The Warp shimmered like a curtain of flame and madness, and within its folds, a chuckle resonated, echoing through the chaos. The Joker walked alone across a void-borne platform of obsidian, laughter reverberating around him like a haunting melody. This realm was his creation, shaped by imagination and insanity, yet stabilized by Tzeentch's guiding touch. It wasn't the laughter of joy; it was the echo of madness sharpening its blade.
He had a mission now.
Not one the Gods had ordained.
Not one he'd explained.
Intel.
Every Legion. Every flaw. Every potential schism. The beginning threads of the play unfolded before him, and he grinned.
**The Sons and Their Shadows**
The Joker began with the Luna Wolves. The favored sons. The golden boys. Horus was the pinnacle—but the cracks had already begun to show. Whispers in warpspace, the pressure of expectation, the jealousy of brothers. Joker's lips curled in amusement at the irony.
"Pressure makes diamonds… or madmen," he giggled, savoring the thought.
He learned about Maloghurst the Twisted, loyal to Horus to the bone. Weak of body but strong of whisper. The perfect infection vector. Then there was Garviel Loken—idealistic and upright, a toy soldier begging to be broken. And Abaddon… ah, the First Captain. Rage and loyalty in equal measure, a furnace begging for fuel.
**The Angel and the Artists**
The Blood Angels. Ah yes, Sanguinius—too perfect. Joker loathed perfection; it was boring. But even here, he saw rot beneath the marble.
"Captain Raldoron, voice of reason. A valuable tether—worth cutting," he noted. "And Azkaellon, captain of the Sanguinary Guard. Loyal and pure. A test subject for corruption's failure?"
He marked Meros, too. "The future host of something hideous. Too pure? Or a ticking time bomb?"
**The Wolves Who Howl**
Space Wolves. Joker snorted. Brutes in pelts with pride to spare. But even they had secrets.
"Bjorn the Fell-Handed. A young warrior now, destined for something ancient. How interesting," he mused, marveling at fate's cruel sense of humor. "And Geigor Fell-Hand? Temper and blade in one. And their Rune Priests… wielders of unapproved sorcery. Tzeentch would be very interested."
**The Hidden Sons**
Then, he grinned wide at the thought of the Alpha Legion.
"You boys wear masks too? How adorable!"
Alpharius—or was it Omegon? It didn't matter to him. He wasn't ready to tangle with those snakes yet. But he took note of Ingo Pech and the mysterious Dantioch. Plans within plans—Joker loved it. Chaos would struggle to contain the Alpha Legion. But maybe… just maybe… they didn't want to be contained.
**Iron Within**
The Iron Warriors bored him. Too practical. Too efficient.
"Where's the flair?" he asked, his voice dripping with mockery as he envisioned Perturabo's scowling visage.
But even machines have cogs to twist. Barban Falk, the Warsmith—a strategist with bitterness brewing inside him. And Kyr Vhalen, a prophet of chaos in iron form. One to watch closely, indeed.
**The Flame's Silence**
Joker encountered nothing from the Salamanders. Only stillness. No names. No faces. He tried to dig deeper—and something pushed back. He giggled, the sound resonating through the void.
"Oh, I'll save you for later," he said, relishing the mystery.
**The Crooked Sons**
He lingered long in the warp-trails of the Thousand Sons. His own gifts from Tzeentch trembled at the proximity.
"Ahriman. Arch-sorcerer in the making," he noted, marking him like a flame on wax. "Phosis T'kar. Temperamental. Hungry. And Khalophis, the philosopher. Joker would love to break his mind."
But it was Magnus who intrigued him most. Pride and guilt, love and fury. His fall was inevitable, and Joker wanted front-row seats for that spectacle.
**The Unspoken Two**
The II Legion remained silent—not even whispers. The XI left only burning coals and a warning from Tzeentch himself.
"Not yet, little jester. Not yet," he mocked, a wry smile on his lips.
**The Rest of the Gallery**
He mapped every Legion:
*Dark Angels: Lion El'Jonson—paranoid and divided.
Iron Hands: Ferrus Manus—firm, brittle. Jokers loved shattering brittle.
White Scars: The Khan—freedom incarnate. Could be swayed if chaos offered the illusion of choice.
World Eaters: Khorne's playground. Angron was already half-broken.
Word Bearers: Oh, how Joker smiled at Lorgar, the preacher. The first true traitor. But could he preach laughter?
Raven Guard: Stealth. Sadness. Corax hid a shattered soul.
Imperial Fists: So noble. So stiff. Dorn's pride was a blade begging to be dulled.
Death Guard: Plague-ridden future. Mortarion was already rotting in the soul.*
Each Legion, a game piece. Joker was setting the board.
**What He Would Not Say**
Of the II and XI… he wrote nothing. He told nothing. Even to the Gods.
Not yet.
Secrets were power. And the Joker—he was starting to enjoy this role.
**His Thoughts: Painted in Chaos**
He stood at the edge of his realm, staring into the reflection of the Materium. Planets turned. Warships moved. Primarchs lived. And war brewed like laughter in a lunatic's throat.
He clutched a small, violet crystal, shimmering with stolen whispers—his data, the foundation of madness.
"I wonder…" he whispered, voice teasing the edge of sanity. "If I lit just one match, how long would it take to burn down a galaxy?"
The Gods watched.
Slaanesh licked its lips, eager for the chaos.
Tzeentch smiled from a thousand faces, reveling in the intrigue.
Nurgle sighed with indifference, the rot beneath him a dull ache.
Khorne scowled, eager for bloodshed, his thirst unquenched.
They didn't understand. Not yet.
This wasn't their game anymore.
Not entirely.
The Joker was a wild card.
And the deck was rigged.