The last thing Marcus Chen remembered was the banana peel.
Not a noble death. Not a heroic sacrifice. Not even a moderately respectable accident involving heavy machinery or perhaps a car crash that he could at least blame on external factors. No, Marcus Chen—twenty-seven years old, middle management at a mid-tier insurance company, owner of exactly one (1) slightly depressed houseplant named Gerald—had died because he had been too busy checking his phone to notice the single most clichéd slipping hazard in the history of comedy.
The banana peel had been positioned at the top of a very long staircase.
The staircase had been made of concrete.
Marcus's skull had been made of significantly less durable materials.
In the approximately 0.8 seconds between his foot making contact with that treacherous yellow menace and his head making contact with the unforgiving ground floor, Marcus had experienced what some might call his life flashing before his eyes. It was, he had to admit in those final moments of rapidly accelerating consciousness, not a particularly impressive montage. There was a lot of spreadsheets. A concerning amount of microwave dinners. The time he had almost asked out that cute barista but had instead panicked and ordered something called a "Venti Quad-Shot Caramel Macchiato with Extra Whip" and then had to actually drink it.
This is it, he had thought, the ground approaching at a velocity that seemed frankly excessive. This is how I go. Death by produce.
And then everything had gone black.
The first thing Marcus became aware of, upon regaining consciousness, was pain.
This was unusual, because he had been relatively certain that death was supposed to be more... permanent. More final. Less filled with the sensation that every single nerve ending in his body had been systematically replaced with white-hot needles and then set on fire for good measure.
The second thing Marcus became aware of was that his body felt wrong.
Not wrong in the "I've been in a coma for six months and need physical therapy" kind of way. Wrong in the "every single proportion of my physical form has been fundamentally altered in ways that should not be anatomically possible" kind of way. His hands felt too big. His arms felt too long. His chest felt like someone had replaced his fairly average torso with something that could reasonably be used as a battering ram.
The third thing Marcus became aware of was the screaming.
It took him an embarrassingly long moment to realize that the screaming was coming from him.
"THE SUBJECT IS CONSCIOUS," announced a voice that sounded like it was being filtered through approximately seventeen different mechanical devices. "ADMINISTERING ADDITIONAL SEDATIVES."
Oh good, Marcus thought, as something cold flooded through veins he was fairly certain he had not previously possessed. Sedatives. That's nice. That's—
He passed out again.
The second time Marcus woke up, there was significantly less screaming.
This was primarily because he appeared to have been strapped to a metal table with restraints that looked like they had been designed to contain something approximately three times his previous size, and also because his throat felt like he had been gargling broken glass mixed with sandpaper mixed with the physical manifestation of regret.
"Ah," said a voice from somewhere to his left. "The neophyte awakens."
Marcus tried to turn his head. This proved to be difficult, partially because of the restraints, but mostly because his neck appeared to have been replaced with a support structure that could generously be described as "architectural." He managed to tilt his skull approximately fifteen degrees to the left, which was enough to bring the speaker into his field of vision.
The speaker was, putting it mildly, terrifying.
He was massive—easily eight feet tall if he was an inch—and dressed in what appeared to be a combination of medical scrubs and medieval torture devices. His face was a patchwork of scars and metal implants, with one eye replaced by something that glowed an unsettling red and whirred softly as it focused on Marcus. Various mechanical tentacles extended from his back, each one ending in a different surgical implement that Marcus could not identify but was reasonably certain he did not want anywhere near his person.
"I am Apothecary Valdris," the terrifying figure announced, apparently oblivious to the fact that Marcus was currently experiencing what could only be described as a cardiovascular event. "You have survived the implantation process. This is... unexpected."
Marcus opened his mouth to ask several very important questions, chief among them being "WHAT implantation process," "WHERE am I," "WHY do you look like that," and "HAVE YOU CONSIDERED THAT YOUR BEDSIDE MANNER COULD USE SOME WORK," but what came out instead was a sound roughly approximating "Glrrrrhhhhh?"
Apothecary Valdris tilted his head, the mechanical eye whirring as it adjusted focus. "Your vocal cords are still adapting to the changes. This is normal. Do not be concerned."
Marcus was extremely concerned.
