(This story has an outline, so I hope all you lovely readers who enjoy it will interact lots!)
"Fuck, I finally saved up enough affection points!"
Whenever he thought of the heroine of "XX Kaleidoscope" gazing at him suggestively, just as he was about to trigger a special CG.
Only for a pop-up ad to interrupt him, with the real × button always eluding his clicks.
Lynn seethed.
Worse still, his hand had slipped in the end, clicking the ad that read, "Come to the Warhammer World, enjoy a life of loyalty."
Then the pop-up shattered like smashed glass. Instead of scattering, the fragments collapsed inward, spinning into a vortex.
A seductive electronic voice came from deep within the vortex, sickeningly sweet. "May you enjoy a 'fulfilling' experience in the multiverse~"
Was this even a legitimate contract?
After that last quip, Lynn's final awareness was of being sucked out of his gaming chair into the center of the vortex.
When he woke again, a flood of information poured into his mind.
Lynn Corvana, twenty-two years old, a low-ranking tax inspector in "District Seven" in the lower levels of the Hive World Necromunda.
His parents had died in an Ork raid five years ago.
Wait, Orks? Hive City? Necromunda?
As a veteran Warhammer fan in his previous life, Lynn quickly caught on.
Had he really transmigrated into the Warhammer World?
Somewhat unwilling to accept reality, Lynn struggled to sit up, leaning against the cold wall.
He looked around. The room measured less than ten square meters, its walls bare, rust-speckled metal plates.
A hard plank bed, a table with a crooked leg, and a storage cabinet missing its door were all he owned.
Empty nutrient paste tubes and a few filthy water bottles lay piled in the corner.
A window? No, it was merely a palm-sized vent fitted with a grease-encrusted filter.
What shone through from outside was not natural light, but flickering neon that stained the room a sickly purplish red and ghastly green.
"Holy fuck..." Lynn muttered.
This actually wasn't a dream.
Everything was too real. Those memories that did not belong to him were now firmly rooted in his mind.
He could recall "himself" being reprimanded by his superior at the tax office yesterday.
He could recall the tension as "he" secretly stashed away a small sum of illicit earnings.
He could recall the cold rain on the day of his "parents'" funeral, if the acidic liquid dripping through cracks in the pipes counted as rain.
He braced himself against the wall and stood, his legs weak.
He walked to the vent and stood on tiptoe to look outside.
The sight took his breath away.
A forest of metal stretched as far as he could see.
Towering buildings crowded against one another, haphazardly pieced together from rusting steel, crumbling concrete, and thick pipes.
Overlapping platforms, suspended walkways, and crisscrossing cables formed a three-dimensional maze.
Neon signs flickered on every level, advertising cheap stimulants, mechanical prosthetics, body modifications, and the Emperor knew what illegal services.
Farther below, red light and smoke rose from an abyss his gaze could barely penetrate.
Those were the deeper levels, places where, according to rumor, even the Adeptus Arbites dared not readily venture.
The air was murky, visibility less than a hundred meters.
In the distance, two enormous ventilation towers reached upward like giants' arms.
Perhaps there was slightly cleaner air up there, but that had nothing to do with a bottom-rung tax clerk like Lynn Corvana.
Necromunda, a Hive World, the Warhammer 40K universe.
Lynn slumped back onto the bed, covering his face with both hands.
As a veteran Warhammer fan, he knew all too well what a Hive World meant.
One of the most crowded, filthy, and brutal planets in the galaxy, with tens of billions of people crammed into steel megastructures.
A rigid hierarchy, with the upper-class nobles lost in drunken luxury while the people below struggled to survive amid pollution, crime, and mutation.
This was a paradise for gangs, mutants, Cultists, and worse things.
And according to the information in his memories, the date was M41.998.
"The nine hundred and ninety-eighth year of the forty-first millennium of the Imperial calendar," Lynn said quietly.
