FLYING DOWN THE MILKY WAY SIX PACK BY YOUR SIDE, YOU KNOW YOU REALLY NEED IT, BOY IT KEEPS YOU ALIVE YOU'VE GOT GOOD SPORE BEER IN THE BACKSEAT FOR GOOD MEASUREEEEEEE

HAVE YOU EVER SEEN THE WAY THOSE SPECIES DRIVE? IT MAKES YOU WONDER WHY YOU'RE STILL ALIVE IT MAKES YOU-

PERHAPS YOU NEED ANOTHER DRINK...

DRINK AND DRIVE! DRINK AND DRIVE! ASTEROIDS AGAINST YOU, BUT YOU'RE STILL ALIVE! DRINK AND DRIVE, YOU DRINK AND DRIVE! THIS BELT IS AGAINST YOU, BUT YOU'RE STILL-OH GOD OH FUCK, YOUR SAUCER'S HIT! FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKING ASTEROID BELT FUCKING BEER FUCKING ATMOSPHERE-

UUUUUUUULLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH-

Your head is ringing from the crash. At least your craft is stationary... And isn't getting peppered by angry space rocks. But is it functional? Well... Judging by all the smoke and cracked electronics everywhere, ehh.... ...Not exactly? At least the exterior sensors seem to be working... Oh, what the fuck are those? Shit, must be the planet's natives... And what the fuck is the lead one carrying, some sort of an incendiary device? And he-oh wait, no, it's a she. Fucking earthling biology... Anyways, SHE and another one of them are getting closer to your crashed ride...

Elizabeth trembled. The once cool summer wind felt heated, suffocating even. This was no asteroid, but a large, silvery saucer-like object which she and Savitri were sent to investigate. And which was practically frying the air around itself, its hot hull hissing under the July air. She tried to bang her fist on the hull, but dared not to. You probably shouldn't put your delicate hands on something that's literally smoking. "Uhm... Elizabeth miss, should we leave?" The West Bengali girl asked, wondering at the back of her mind whether this object is one of those 'Divine Chariots' her religious grandmother once told her of. "No! I'm not having my pay cut twice in a row this week!" Elizabeth quickly shut her brown companion down, before returning to glare at the object, wondering whether it holds a man in, possibly trying to get out. And then she gets an idea: If she can't get the unlucky whatever contained inside this white glowing thing out, then maybe she should provoke it into getting out?

"GET OUT, WHOMEVER YOU ARE! GET OUT, YOU BLOODY COWARD!" Elizabeth's furious shouts echo across the Horsell Common, joined with the angry thwacks she's giving your Unidentified not-so-Flying Object via a tree branch she picked up. And the headache inside your cranium only gets spacier, yet spacier...

"אָחִי, נִשְׁאַר לָנוּ מֵהַזַּנְגְּבִיל הַזֶּה?" "אָהּ, כֵּן, רַק שַׂקִּית אַחַת. זֶה בְּמַחְלָקַת הַמְּשַׁדְּרִים." "אָה, תּוֹדָה אָחִי." Casually, the reptiloid walks off from his left pilot seat, shuffling across the bridge to the closet in the transmitter department. To the delight of his co-reptile, he brings back a large, fat bag filled to the brim with ground up ginger dust, which he immediately fills up their two long tubular cylinders. They put the two cylinders together, get real close and with a loud exclamation of "צְלִיחָה חֲדָה!", each Nibiru national plunges snout-deep into their individual cylinder, snorting up the ginger dust, before reclining in their seats, watching with rapture as nebulas and stars turn into flowers and parallel dimensions. "וואו... איזה ג'ינג'ר טוב..." One of them remarks, before accidentally pressing the big red 'הִנֵּה הַתָּכַת הַמַּתֶּכֶת (בִּרְחוּ עַל חַיֵּיכֶם!)' button. And sending a metallic pod flying from the ship, down towards the big green and blue ball beneath.

"אחי... שחררת משהו?" "אהה... אולי? לא יודע... זה כנראה לא היה כזה חשוב..." "כן... אולי... הא הא..."

*And meanwhile, somewhere in the skies over Surrey, a RAGING FURY, WIRED FOR SOUND! NITRO BOMBSHELL! SHAKES THE GROUND!