"You were selected from the recruitment worlds of Macragge eighteen months ago," Valdris continued, apparently interpreting Marcus's strangled noises as encouragement to keep talking. "The hypno-indoctrination and surgical procedures have been... comprehensive. You are now in the final stages of transformation. Soon, you will join your brothers as a full Battle-Brother of the Ultramarines."
If Marcus had been capable of forming coherent words at this moment, those words would have been: "I'm sorry, the WHAT of the WHO?"
As it was, he managed: "Whuhhh?"
"Rest now, neophyte," Valdris said, and there was something in his voice that might have been satisfaction. Or possibly indigestion. It was hard to tell. "Your brothers are eager to meet you. There has been... much discussion about your case."
This did not sound reassuring.
"Much discussion," Valdris repeated, and now Marcus was certain there was something strange in his tone. "Your vital signs during the procedures were... anomalous. The Progenoid glands took to your physiology with unprecedented efficiency. Your Black Carapace integrated in record time. There have been communications from the Chapter Master himself regarding your progress."
Marcus, who understood approximately none of these words, made a noise that he hoped conveyed "that sounds concerning and I would like more information please."
"Sleep now," Valdris said, and one of those mechanical tentacles descended toward Marcus's arm with something that looked distinctly like a needle.
Oh, not again—
The third time Marcus woke up, he was standing.
This was disorienting for several reasons, not least of which being that he had not consciously chosen to stand up, and also because "standing up" now apparently involved being approximately seven and a half feet tall.
He was in a room—a dormitory of some kind, he thought, though "dormitory" seemed too mundane a word for a space that was larger than his entire previous apartment and decorated in a style that could best be described as "Gothic cathedral meets military barracks meets someone with a very specific fascination with skulls." The walls were covered in ornate carvings depicting warriors in elaborate armor doing battle with creatures that looked like they had escaped from particularly imaginative nightmares. Candles flickered in sconces, casting dancing shadows across surfaces that gleamed with gold and silver and what appeared to be actual gemstones.
The bed behind him—if it could be called a bed, and not "a stone slab with minimal padding that had clearly been designed by someone who considered comfort to be a moral weakness"—was roughly the size of a small boat.
And there were other people in the room.
Nine of them, to be precise.
They were all massive. They were all dressed in simple robes that did absolutely nothing to hide the fact that their bodies appeared to have been constructed from the same general materials as industrial construction equipment. They were all staring at Marcus with expressions ranging from "intense scrutiny" to "barely contained excitement" to "is he really awake or is this a drill."
"Brother," said the one at the front—a warrior with a shaved head and a jaw that looked like it could be used to cut diamonds. "You have awakened."
"Uhhhhh," said Marcus.
"I am Sergeant Tarkus," the man continued, and despite the fact that he was roughly the size of a small vehicle, there was something almost gentle in his voice. "You have been unconscious for three days following the completion of your transformation. This is... unusual. Most neophytes recover within hours."
"I—" Marcus started, and then stopped, because his voice was wrong. It was deeper. Resonant. The kind of voice that could probably cause minor structural damage to insufficiently reinforced buildings if he tried hard enough. "I—what—where—"
"Peace, brother," Tarkus said, raising one hand in what was probably meant to be a calming gesture but mostly just drew attention to the fact that his hand was approximately the size of Marcus's entire previous head. "The hypno-indoctrination was extensive. Some disorientation is to be expected. The knowledge will come to you in time. For now, know this: You are Marcus. You are a Battle-Brother of the Ultramarines, the greatest of the Emperor's Space Marines. You serve the Imperium of Man, and through your service, humanity endures."
Marcus stared at him.
"Space Marines," he repeated slowly.
"Yes, brother."
"The Ultramarines."
"Indeed."
"The Emperor."
"May His light guide us always."
Marcus looked down at his hands.
They were enormous. Not just big—enormous. Each finger was the size of a small banana (he immediately regretted this comparison), and when he flexed them experimentally, he could feel strength coiling beneath the skin that was frankly ridiculous. He felt like he could punch through a concrete wall. He felt like he could probably punch through several concrete walls, one after another, in rapid succession, without really trying.
