impaled her brain with its sheer volume. She could hear it everywhere. Outside her hovel in the hallways of Block 441, and in other nearby rooms too, bouncing around the walls and blending together in a dance of screeching sound. Her ears worked to dull it, overwhelmed by the relentless cacophony. Her colleagues called it ‘Pasol-des pita’ or ‘labour-song’ in Low Gothic, it played every morning as sure as the rising sun, and was just enough to get her out of bed.
She paced over to the nearest pile of grey worker-rags and pulled them on hastily. They displayed a number on one side of her chest, 713, and the Aquila on the other, both inked in black; then she slotted her feet into a pair of battered brown boots. Her hand reached left and grabbed a long flowing duster, and threw it around herself as she moved to a large steel door, wrapping her in dull leather. It had the number ‘2632’ welded in its center. She pulled down on a rusty, bandage-wrapped handle and pushed outwards, then stepped into one of the many bustling hallways of Hab-441.
I’m in the process of writing a Warhammer book and I want to dot a few short stories like this throughout to highlight how terrible the imperium is. Let me know what you think!