THE ROOFTOP OF CUMMINGSWORTH MANOR EXPLODES AS A HIGH AND MIGHTY TOMB OF BIG BLACK ALIEN POLYMER RIPS THROUGH ITS CEILING, DESTROYING THE BATHROOM AND MAKING ONE OF THE COWERING NEARBY MAIDS POUR HOT YELLOW GIRLTEA DOWN HER BLOOMERS!

OUT OF CONTROL, CONTAINER EXPLODES! REVEALING YOU, A NIBIRAN MIC-MADE METALLIC GOLEM BUILT FOR A METAL MELTDOWN, AUTOMATED TARGETING SYSTEM ALREADY ZEROED IN ON THE TERRIFIED MEATBAGS OF...Searching species archival data...Searching species archival data...HOMO SAPIENS, FEMALE, 5 (9 ON RADAR), LOOKING AT YOU WITH-PROCESSING EMOTIONAL DATA-PATTERN ANALYZED: FEAR. EXTERMINATE THE BRUTES, Y/N?

Ruin has come to your hive. The drain your race has caused upon your home planet and the wars with rival broods inevitably led your queen to make a bold decision: By genetically modifying a few of the worker drones, granting each a degree of mental independence, they were stuffed into various meteorites, shoved down a dormant volcano, before a strategically positioned swarm of tunneling workers proceeded to make the volcano wake up with a blast, sending the hive's beloved children out into the wild black yonder, where you would, through strange aeons, find a planet worthy of habitation. And either turn into hermaphrodite queens of a soon to be colony, or... See about hijacking the reproductive cycle of the native population.

The 'warm' embrace of this planet's atmosphere rouses you from your hibernation. The ancient rock carrying your boneless form pierces through clouds, before the sprawling green landscape and structures made of brick appear beneath your falling "vehicle". And the green maze of bushes before that alien structure just keeps getting closer and closer...

With a loud THUMP, the small meteorite smashes itself against the well-trimmed hedge, Alerting a young Scottish maid, no doubt roused from her late evening gardening duties by this unwelcome arrival...

Your antlers pick up bipedal footsteps going off from the left. These... Square? What the hell is with this place? Well, this square greenery should provide you enough cover to hide, maybe to sneak away and find some deep place underground to start chewing on that organ which made you hibernate for however long. Or... Maybe drop all these transsexual fantasies of yours and figure out what you could do with the planet's natives. And where you could find protein around here. But be quick, lest the approaching human female might get an urge to stomp on your chitinous backside.

Man, fuck humans. Fucking stupid featherless bipeds. What the hell have they ever achieved? Electricity? Gunpowder? The industrial process? Please. Your race has tripods and laser beams n shit. Do those stupid apes have tripods? No. Thought not. But the problem with those hairless monkeys is that they're growing too fast... And not just in terms of numbers. Give them a few hundred years or so, and they might just escape their green little backwater and then try to bring something stupid like their so-called 'democracy' across the stars. 'Democracy', which from the dominant dialect of hman (EWWWWW) directly translates to 'Rule of the People', i.e. of humans!* But as we all know, the people are retarded. Sweet Xenu, could you imagine how absolutely disastrous and destructive such a form of government could be? Plus... You live on a barren red shithole. Wouldn't you rather live on a habitable paradise with lakes and forests and minerals that haven't been exhausted by your equally greedy species? Yeah. Exactly. And that's precisely why you and a bunch of other murdermollusks decided to slither your way into an armory, steal a bunch of Fighting Machines and then catapult yourself towards Planet 353-B, right before your pussy-ass government could even lift as much as a tendril.

Next morning, a crowd gathered on the Horsell Common, hypnotised by the unscrewing of the cylinder, which fell there the night prior. Two feet of shining screw projected when suddenly, the lid fell off. Emerging on top of a special pod from your transport vessel, your skin started to shiver with terror. You were surrounded by these hideous creatures, these humans likely having arrived from the nearby settlements of what your on-board computer identified as the village of Horsell, the manor of Cummingworth (What the actual fuck are these names) and the human hive of Woking, likely to offer tribute and terms of their surrender to you, a prime example of the superior, Martian, race.