"The Great Rift is about to tear open the galaxy, and Abaddon's Thirteenth Black Crusade is brewing,
the Tyranids' main fleets are still in deep space, but their vanguard spores have long since spread throughout the galaxy."
He drew a deep breath, then coughed as the Hive World's stench caught in his throat.
No, now wasn't the time to panic.
First, he had to find a way to survive.
He began rummaging through "his" belongings.
At the bottom of the storage cabinet, he found a wrinkled, dark gray tax inspector's uniform with a faded eagle insignia on its collar.
An old-model Laspistol, a Luger L-15, a standard-issue weapon in the lower hive, worryingly maintained, with only two power packs left.
A stack of paper documents, mostly tax arrears notices and payment demands.
A small pouch of credit coins. He weighed it in his hand; probably enough to buy a week's worth of nutrient paste.
There were also a few half-used tubes of hemostatic gel and anti-infection medication. In the lower hive, these were harder currency than money.
His memories told him he had to report to the tax office today.
Being late three times meant docked pay, and docked pay meant he might not be able to afford the rent on this kennel next month.
Then he would be evicted, end up on the streets, and cross the "kill line."
Lynn changed into the uniform and tucked the Laspistol into the nearly worn-through holster beneath his arm.
He glanced at the eternally dim sky beyond the vent and pushed open the tottering iron door.
The corridor was darker still, lit only by a few strobing fluorescent lamps.
The neighbors' doors were shut, but he could hear babies crying and men swearing inside.
The floor was greasy, sticking to his soles with every step.
Following his memories, Lynn headed toward the tax office, watching his surroundings warily.
This world held deadly threats everywhere.
Orks, Chaos Cultists, Genestealer Cults, Drukhari raiding parties, even members of the Adeptus Mechanicus gone mad...
There were far more than ten thousand ways to die in the lower hive, but one thing was certain: none of them were pleasant.
Along the way, he noticed several unusual details.
The green-glowing meat at a "meat" stall, and people along the streets constantly discussing someone or other going missing.
Disappearances were perfectly normal on a Hive World, but along this route.
The reports he heard seemed a little too frequent.
On top of that, revolting purple liquid occasionally bubbled out of the manhole covers in the streets.
Lynn's heart sank.
Purple slime, numerous disappearances, abnormal meat.
Put together, these clues pointed to one conclusion.
All the signs indicated a Genestealer infestation here-in other words, Genestealers!
Tyranid spores had already taken root in this area, and a Genestealer Cult was active.
Some low-tier Tyranid units might even have hatched already.
And the hive's bureaucracy knew nothing about it, or knew but was powerless to deal with it.
I've only just arrived, and there's already a Tyranid invasion. Damn it! Lynn cursed inwardly.
He had to arm himself, immediately.
Work at the tax office could wait. Survival came first.
In his memories, "he" knew a black-market dealer. Perhaps he could exchange his credits for better weapons and armor.
The location was a shop marked with a cog and skull, in the third passage of the "Scrap Mountain" market.
Lynn changed direction, turning into a narrower alley.
There was almost no light here, only reflected neon from far away.
The walls were covered with gang markings and Chaos Stars. The latter had been crudely scratched out, but the remaining traces were still shocking.
Lynn dared not look too long, as though one more glance would make his brain explode.
He gripped the Laspistol beneath his arm, his finger resting against the trigger guard.
At the same time, he recalled the weaknesses of Tyranid units and Genestealer behavior patterns.
And the basic rules for survival in the lower hive: trust no one, never enter a dead end, and always leave yourself an escape route.
The alley wound downward, its slope growing steeper.
A glimmer appeared ahead: the neon sign at the market entrance.
The words "Scrap Mountain" flickered, portions of their lettering missing.
When he was still twenty meters from the entrance, a premonition of danger jolted through him.
A faint scraping came from overhead.
Lynn lunged sideways, drawing his Laspistol at the same time.
A dark shape dropped from above, slamming into the spot where he had just stood. The metal floor gave a dull thud.
