Silver Snake Jenny

Silver Snake glanced at the bottle and gave a wry smile. "Expensive taste, huh? That's a good one."

With a deft hand, John uncorked the bottle and poured her a glass. She took it gratefully, sipping slowly. posture. John poured himself a glass, grinning as they clinked their drinks together. "Not bad for a quiet night," he said, taking a long sip. 

Silver Snake crossed her legs gracefully, her silver-gray eyes gleaming with mischief. The dim orange light of the bar cast a warm glow over her, accentuating the shimmer of her bright blue evening dress. It sparkled like the Milky Way, each gradient of blue catching the light in a mesmerizing dance. The dress clung to her figure like a dream, her slender thighs barely hidden by the high slit. Silver Snake—a name that perfectly matched her ethereal aura—sat poised on the barstool like royalty incognito. "So, did you find out anything?" she asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and mild impatience. Her delicate gray-green hair fell over her shoulders, two small braids framing her face like ribbons.

Behind the bar, John leaned casually on the countertop, his chin propped up on his hand as he watched her with an amused glint in his eyes. A long black trench coat hung on the nearby rack, revealing the shirt he wore underneath. It wasn't exactly combat gear—no armor, nothing tactical—just a man confidently defying expectations.

"Have you seen enough?" Silver Snake asked, swirling the wine in her glass. Her voice had that honeyed edge that could cut if you weren't careful. "Or are you planning to stare all night?"

"Not nearly enough," John replied with a smirk, shrugging off her challenge. "But, of course, I can answer your question." He grabbed the wine bottle and poured her another glass.

Silver Snake's eyebrow arched as she noticed the holsters under his arms, each carrying a sleek laser pistol. "How many guns do you carry, exactly? Three per arm?" she quipped, sipping her wine.

John chuckled, setting the bottle down with a soft clink. "Darling, there's no such thing as too many weapons. You never know when you might need an extra."

Her lips twitched in a smirk. "And here I thought you were just a charming bartender."

"Oh, I'm full of surprises," he replied, leaning closer. "Your aim with a shotgun isn't bad either. One shot, one head—impressive for someone with your background."

"My background?" She tilted her head, a teasing glint in her eyes. "This is the underhive, John. People learn to shoot before they learn to walk."

"Oh, come on now," John said, his tone light but probing. "We've known each other long enough for you to drop the act. I'm pretty sure you didn't grow up here."

Her smile faltered, replaced by a brief moment of stillness. Then she sighed, her expression softening. "Alright, smart guy. Where do you think I'm from?"

John leaned back, arms crossed as he surveyed her. "Upper hive. You've got that polished look. Plus, you always wear a filter mask outside. People born in the upper hive can't handle the air down here. Their lungs aren't built for it."

Silver Snake—or Jenny, as she finally admitted—laughed softly. "So you've figured me out. Congratulations, Detective Constantine."

"Not quite," John replied with a grin. "But I'm getting there. Why don't you tell me the rest of the story?"

Jenny's gaze lingered on her wine glass. She swirled the liquid thoughtfully, her voice dropping to a softer, more vulnerable tone. "My real name is Jenny Johnson. My uncle's the governor of this sector. Or he was, before he staged a coup and murdered my parents."

John didn't flinch. "That's quite the family reunion," he said dryly.

"You're not surprised?" she asked, studying him closely.

"Hardly," he replied, his tone laced with sarcasm. "The Imperium's full of power-hungry relatives stabbing each other in the back. It's practically tradition."

Her lips curved into a faint smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I escaped before he could kill me too. That's how I ended up here, hiding in plain sight."

"And thriving, from the looks of it," John said. "You're more than just a survivor, Jenny. You're resourceful. And now, you've got me."

"You?" she repeated with a skeptical laugh. "What are you going to do? Take down a governor?"

John leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Inquisitor, actually. And yes, I can."

The room seemed to still. Jenny's playful demeanor evaporated, replaced by quiet shock. "You're serious."

"Very," he said, saluting with mock formality. "John Constantine, Inquisitor at your service."

Before she could respond, a mechanical voice interrupted them. David, a towering tech-priest with a body more machine than man, entered the room. "Inquisitor, the situation is worse than anticipated," David announced, his voice devoid of emotion. "The governor's forces have been compromised by Genestealers. The Hive Fleet is coming."

John's expression darkened. "Well, that complicates things," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

Jenny looked between the two men, her confusion evident. "What are you talking about? What's a Hive Fleet?"

"Imagine a swarm of locusts the size of planets," John explained grimly. "They consume everything in their path. Stars, planets, people—nothing is spared."

She paled. "And they're coming here?"

"Yes," David confirmed. "The governor's actions have drawn their attention. If we don't act fast, this planet will be their next meal."

John turned back to Jenny, his trademark smirk returning despite the dire news. "Looks like we've got our work cut out for us, doesn't it?"

She groaned, rubbing her temples. "I just wanted to survive, John. Now you're telling me I have to help save the galaxy?"

"Welcome to life in the Imperium," he said, raising his glass in a mock toast.

With a resigned sigh, Jenny clinked her glass against his. "To survival," she said, her voice tinged with weary sarcasm.

"And the Emperor's blessings," John added with a wink. Together, they drank, the weight of the universe momentarily forgotten in the haze of shared determination.

The air was electric with laughter and song in the activity hall outside the monastery. The place teemed with people: priests, monks, medics, frontline soldiers, and a throng of devoted believers. Joy overflowed from every corner, carried on waves of hymns and the pungent aroma of wine mingled with scarlet pigment.

Even the usually stone-faced monks had joined the revelry, their laughter blending with the chorus of voices. The atmosphere was so warm and jubilant it felt like it could lift the hall itself.

Marshall leaned against a porch column, surveying the jubilant crowd. They were a bit unhinged—okay, maybe more than a bit—but they had a reason to celebrate. Securing the Hammer Factory had been a monumental victory, bringing them closer to their goals: the "Great Holy War" and "Final Salvation." The battle had been a brutal affair, one he was lucky to survive.