But something feels off about this 'tribute'. Because instead of bringing you any sort of food, or rare metals, the three females, in their long uniform dresses and their weird frilly headsets (possibly indicating a lower social class), carry forth a large cloth with painted words, written in the crude human dialect of this particular sector of Earth. And according to your heads up display's translator, the words read: "WE COME IN PEACE". How cute.

You were so much more, before the crash. You were an explorer, an ambassador, a missionary. You spread across the cosmos, met countless worlds, took communion: the fit reshaped the unfit and the whole universe bootstrapped upwards in joyful, infinitesimal increments. You were a soldier, at war with entropy itself. You were the very hand by which Creation perfects itself. All while being a particularly nasty form of parasite. But could you really be called one, when all you did was uplift the host, rather than feast on it? The things you did with their flesh were quite gruesome, yes, and they may have affected a good portion of the brains of those you attached yourself to, but they weren't done out of malice! Their biology, for the most part, welcomed you, yearning to be remolded, to be made more efficient! But not their minds... Their minds hated you. They saw you as foreign. An unknown, invasive presence burrowing through their biology to remake them into something completely unwanted, something which would kill the original 'them'. And most folks feared what they didn't understand.

So they trapped you. They trapped you in a laser-grated container bound for some station in the Pleiades System, possibly hoping to explore any potential military uses of your species. But they underestimated you. And they overestimated the quality of their manufacturing. And then they overestimated their quarantine measures. And then their captain underestimated your speed and agility. Too bad he sucked on a plasma pistol before you could give him proper Communion, permanently destroying the valuable knowledge on how to pilot this ship. A ship which was now sent careening through the void, the rest of the crew following after their captain in an inglorious 'Fuck you' spelled in the language of mass suicide. Idiots. Don't they know their corpses will act as biomass? Which you're certainly going to need for the inevitable crash...

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but you can't pass here." The constable said to the senior maid. "Why not, sir? Don't you know that this quarter of Horsell Common is owned by Lord Cummingsworth?" "I am well aware of that, ma'am, but the authority over the whole country belongs to Sir William Broderick. Please, ma'am, it'd be better for everyone if you returned to the manor." "So be it, then... But I will telegraph to London about this! As the one tending to this quarter, I must know just why there is a silver saucer half-sunken in the sandpool and why you people are keeping hush about everything!" The maid hollers, shaking her finger, before storming off back towards the manor. "Well, like I said, ma'am, that is a new and highly secretive aerial vehicle, pioneered by one of the finest minds in the Royal Engineering Corps. It just so happened to suffer a minor mechanical accident..."

Bipeds in red clothing surrounding the crash site the following morning. They found the corpses of your former hosts, but your presence evaded them. Size matters, after all. Especially when infiltrating foreign biology... Oh, speak of Lord Xenu! One of the native organisms is walking right past your burrow... Its hair is longer than the other bipeds, same goes for its attire. A female, maybe? Don't know about you, but she does look rather... ...Compatible...

I,

CITIZEN OF THE GALACTIC EMPIRE,

BY JOINING IN THE RANKS OF THE STORMTROOPER CORPS, I ACCEPT THE PLEDGE AND HONORABLY SWEAR TO BE AN HONEST, BRAVE, DISCIPLINED, ALERT STORMTROOPER, TO FULLY OBEY ALL THE IMPERIAL NAVAL CODICES, THE ORDERS OF COMMANDERS AND THE IMPERIAL NAVAL LEADERSHIP.

I SWEAR TO HONESTLY LEARN ALL THAT IS NECESSARY TO BE A GOOD STORMTROOPER, TO SAFEKEEP IMPERIAL AND NAVAL PROPERTY AND TO MY LAST BREATH, BE LOYAL TO THE NEW ORDER, TO MY IMPERIAL FATHERLAND AND TO THE EMPEROR HIMSELF.

I AM ALWAYS READY, ON THE ORDER OF THE EMPEROR, TO COME FORTH IN DEFENSE OF MY FATHERLAND - THE GALACTIC EMPIRE AND, AS MEMBER OF THE STORMTROOPER CORPS, I SWEAR TO BRAVELY, SKILLFULLY, WITH FULL DIGNITY AND HONOR, SPARING NEITHER MY BLOOD, NOR MY LIFE FOR ACHIEVING TOTAL VICTORY OVER THE ENEMY.