In a passing flash of neon, he made out the thing's outline.
Humanoid, but with overlong limbs, joints bent backward, and fingers extending into sharp bone claws.
Its head hung low, unnatural lumps bulged from its shoulders, and its spine protruded like a string of knuckles.
Most importantly, the thing's skin bore a faint, oily, chitinous sheen in the darkness.
A Genestealer hybrid mutant.
A third- or fourth-generation infected, still retaining many Tyranid traits.
"Hiss..."
A low hiss came from behind him.
Lynn rolled and turned, seeing two more identical figures emerge from the shadows, blocking his retreat.
Their eyes glowed faintly red in the darkness. Their mouthparts opened and closed, dripping corrosive saliva that sizzled on the floor.
Three whole ones. Lynn had already worked out how his soul would return to the Throne.
With his back against the wall, Lynn aimed his Laspistol at the first mutant to appear.
His heart pounded like a drum, but his thoughts were unusually clear.
These were not fully developed Genestealers. They had lower intelligence and acted on instinct.
Their carapaces probably had not fully hardened yet. A Laspistol could penetrate them.
But he had to hit a vital spot, or they could push through their wounds and leap on him to tear him apart.
"For the Emperor!"
Lynn roared, his voice trembling with either fear or excitement.
The mutant directly ahead attacked first.
It dropped onto all fours and charged like an insect, moving so fast it left an afterimage.
Lynn instinctively pulled the trigger. A crimson laser beam tore through the darkness and struck the mutant's left shoulder.
Its carapace melted through, green blood spraying, but the mutant merely staggered without slowing.
The two at his sides pounced simultaneously.
Lynn leaped aside, knocking over a pile of empty oil drums.
The rolling drums echoed through the alley.
He used that brief confusion to fire repeatedly.
One shot went wide, striking the wall in a spray of sparks. Another hit the second mutant in the leg, sending it crashing to the ground.
But the third mutant had already closed in.
Bone claws slashed down. Lynn barely managed to block with his Laspistol, its metal body screeching under the friction and taking deep gouges.
The tremendous force numbed his arm, and the gun flew out of his hand.
The mutant opened its mouthparts, packed with sharp teeth, and lunged for his throat.
At that instant between life and death, Lynn unleashed every scrap of his potential.
He drove his knee into the mutant's abdomen. As it doubled over in pain, he drew the dagger hidden in his boot.
In his memories, "he" had always kept this little knife handy for handling private business.
The dagger plunged into the mutant's eye socket, sinking to the hilt.
Green blood and gelatinous matter sprayed across his face.
The mutant let out a shrill hiss, struggling frantically.
Lynn released the dagger and scrambled away on hands and knees.
The other two mutants pursued relentlessly.
The wounded one limped, but was still far from slow.
Lynn rushed through the market entrance, knocking over a stall.
The stallholder's curses and the clatter of scattered goods caused a commotion.
He paid them no heed, sprinting toward the abandoned pipe district in his memories.
The terrain there was complicated. Perhaps he could shake them off.
He darted through the maze of pipes and passages, his lungs burning.
The footsteps and hisses behind him drew closer and closer.
He rounded a corner and found a dead end ahead: a maintenance door rusted shut, with rotting mechanical wreckage piled beside it.
"Damn it!"
Lynn pressed his back against the iron door, panting heavily.
Two mutants blocked the narrow passage, one behind the other.
They slowly closed in, savoring their prey's despair.
The wounded one licked the wound on its leg, while the other scraped its bone claws along the wall, making a piercing noise.
It's over. I'm going to die here.
Not even half a day since I transmigrated, and I'm about to become part of the swarm's biomass. How fucking ironic.
Just as the mutants came within five meters, ready to deliver the final blow...
A cheap pink pop-up burst open at the edge of his vision without warning.
[!System activated!] Host's life detected to be in danger. Launching "Even in the 41st Millennium, I Want to Fall in Love!" (trial version)~