Imotekh had never imagined that this insect would teleport using Necron technology! And at such close range!
He was the Phaeron of the Sautekh Dynasty, a survivor of the War in Heaven, the Stormlord who ruled Eighty Tomb Worlds. Over sixty million years, he had conquered countless star systems, slaughtered innumerable species, and witnessed the fall of the C'tan and the collapse of the Imperium.
And now, he had instinctively taken half a step back.
Just half a step.
It was such a tiny movement that even the Royal Guard beside him failed to notice. But within Imotekh's logic circuits, that movement thundered like a lightning strike.
His core processor raced, trying to find a reasonable explanation:
"A tactical withdrawal?"
"To secure a better angle of attack?"
"Avoiding a potential threat?"
But every excuse rang hollow.
There was only one truth: faced with that battered cockpit covered in rivets and graffiti, he had instinctively recoiled.
Not out of fear. The Necrons had long since discarded that primitive emotion.
It was... caution.
That was the final protocol etched deep within his logic core, the one that had kept him alive through countless deadly crises.
But that very trace of caution utterly enraged him.
"I... was afraid?"
In the next microsecond, all his emotional protocols were replaced by a more primal, purer astonishment.
The light faded.
In a manner so crude it defied all reason, that battered cockpit had planted itself right against his face.
Literally, against his face.
Less than three centimeters away.
Imotekh's visual sensors could even clearly make out the crooked graffiti on the cockpit's hull-an extremely abstract Gretchin face, along with a line written in Gothic:
"Skullhead Boss's special gift!"
Bang!
The hatch sprang open.
Imotekh's analysis module instantly scanned the cockpit's interior, then returned its results:
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