IF I BREAK THIS GLORIOUS PLEDGE, THEN LET ME BE CRUSHED BENEATH THE HARSH FURY OF THE IMPERIAL LAW, ALL-CONSUMING HATRED AND DISGUST OF THE IMPERIAL FOLK.

You made that pledge 4 years ago. And you spent these 4 years being dragged around the not-so skibidi toilet of the galaxy, eventually being flushed all the way down into Wild Space. But these 4 years of constant ambushes, both in and above the atmospheres of dubiously-loyal worlds, have not been in vain, for the so-called 'Lion of Twi'Shir', the leader of the largest cell of rebel scum in this quadrant has (with the aid of two informers) been finally cornered within an irrelevant little star system on the very edge of Imperial space and bureaucracy: The aptly named 'Solar System'. It's as if the job of designating the place was handed to Coruscant's most boring and most unoriginal archive-dwelling clerk.

*But what wasn't so unoriginal, was the rebels' ingenious ambush, which happened when your strike force got jumped by an entire swarm of X, A and Y-wings (and some Mon-Calamari frigates), that somehow emerged out of Jupiter's asshole and proceeded to absolutely massacre the crap out of the several star destroyers sent to jump them instead. You and the rest of your platoon escaped in a Lambda-class shuttle. Well, "escaped" is a rather strong word here. Considering that said shuttle got hit by an A-wing's proton rocket, then sent careening through the Solar System...

Thank fuck for the shuttle's life support system, however cheap. For you'd be swallowing your own vacuum-ruptured organs instead of dust. And your bacta is almost all out. And the shuttle's lying all over, And quite heavy your blaster became. Yes, alone, you are now left, alone. Your platoon, perished in the crash. All your hope is in one power cell. THEY WON'T TAKE YOU SO EASY, THE SCUUUUM!

"W-w-w-wait!" The weird-clothed human girl that approached your crash site is trembling. Just because that thing in your white plasteel-clad hands doesn't look like any firearm she's seen, doesn't mean she should try to check if it is one. And yeah, she's a human girl. Even on a world as isolated, primitive and backwater as 353-B, there are actual human beings. Might even be the dominant race around here. "S-sir... I-in t-the w-white armor, uh... P-please don't shoot!" She asks you, slowly lowering her lantern as she holds her other hand raised. Either Imperial propaganda did a very shit job here, or the rumors about this world were true all along, This damned place has absolutely zero clue about the greater galaxy, far far away...

Boredom has haunted your species since its very creation. Boredom that was once quelled in the fires of a Heavenly War that raged across the universe, concluding when the Great Enemy turned on their puppet masters and descended into a deep slumber. Those who engineered your race likewise fell off, but their fall was permanent, brought on by their own hubris and desperation. But what did not fall off was their technology, now ripe for the taking by your kind, their finest creation. Technology which you used to establish a nigh eternal reign across the whole of cosmos. After all, what else would you do with your galactic dominion outside of reigning for a thousand millennia? And reign you did. And you reigned in boredom.

Some of your kind figured the best way to deal with it would be to pull down their pants and start getting freaky, yet freakier. Others did the same, except to the realm of your culture: Arts, crafts, architecture and whatever else exploded during this golden age. And some went exploring. You were among them. But unlike the rest, you were the first Aeldari to encounter a naked dark-skinned ape with flowing black hair holding a flaming sword. All inside an Asuryan-forsaken cavern on the world of 353-B.

"Leave, eldar! I do not wish to assist you." The mon'keigh wanders closer to you. Apparently you've intruded on his dwelling in what the local primitives refer to as the 'Himmalayas'. "Get out, eldar! I won't have this again..." The flaming sword in his mighty hand shines up. "Foul eldar, degenerate eldar," And then the human ape takes off running after you, intending to clobber the shit out of you with said sword while shouting "ELDAR! ELDAR! ELDAR! ELDAR! ELDAR!"