"I don't..." he started, and then stopped, because he wasn't sure how to finish that sentence. I don't remember signing up for this? I don't understand what's happening? I don't remember the last eighteen months of my life? I was definitely not this tall yesterday, or at least I don't think I was, but honestly everything is a bit fuzzy and there's a lot of information in my head that I don't remember learning and also I'm fairly certain I died falling down a staircase?
"Brother Marcus," said one of the other warriors—younger, if such a word could be applied to someone who looked like he could bench-press a car, with a scar running across his left cheek that gave him a slightly rakish appearance. "Do you remember the final trial? The combat test against the servitors?"
Marcus blinked. Something stirred in the back of his mind—a flash of movement, the sound of metal on metal, a sensation of—
"I... yes?" The word came out uncertain, because Marcus had absolutely no memory of any combat test, but at the same time, he did have a memory of it. Somewhere. Buried under layers of confusion and disorientation and the lingering suspicion that reality had completely stopped making sense.
"You destroyed seventeen of them," the young warrior continued, and there was awe in his voice. Unmistakable, undisguised awe. "In thirty-two seconds. The Chapter record is forty-three seconds for twelve servitors. Brother, you halved it."
"I..." Marcus started.
"And the marksmanship tests," another warrior chimed in—this one with a cybernetic eye that whirred softly as it focused on Marcus. "Ninety-eight point seven percent accuracy with the bolter at extreme range. The only reason it wasn't perfect was because the target drone malfunctioned and exploded before your final shot could connect."
"The combat doctrine examinations," added a third, shaking his head slowly in apparent disbelief. "You didn't just pass them. You corrected three of the questions because you identified flaws in the original tactical assessments. The Chaplains have been debating whether to incorporate your amendments into the official curriculum."
Marcus felt his eye twitch.
"I really don't think—" he started.
"Modest as well," Tarkus said, and there was approval in his voice. Actually genuine approval, like Marcus had just done something praiseworthy instead of attempting to explain that there had clearly been some kind of massive misunderstanding. "This is good. The Codex Astartes speaks highly of humility in the face of one's duty. You embody the teachings well, Brother Marcus."
"I'm not being modest," Marcus tried to explain. "I genuinely don't remember—"
"The hypno-indoctrination affects memory formation differently in each subject," Tarkus said, nodding sagely as if Marcus had just confirmed something important. "Some brothers remember every detail with perfect clarity. Others find that their skills have become... instinctive. Muscle memory without conscious recollection. It is nothing to be ashamed of."
"That's not what I—"
"Come," Tarkus said, gesturing toward a door that Marcus had not previously noticed, probably because it was decorated with approximately seventeen different varieties of skull and his brain had instinctively categorized it as "too much to deal with right now." "It is time for you to receive your armor. The Techmarines have been... eager to complete the fitting."
"Eager?" Marcus repeated weakly.
"Your measurements required custom work," the young warrior with the scar said, falling into step beside Marcus as Tarkus led the way out of the dormitory. "Apparently your bone structure is denser than standard specifications. The artificers had to reinforce the internal framework of your power armor to compensate."
"That's... not normal?"
"No, brother." The warrior's voice was matter-of-fact, as if he was explaining something obvious. "It is exceptional."
Marcus wanted to protest that he was pretty sure he had possessed entirely average bone density in his previous life—he had never broken anything, but he had also never done anything that might test the structural integrity of his skeleton, so really he had no data points to work from—but they had emerged from the dormitory into a hallway that quite effectively derailed his train of thought.
The hallway was immense.
Not just large—immense. The ceiling vaulted upward to heights that made Marcus's neck ache just from tilting his head back to see it, supported by columns that were carved into the shapes of armored warriors, their faces stern and noble and lit by the flickering light of torches that shouldn't have been able to provide this much illumination but somehow did anyway. The walls were covered in murals depicting battles, victories, and scenes of such graphic violence that Marcus felt his stomach lurch despite the fact that he was fairly certain his stomach was now made of significantly more durable materials than it had been previously.
And everywhere—everywhere—there were skulls.
