Pal Hammer

"Be my guest." Before John could finish his sentence, a laser beam sizzled through the air, and a Hammer Gang lookout's head exploded in a flash of light. Chaos erupted on the dock as gang members scrambled for cover. Marshall's rifle fired again, dropping two more. A stunned young gang member barely had time to react before an explosive round obliterated him.

John hopped off the cargo platform, crouching as he drew his bolter. With precise shots, he dispatched guards who were too slow to act, their bodies slumping to the ground amidst the booming echoes of gunfire. On the barge, large machines draped in canvas hinted at their purpose—Sentinel walkers. "Oh, they've brought the good stuff," John muttered with a grin.

Suddenly, the sharp roar of engines cut through the chaos. Three trucks barreled through the dock's gates, their metal frames smashing the landing fences aside. From their rear beds, members of the Pietist faction poured out, guns blazing. Physical bullets and laser fire lit up the dim cavern like a twisted fireworks show.

"Well, there goes my cool entrance speech," John sighed, narrowly dodging a bullet that whizzed past his ear. He ducked behind a container as a hammering spray of machine-gun fire chewed through the dock's infrastructure.

"Marshall, shut that guy up!" he barked into his comm. Almost instantly, a well-placed laser beam ended the roaring machine gunner's tirade.

As the fight raged, an Ogryn—a hulking brute of a man—emerged from the shadows, hefting a comically large machine gun. His guttural laugh echoed as he let loose a hailstorm of firepower. Bullets shredded the dock, forcing gang members to scatter like roaches. Another Ogryn appeared, wielding an oversized shotgun that blasted gaping holes in anything unlucky enough to stand in his path.

John darted between cover, dodging laser fire and stray bullets with almost inhuman agility—a testament to his augments. His body moved like a finely tuned machine, a mix of Tribunal enhancements and Mechanicus implants. Even so, he couldn't resist a dramatic roll as he narrowly avoided a shot that blew apart a wall behind him.

Eventually, he reached the dock office. One of the gang's leaders, barking orders to his men, bolted inside with a shotgun in hand. John followed, weaving through gunfire and diving into the office just as an Ogryn's shotgun blasted a hole in the wall, sending debris flying.

Inside, the gang leader frantically dialed on a comm unit. John's shadow loomed over him. The thug froze, turning slowly to face the Inquisitor's smug grin. A single bolter shot ended the conversation. "Well, guess the Emperor's smiling on me today," John chuckled, noting the severed phone line had indeed cut the gang's communications. He kicked open a back door, slipping into an alley that led to the barge.

With calculated movements, John climbed aboard the barge, dispatching crew members with precise shots as he made his way to the canvas-covered machines. Pulling back the tarp, he revealed a Sentinel walker. "Oh, you're a beauty," he whistled, climbing into the cockpit. The machine hummed to life, the Imperial Skyhawk logo flashing across its display.

Guiding the Sentinel onto the dock, John unleashed its twin lasers, carving through the remaining gang members like a hot knife through butter. Their leader, mid-command, disintegrated under the onslaught. A gang member armed with a plasma gun tried a desperate final shot, only for his weapon to overload and consume him in a fiery explosion.

As the smoke cleared, Marshall and the others regrouped on the dock, staring in awe at John atop the Sentinel. "Boss, how'd you get up there? You were right next to me a second ago!" an Ogryn asked, scratching his head.

John leaned casually on the Sentinel's frame. "Just a little quote for the day, boys: 'Only loyal plasma doesn't overheat.'" Deep underground, where darkness clung like an old, familiar shadow, the light of the Emperor's faith once shone defiantly. This Imperial monastery, now a relic buried in the core of a depleted planet, stood testament to a forgotten glory.

The inner hall stretched vast and solemn, its colorful stained-glass windows hanging high above, refracting a dark, almost eerie light from the void beyond. The glow spilled onto four massive hooded statues, their colossal forms gripping swords that seemed to anchor the very space they guarded. The towering dome above loomed like a celestial canopy, adorned with intricate lilies and the grand outline of the golden throne. Thousands of rays of light radiated from the throne's center, merging into countless prayerful sculptures, each frozen in eternal devotion, covering the dome like a sacred quilt.

Beneath this awe-inspiring ceiling, the senior members of the Pious Society gathered around a mahogany round table. A cluster of candles flickered at the center, casting restless, wavering shadows across their faces. Harry, seated at the table, sighed audibly. The president of the Low Nest Order pinched the bridge of his nose, looking like he regretted his life choices. "calm down," he said, his voice tinged with exasperation.

"Calm down?! We lost an entire shipment of scarlet pigment! A whole ship, Harry!" Bary's roar could have made the statues flinch—if they weren't carved from stone. Draped in a gray robe emblazoned with the symbol of three coiled snakes, the irate monk pointed an accusatory finger at another man at the table. "And it's all because of you, John Constantine! Your brilliant plan cost us! Not to mention that batch you practically gave away for free!"

John leaned back in his chair, a picture of nonchalance. "I thought, as a man of faith, Brother Bary, you'd appreciate the opportunity to expand our flock," he quipped with a grin.

"Expand? Ha! No! These so-called 'believers' only stick around because of the pigment! They're addicts, John! That's not faith; it's blasphemy! It's shameful!"

Harry cast a sideways glance at John, who seemed unbothered, even amused. "You do have a point, Bary," Harry said cautiously, "This approach is unstable. Though… we have gained territory and followers through it."

"Blasphemy!" Bary bellowed again, standing so quickly his chair scraped against the floor. "This chaos is sacrilege! It's throwing a herd of lost lambs into a storm and calling it salvation!" He jabbed a finger at John. "You have no faith, Constantine! You're an outsider! You don't understand our truth at all!"

"That's enough, Bary!" Harry's voice cracked like a whip. "I will not have you insulting Brother John."

Bary sat back, muttering angrily under his breath, while Harry turned to John, his expression stern. "Brother John, you need to fix this. Now."

John's grin widened. He clapped his hands and stood, the room's attention pivoting to him. "Brothers and sisters, you're right," he began, his tone surprisingly conciliatory. "Our new converts are confused, directionless. They need guidance. And yes, we suffered losses—a lot of losses. But do you know what's curious?" He started pacing slowly around the table, his boots echoing softly. "How did the Hammer Gang know about the pigment shipment? Anyone?"

"That woman! Silver Snake!" Bary's fist slammed onto the table. "She's the leak! Always lurking around you, Constantine."

John chuckled. "Miss Silver Snake is the info hub of Xia Lao. Everyone trades intel with her, even the Hammer Gang. But the question isn't who she told. It's how she found out."

Harry frowned. "Are you suggesting there's a traitor?"

John shrugged. "Could be. Though I'd bet it's not one of us. Workers from the Hammer Gang frequently visit her bar. I suspect one of them spilled the beans."

"Why wouldn't they tell Pal Hammer directly?" Harry asked.