Traveler Log
Identity: Merlin Emrys
Vocation: Rogue Trader
Origin: Warhammer 40,000 (M41.999)
Anchors: MCU-99999, AVP-6, Resident Evil, Cybertronian Remnant
Authority: Level 4
Temporal Dilatation: 1:10 (Variable)
Ever since acquiring a fragment of the Allspark, Emrys no longer had to scavenge for energy cells. Though it was only a shard, the artifact automatically siphoned background dark energy from the vacuum, converting it into a steady charge for his Solus Prime tactical armor.
But as the dimensional transition finalized, Emrys felt a cold shiver crawl up his spine—a psyker's premonition of imminent disaster. A suffocating, stagnant aura permeated the hull of the Excalibur.
"Machine Spirit, status report," Emrys commanded.
Silence.
For ten agonizing seconds, the flagship's artificial intelligence remained unresponsive. This was not a standard system lag; this was a total blackout.
"Something has gone wrong," Emrys muttered, his face hardening.
He had been in the Marvel universe for nearly four months, but with the fifty-fold time difference, barely thirty-six hours should have passed in real-space. However, the fleet had been transiting the Warp before his departure. In the Immaterium, time was a suggestion, and logic was a lie.
He donned his Jarnbjorn gauntlets, drew the Atropos Blade, and activated the Solus Prime plating. Fully encased in his war-gear, he crept out of the captain's quarters.
The corridors were deathly dim. The Excalibur felt less like a grand cruiser and more like a tomb.
"Solus, scan for biological signatures," he whispered.
As the armor's sensors attempted to interface with the ship's cogitators, a violent surge of feedback tore through his nervous system.
Zzzzt! Static! Screams!
Blasphemous, distorted scrap-code and the wet sounds of the Warp flooded his HUD.
"Scrap-code... Warp corruption!"
Emrys immediately severed the neural link and disengaged the armor's fusion core. He shoved the tainted belt-drive into his private stasis-vault before the scrap-code could jump to his own cybernetics. Without the protection of the Solus armor, he felt vulnerable, exposed to the predatory gaze of the Great Rift.
"Dammit," he hissed, looking down the silent hall. "Only thirty hours, and the ship is already a ghost? This is the Great Rift—the curse-scar of the galaxy. The Chaos Gods are far more aggressive here."
He advanced toward the bridge, moving with the silence of a predator. He saw no signs of "flesh-growth" or Nurgle's rot on the bulkheads, which was a mercy. If the ship had begun to breathe, it would have been a total loss.
He reached the command deck without encountering a single soul. On the main bridge, however, a figure stood over the navigation console.
Emrys's pupils constricted. It wasn't a man. It was a humanoid shape forged of dull, living metal that exuded an eerie, ancient chill.
A Necron.
Specifically, a creature draped in what appeared to be synthetic skin, its hollow eye sockets flickering with unsettling green bale-fire.
"Flayer!" Emrys roared.
He didn't wait for a greeting. He unleashed a psychic battering ram, a focused burst of telekinetic force that slammed into the metallic intruder.
BOOM!
The Necron was hurled backward, its body embedding itself in the reinforced steel wall. Green flames flickered in its eyes—not with pain, but with a palpable sense of annoyance.
Emrys didn't give it room to breathe. He knew the legends of the Necron Overlords; they were masters of space-time. He ignited a psychic pyre, bathing the metal skeletal form in flames exceeding several thousand degrees. The steel bulkheads began to liquefy, but the Necron's necrodermis remained pristine.
Emrys lunged, the Atropos Blade whistling through the air to sever the creature's head. But the blade passed through empty space. The Necron had phased into a pocket dimension, reappearing a few meters to the left.
Before Emrys could strike again, the air around him thickened. His movements became sluggish, his thoughts dragging through syrup.
A stasis field.
"Calm yourself, Emrys," the Necron said. Its voice was a raspy, synthesized metallic baritone that carried a strange, scholarly weight. "What has transpired here was not of my making."
Emrys strained against the field, his hand still hovering near his blade. "How can I trust the word of a soulless machine?"
"Because," the Necron said, dusting off its metallic chassis with an almost aristocratic flourish, "my name is Trazyn the Infinite. I am the Archaeovist of the Solemnace Galleries. I do not destroy potential exhibits; I preserve them."
Trazyn's green eyes flickered. "And if I hadn't personally repaired your Geller Field generator while you were... away, your crew would currently be screaming decorations for a Slaaneshi pleasure-den."
Emrys felt his brain stall. A Necron Overlord—the most notorious kleptomaniac in the galaxy—was on his ship. And instead of stealing the Excalibur, he had been acting as its chief engineer?
"You... you fixed the Geller Field?" Emrys asked, the absurdity of the statement momentarily overriding his combat instinct.
"It was a primitive piece of technology, but necessary for the preservation of the specimen," Trazyn said lightly. "You should be grateful. Had I not intervened, the Warp storm would have claimed your entire lineage."
With a flick of his wrist, Trazyn opened a shimmering portal to his pocket dimension. Inside, Emrys could see hundreds of his crew members, frozen in perfect stasis, unharmed but motionless.
"I found them more... manageable this way," Trazyn added.
Emrys stood dumbfounded. He had prepared for a daemon incursion, a mutiny, or a pirate raid. He had not prepared for the galaxy's premier collector to be his savior.