Skulls carved into the architecture. Skulls engraved on doors. Skulls mounted on pikes. Skulls incorporated into the designs of light fixtures. Skulls worked into the pattern of the floor tiles. There was even a skull-shaped doorknob on what appeared to be a supply closet.
These people, Marcus thought with a growing sense of hysteria, really like skulls.
"The Fortress-Monastery of the Ultramarines," Tarkus announced, apparently interpreting Marcus's stunned silence as appreciation. "The heart of our Chapter's power. You are honored to walk these halls, Brother Marcus. Many aspirants dream of standing where you now stand."
"It's very... decorated," Marcus managed.
"The work of ten thousand years," Tarkus agreed. "Each skull represents a victory. Each mural commemorates a battle. Every stone of this fortress has been sanctified with the blood of our enemies and the faith of our brothers."
Marcus decided not to ask about the blood thing. He had a feeling he wouldn't like the answer.
They walked for what felt like miles through corridors that seemed to have been designed by someone who believed that "efficiency" was a dirty word and "imposing grandeur" was the only acceptable architectural principle. Everywhere they went, other warriors paused what they were doing to stare at Marcus. Some nodded in respect. Some saluted. One—a massive figure in armor that was so elaborately decorated it made the surrounding walls look minimalist by comparison—actually bowed.
"That was Captain Sicarius," the young warrior with the scar whispered, his voice reverent. "Commander of the Second Company. One of the greatest warriors of our Chapter."
"He... bowed at me," Marcus said, his voice flat with disbelief.
"Of course. You are Brother Marcus. The Exemplar."
Marcus stopped walking.
"The what?"
"The Exemplar," the warrior repeated, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. "It is what they call you. What we all call you. You have not heard? The name has spread across the entire Chapter. Brother Chaplain Cassius himself coined it during your final trial, when you—"
"I really don't think that's appropriate," Marcus interrupted, feeling his face heat in a way that should not have been possible given that his face was now approximately 40% denser than it had been when he was alive. "I'm new. I just woke up. I haven't done anything to earn—"
"There is the humility again," Tarkus said, and he was smiling. It was a small smile, barely a quirk of his scarred lips, but it was unmistakably there. "Brother Marcus, you have earned the respect of every warrior in this Chapter. Your deeds speak for themselves. The fact that you do not boast of them only confirms what we already knew: you are exactly the kind of warrior the Imperium needs."
"But I haven't done anything," Marcus protested. "I just woke up!"
"You have done more in your sleep than most accomplish in their waking hours," said a new voice, and Marcus turned to find himself face-to-face with a warrior who was somehow even more terrifying than Apothecary Valdris.
This one was dressed in armor—actual, proper armor, not robes like the others—and it was the color of deep sea creatures and decorated with enough gold filigree to make a baroque cathedral feel inadequate. A helmet shaped like a snarling skull was tucked under one arm, and his face was weathered with age and scarred with what appeared to be centuries of combat. His eyes were the pale blue of winter ice, and they fixed on Marcus with an intensity that made him want to take several steps backward.
"I am Chapter Master Marneus Calgar," the warrior said. "And you, Brother Marcus, are going to be late for your fitting if you continue to stand here accepting compliments that you have, despite your protests, absolutely earned."
"Chapter Master—" Tarkus began, snapping to attention.
"At ease, Sergeant." Calgar's eyes never left Marcus's face. "I merely wished to observe the neophyte who has caused such disruption to my schedule. Three separate meetings have been postponed because the attendees insisted on debating your training regimen. The Chaplains cannot agree on whether your results indicate blessed purity or suspicious deviation from established norms. The Techmarines have been fighting over who gets to craft your personal wargear."
"I'm sorry?" Marcus offered weakly.
Calgar stared at him for a long moment.
Then he laughed.
It was not a small laugh. It was the kind of laugh that echoed off the vaulted ceiling and made the torch flames flicker and caused several nearby servitors to pause their automated duties to stare in apparent confusion. It was the laugh of someone who had seen ten thousand years of war and had apparently just encountered the funniest thing in all of that time.
"He's sorry," Calgar said, to no one in particular. "By the Throne, he's actually sorry." He shook his head, still chuckling. "Brother Marcus, you have nothing to apologize for. Your existence is a gift to this Chapter. A reminder of what we can be. Now go. Get your armor. There will be time enough for formal introductions once you are properly equipped."
And with that, the Chapter Master of the Ultramarines—one of the most powerful warriors in the entire Imperium of Man, if the whispered conversations around Marcus were to be believed—turned and walked away, still chuckling to himself.
Marcus watched him go, his mind completely blank.
"Brother?" Tarkus said gently. "We should continue. The Techmarines are waiting."
"Right," Marcus said faintly. "The Techmarines. Who apparently have been fighting over who gets to make my equipment."
"Indeed. Come."
They continued walking.
The Armory was, if anything, even more overwhelming than the rest of the fortress.
It occupied what appeared to be an entire wing of the building, a vast cathedral-like space filled with racks of weapons, stands of armor, and more varieties of destructive implements than Marcus had names for. Techmarines moved between the displays like monks tending to holy relics, their red robes and mechadendrite-enhanced bodies giving them an appearance that was somehow even more unsettling than the Apothecary's.
And in the center of the space, on a raised platform that was bathed in golden light from windows set high in the vaulted ceiling, was a suit of armor.
His armor, Marcus realized with a sensation that might have been awe or might have been terror or might have been both simultaneously.
It was beautiful.
That was the only word for it. The armor was blue—the deep, rich blue of a summer sky reflected in mountain water—and it gleamed with a light that seemed to come from within rather than from the windows above. Gold trim ran along the edges, intricate and flowing, forming patterns that seemed to tell stories Marcus couldn't quite read. The pauldrons were massive, each one emblazoned with an inverted omega symbol that Marcus somehow knew was the mark of the Ultramarines. The helmet was shaped like a snarling face, with red eye lenses that seemed to stare at Marcus with anticipation.
And there were skulls on it.
Of course there were skulls on it.
"Brother Marcus," said one of the Techmarines, stepping forward with a bow that seemed almost reverent. His voice was heavily modulated, filtered through whatever mechanical enhancement had been done to his throat, giving it a quality that was simultaneously human and utterly artificial. "I am Techmarine Maximus. It has been my honor to prepare your war-plate."
"It's... very nice," Marcus said, because he wasn't sure what else to say.
The Techmarine's mechanical eye-lenses whirred, focusing on Marcus's face. "You do not understand. This armor is not merely 'nice.' It is a masterwork. We have spent the past eighteen months refining and enhancing it. Standard Mark VII Aquila pattern, yes, but the internal systems have been modified based on your unique physiology. The power output is seventeen percent above standard specifications. The neural interface has been calibrated to respond to your specific brainwave patterns. The artificial muscle fibers have been reinforced to match your projected strength output."
"My... projected strength output?"
"Yes. Based on the density of your bone structure and the efficiency of your enhanced musculature, we estimate that you will be capable of exerting approximately three times the force of a standard Battle-Brother." The Techmarine paused. "This is unprecedented."
"Of course it is," Marcus muttered.
"The armor has been blessed by the Chaplains, anointed by the Chapter Master, and personally inspected by the Master of the Forge," the Techmarine continued, apparently not hearing Marcus's comment. "There were... debates regarding whether enhancements of this magnitude required special dispensation. In the end, the Master of the Forge determined that to do anything less would be to fail in our duty to properly equip one of the Emperor's finest warriors."
Marcus wanted to protest that he was absolutely not one of the Emperor's finest warriors—he was, at best, a middle-management insurance professional who had died in an embarrassing accident and had somehow ended up in a body that didn't belong to him in a place he didn't understand—but the Techmarine was already gesturing to his assistants, and they were lifting the armor off its stand, and suddenly Marcus found himself surrounded by mechanical tentacles and reverent hands and the entire process of being fitted for power armor.
It was... an experience.
The armor was heavy. Even with his enhanced strength, Marcus could feel the weight of it settling onto his shoulders, pressing down with a pressure that should have been crushing but somehow wasn't. The neural interface clicked into place at the base of his skull with a sensation like cold water flowing directly into his brain, and suddenly the armor wasn't just armor anymore—it was an extension of himself, moving with his thoughts, responding to his intentions before he even finished forming them.
He flexed his fingers, and servos whirred.
He took a step, and the ground shook.
He looked at his reflection in a nearby polished surface and saw a warrior.
A massive, terrifying, heavily armed warrior in armor that could probably withstand a small explosion and was definitely equipped to cause several large ones.
"The fit is perfect," Techmarine Maximus announced, circling Marcus with an expression that might have been satisfaction if any of his original facial features had been visible beneath the mechanical augmentation. "As expected. Brother Marcus, you honor us by wearing this armor."
"I'm pretty sure it's the other way around," Marcus said.
The Techmarine tilted his head. "You believe the armor honors you?"
"No, I mean—I don't deserve—this is too much—"
"There is the humility that the Chapter Master spoke of," the Techmarine said, and he was nodding approvingly. "Brother Marcus, you will come to understand in time. You are not merely a Battle-Brother of the Ultramarines. You are the Exemplar. The standard to which all others will be measured. This armor is not too much. If anything, it is insufficient to your worth."
Marcus stared at him.
"I really don't think—"
"Your weapons," the Techmarine interrupted, gesturing to another stand where an array of implements had been laid out. "Your bolter has been personally crafted by the Master of the Forge. Your combat blade has been forged from materials recovered from a temple on a forgotten world. Your grenades have been blessed by Chaplain Cassius himself."
"That seems like overkill," Marcus said weakly.
"There is no such thing as overkill in the service of the Emperor," Sergeant Tarkus said, and when Marcus turned, he found that the rest of his... squad? Unit? Brothers?... had arranged themselves in a semicircle behind him, all of them now dressed in their own armor, all of them watching him with expressions that ranged from admiration to awe to something that looked disturbingly like worship.
"You look magnificent, Brother Marcus," the young warrior with the scar—Marcus really needed to learn his name—said.
"I look like I'm about to invade a small country," Marcus muttered.
"That is essentially the purpose, yes," Tarkus agreed. "Come. There is one more stop before your first mission briefing."
"Mission briefing?" Marcus felt a spike of panic that had nothing to do with his enhanced cardiovascular system. "Already? But I just—I don't know how to—"
"You will learn quickly," Tarkus said, and his confidence was absolute. "You always do, Brother Marcus. It is one of your many gifts."
Marcus wanted to explain that he didn't have gifts—that he was a completely ordinary person who had somehow ended up in a completely extraordinary situation through no action of his own—but Tarkus was already leading the way out of the Armory, and the others were falling into formation around Marcus, and he realized with a sinking feeling that arguing was probably not going to accomplish anything.
He followed.
The armor moved with him, smooth and responsive, every servo and joint working in perfect harmony with his enhanced musculature. He could feel the power of it—the raw, incredible power that thrummed through the artificial muscle fibers and hummed in the power plant mounted on his back. With this armor, he could probably punch through a reinforced steel door. He could probably survive an explosion. He could probably do all sorts of things that his previous, banana-peel-vulnerable body had never been capable of.
And somehow, inexplicably, this made him feel worse.
Because everyone kept looking at him like he was something special. Like he was some kind of legendary warrior instead of a thoroughly confused former insurance professional who was doing his absolute best not to trip over his own suddenly-enormous feet. Every warrior they passed stopped what they were doing to stare. Some saluted. Some bowed. One—an ancient figure in armor so baroque it made Calgar's look minimalist—actually went down on one knee as Marcus walked by.
"Brother Tarkus," Marcus hissed, falling into step beside the Sergeant as they walked through yet another skull-decorated corridor. "Why did that person just kneel?"
"That was Ancient Galatan," Tarkus replied, his voice pitched low. "A veteran of the Horus Heresy. Ten thousand years of service. He has never knelt to anyone below the rank of Chapter Master."
"Then why—"
"Because you are the Exemplar, Brother Marcus. Because your potential has been recognized by the greatest minds of our Chapter. Because—and I tell you this only so you understand the magnitude of what is happening—there have been communications from Terra itself regarding your development."
Marcus nearly tripped over his own feet. The armor caught him, stabilizers adjusting automatically to keep him upright, but the stumble was still visible.
"Terra?" he repeated. "As in... the capital? The place where the Emperor is?"
"The same." Tarkus's expression was unreadable behind his helmet. "Understand, Brother Marcus: I am not supposed to tell you this. The information is classified at the highest levels. But you should know that your existence has not gone unnoticed. The Emperor's Custodians have requested regular updates on your progress. The Inquisition has expressed interest. There are rumors—only rumors, mind you—that the Primarch himself has inquired about the 'anomalous recruit from Macragge.'"
Marcus's brain, enhanced though it was, failed to process this information.
"The Primarch," he said flatly.
"Roboute Guilliman. Our gene-father. The Lord Commander of the Imperium. He has, according to sources I cannot name, expressed interest in meeting you personally once your training is complete."
"I'm going to be sick," Marcus announced.
"Your enhanced physiology should make that extremely difficult," Tarkus noted. "But the sentiment is understandable. It is much to take in."
"I just woke up. I just woke up. I don't know where I am. I don't understand what's happening. Everyone keeps acting like I'm some kind of hero when I haven't done anything, and now you're telling me that the leader of the entire Imperium wants to meet me?"
"When you phrase it like that, I can see how it might be overwhelming."
"OVERWHELMING? TARKUS, I DIED SLIPPING ON A BANANA PEEL!"
There was a moment of absolute silence.
Then, slowly, Sergeant Tarkus removed his helmet.
His face was weathered with age and scarred with combat, but his eyes were kind. Confused, certainly—deeply, profoundly confused—but kind.
"Brother Marcus," he said slowly. "What is a 'banana peel'?"
Marcus stared at him.
The galaxy, apparently, did not have bananas.
"Never mind," Marcus said, suddenly exhausted despite his enhanced stamina. "It's not important. Can we just... can we just get this over with? Whatever the next thing is?"
Tarkus studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Of course, Brother Marcus. The next thing is the Hall of Heroes. Where your name will be inscribed among the greatest warriors in the history of our Chapter."
"WHAT."
"Come. The Chaplains are waiting."
The Hall of Heroes was, Marcus had to admit, pretty impressive.
It was a vast circular chamber at the heart of the fortress, its domed ceiling painted with scenes of ancient battles and lit by thousands of candles that flickered in the air currents caused by their entrance. The walls were covered in names—thousands upon thousands of names, carved into the stone in letters of gold, each one accompanied by a brief description of the deeds that had earned its owner a place in this hallowed space.
And at the center of the chamber, gathered in a semicircle around an empty stone plinth, were approximately fifty of the most heavily armored, elaborately decorated, terrifyingly impressive warriors Marcus had ever seen.
They all turned to look at him when he entered.
They all saluted.
"Brother Marcus," said a voice that echoed from everywhere and nowhere, and Marcus turned to find himself facing what could only be described as a nightmare given physical form.
The Chaplain—for that's what he had to be, based on the skull-faced helmet and the black armor and the general aura of "I could end your existence with a disapproving glance"—was massive even by the standards of the Space Marines Marcus had met. His armor was decorated with seals and parchments and what appeared to be actual human bones. His helmet was shaped like a screaming skull. He carried a staff topped with a winged icon that seemed to glow with its own inner light.
"I am Chaplain Cassius," the figure announced. "And it is my great honor to welcome you to the Hall of Heroes."
"I really don't think I should be here," Marcus said immediately.
The Chaplain tilted his skull-faced helmet.
"You believe yourself unworthy?"
"Yes. Extremely. Completely. I'm new. I just woke up. I haven't done anything that would—"
"You have passed every trial placed before you," Cassius interrupted. "You have exceeded every standard by which we measure worth. Your combat scores are the highest in the recorded history of this Chapter. Your tactical assessments have been deemed 'inspired' by masters who have studied warfare for centuries. Your marksmanship, your endurance, your strength, your discipline—in every measurable category, you have performed at levels that should not be possible for a neophyte."
"There must have been some kind of mistake—"
"There is no mistake." Cassius stepped forward, and despite himself, Marcus felt himself shrinking back. "Brother Marcus, I have served this Chapter for over four hundred years. I have seen thousands of aspirants become Battle-Brothers. I have watched warriors rise to greatness and fall to despair. I have witnessed the best and worst that the Ultramarines have to offer."
He paused, his skull-faced helmet inches from Marcus's face.
"You are the best," Cassius said simply. "Not just of this generation. Not just of this century. You are, in my considered opinion, the finest warrior to bear the colors of the Ultramarines since the time of the Primarch himself. And today, your name will be inscribed in this hall, so that all who come after may know: Marcus was here, and Marcus was exceptional."
Marcus wanted to argue. He wanted to explain that there had clearly been some kind of cosmic mix-up, that he was just a normal person who had somehow ended up in an abnormal situation, that every single piece of praise being heaped upon him was probably meant for someone else and would be withdrawn the moment they realized their mistake.
But the Chaplain was already turning away, and the other warriors were parting to reveal the empty plinth at the center of the chamber, and Marcus realized with growing horror that there was a servo-skull floating next to it with what appeared to be a very small laser pointer, and everyone was looking at him expectantly.
"The inscription," Cassius announced, "has already been prepared. Based on your trials, your tests, and the observations of every senior member of this Chapter, the following commendation will be etched into the sacred stone of the Hall of Heroes."
He paused for dramatic effect.
"'Brother Marcus, the Exemplar. First of his name among the current generation. Whose deeds in training exceeded the recorded achievements of all who came before. Whose humility in the face of excellence honors the teachings of the Codex Astartes. Whose potential is unbounded. Whose service to the Emperor has only begun.'"
The servo-skull's laser pointer began to move, and letters started to appear on the blank stone of the plinth, each one carved with perfect precision.
Marcus watched his name being permanently inscribed into the history of a Chapter he didn't understand, in a galaxy he didn't recognize, surrounded by warriors who seemed absolutely convinced that he was something special.
I died slipping on a banana peel, he thought desperately. I was a middle-management insurance professional. I owned a slightly depressed houseplant named Gerald. I once cried during a commercial for phone service because the dog in it looked happy.
But the inscription continued, letter by letter, word by word.
And when it was done, and the servo-skull floated back to its charging station, and the assembled warriors began to chant his name, Marcus realized that no one was going to listen to his protests.
They thought he was the best.
They thought he was an Exemplar.
And no matter how many times he tried to explain that he was actually the worst—the most confused, the most unqualified, the most thoroughly out-of-place person who had ever been stuck in a genetically enhanced super-soldier body—they just seemed to interpret his protests as further evidence of his virtue.
I'm going to die, Marcus thought, as the chanting reached a crescendo. I'm going to go into battle with these people, and they're going to expect me to be amazing, and I'm going to trip over my own feet and get everyone killed, and my last thought will be "I really should have been more careful around banana peels."
"MARCUS!" the warriors chanted. "MARCUS! MARCUS! THE EXEMPLAR!"
Far above, on a viewing platform that Marcus hadn't noticed, Chapter Master Marneus Calgar watched the ceremony with an expression that might have been pride.
And somewhere else entirely, in a dimension that existed between dimensions, in a palace that was a prison and a throne that was a torture device, something ancient and golden and impossibly powerful stirred in its eternal vigil.
The Emperor of Mankind, who had not truly noticed anything in ten thousand years of screaming silence, turned the barest fraction of His attention toward a Fortress-Monastery on a world called Macragge.
He observed a confused young man in blue armor, surrounded by warriors who adored him, being praised for excellence he didn't believe he possessed.
And for the first time in ten millennia, the Emperor of Mankind felt something that might, in a human, have been described as amusement.
This one, the Emperor thought, His attention already beginning to fragment back into the endless war against the darkness. This one will be interesting.
Marcus, completely unaware that the most powerful being in the galaxy had just taken notice of him, continued to stand in the Hall of Heroes, desperately hoping that someone would eventually realize that he had no idea what he was doing.
No one did.
END OF CHAPTER ONE
[AUTHOR'S NOTE: Marcus is going to have a very difficult time convincing anyone that he's not the greatest Space Marine in history. The fact that he keeps accidentally proving them right every time he tries to demonstrate his inadequacy is not going to help. Next chapter: Marcus's first battle, in which he attempts to stay in the back and provide "support," and somehow ends up soloing an Ork Warboss while apologizing profusely.]