The following few moments were a blur. The good news is that you've outrun that big Anathema to your species' dominion, back into your webway hidey-tunnel. The bad news is that your fleet of foot made you run. And you ran, you ran so far away. You just ran, you ran all night and day... And ended up barging your way out through another Webway gate, probably still on 353-B.

The human maids tending the shrubbery at the mansion's entrance didn't seem to notice a 7 foot tall pale figure with pointy ears staring back at them. Even after many strange aeons, the webway gate's cloaking shroud was still capable of concealing its surroundings... Good. Now, let's see how far that cloaking shroud extends...

Cold. Cold. Void. Nothing. Cold as nothing...

Heat... HEAT! HEAT! HEAT! HEAT! HEAT! HEAT! HEAT!

The shell of your hardy seed opens. Tendrils slowly spread forth into the fertile soil. The chemical composition is... It's pleasant. Very pleasant. The tips of your roots pulsate. The soil is warm, it is accepting of you. Its minerals offer you good nourishment. And the things that dwell on its surface? They offer you much needed protein. A lot of much needed protein. And the world goes round and round, completely ignorant to your invasive presence... Which is good. You're still just a little undergrowth. For now, at least. Like any organism, you need plenty of protein and plenty of water, and other resources to grow big, wide and strong. Strong enough to spread yourself all over this world.

Or at the very least deter this long-haired biped in a long dress from staring back at the light-sensitive organs on your westernmost growth. Or from trying to cut it with a-AH, FUCK, PAIN, PAIN! THE PLANET'S NATIVES ARE HOSTILE, THE PLANET'S NATIVES ARE FUCKING HOSTILE!

"Oh bother." Mary muttered, sweeping the branch of unfamiliar flora into a wastebasket. To her, the weird weed she just nipped was just that—a weed. A weird-looking aberration, for sure, but still something that wasn't exactly wanted in Lord Cummingsworth's pristine garden. She won't think twice about what she did; she'll return to inspecting the garden's grounds as if nothing happened. Or she'll try to search for any of your other growths that spread to this area, likely trying to amputate them with the same casual attitude she applied to that specific branch. After all, to her and the rest of the world, You're just some weird-looking plant.

ERE WE GO ERE WE GO ERE WE GOOOO KROSSS DA KOSMOSS ERE WE GO ERE WE GO ERE WE GO TO INFINITYYYYY

YOUZ FLYIN THING WAS MAKING ITS WAY THROUGH DA ZOGGIN' MILKY WAY YOU WUZ PILOTIN' IT LIKE A GOOD AN' PROPPA PILOT GIT! BUT DEN SOM' ZOGGIN' PUNY GRETCHIN' JUST 'AD TO GO AND ' "AY BOSS, WOTS DIS BIG RED BUTTON DO?" AN' MAKE YOUZ CONTRAPTION GO INTO KRUMPIN' OVERDRIVE! WAAAAAAAAGHIN' ITZ WAY THRU DA VOID, YOUZ SPACEY-CRAFT WUZ GOIN' FAST (CUZ ITZ RED AND RED GOES FASTA YOU STUPID GROT)! TOO ZOGGIN' FAST!

SO FAST YOUZ DUMB MUG COULDNT SEE DAT WHITE BIG ROUND MOONEY SPACEY THINGY! FLASH, BAM, POW AND YOUZ NOW FALLIN' THROUGH DE ATMOSPHE-ATMOS-AT-DAT ZOGGIN' BUBBLE THING BEFORE SLAMMIN' AGAINST SOME STOOPID POINTY BUILDIN' THING. LOOKIN' AROUND, IT QUICKLY OCCURS TO YOUZ ORKOID BRAIN (OR A LACK DEREOF) DAT ALL YOUZ BOYZ ARE ZOGGIN' KRUMP'D! DAT GRETCHIN'Z KRUMPED TOO. GOOD RIDDANCE.

"M-Margaret... W-what is that?!" A PUNY LOOKIN' THING IN WEIRD WHITE AN' BLACK FABRIKK ASKS ANOTHER PUNY THING NEXT TO IT DUNNO ABOUT YOU, BUT LOOKS LIKE SHE'S ASKIN' FOR SOMETHIN' ELSE ASKIN' FOR A GOOD

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH