The Trash Returned from Warhammer

Summer, 2015. Neo Tokyo-2.

The scorching summer wind stirred the leaves, echoing through the city in unison with the irritable drone of cicadas. It was the break of dawn, traffic was gridlocked, and the cacophony of horns blared one after another.

Vibrant students walked along the road, occasional laughter and playful shouts drifting through the air. Yet, on the second floor of an apartment building by the roadside, a youth with black hair and black eyes, possessing delicate features, silently watched it all.

He was about fourteen or fifteen years old, at the age where he should have been joining the throng of students heading to school. Instead, he simply observed, his gaze steady and cold—far exceeding what his age should permit.

”Confirmed: I have lost my final memories.

Confirmed: This is the real world, not a hallucination caused by warp corruption from overusing psychic powers.”

The boy closed his eyes, and a massive flood of memories came rushing in.

In his mind, he had become a towering powerhouse: two hearts, three lungs, 2.4 meters tall, encased in heavy armor. He held a bolter and a power sword, engaged in endless slaughter across a chaotic galaxy.

Xenos, mutants, Orks, Chaos Daemons—the boy could not count how many aliens he had slain. To this day, the sensation of a chainsword cutting through flesh and bone lingered in his palms.

’In the name of the Emperor, defend the Imperium. Bathed in blood, we do not rest until death.’

His heart beat heavily, and the blood throughout his body boiled. He touched his forehead, where there had once been several silver service studs.

”And then... I came back? How did I return?”

The boy opened his eyes and turned his head to look at the full-length mirror nearby. The self in the mirror was delicate and slender, even showing a hint of listlessness. There was no power armor with scarlet paint; instead, he wore a white shirt and black trousers, a picture of weakness.

More, older memories flooded his mind. He recalled the past of being abandoned by his father, a boy living every day in self-denial.

These were painful memories, yet they accounted for less than one-tenth of his total memory. They seemed important, yet were not worth mentioning.

The summer wind pouring in through the window felt so real, and the exasperating drone of the cicadas rang in his ears. He stared blankly at himself in the mirror as his solidified brain slowly began to turn, bridging the two sets of memories.

”I am Shinji Ikari, living in Neo Tokyo-2. One day, while preparing for school as usual, for some reason, I traveled to the 41st Millennium, became an Astartes, and served in my Chapter for over a hundred years...”

Long-term training made rational thought almost an instinct. The two vastly different lives finally found their sequence. Shinji blinked incessantly, looking at his fair, weak hands. It was as if he had just had a long, bloody, and chaotic dream, and he couldn’t regain his senses for a long time.

’A dream?’

The dream was too real and too long; it occupied the vast majority of his memories and life. He even found it difficult to recall the despair, pain, and confusion of when he first arrived in 40K, because after the service studs were implanted, those initial struggles had long since been forgotten.

”No, that was definitely not a dream! Or rather, this place is the one that feels like a dream!”

Shinji looked back at the noisy street. Those weak mortals, those vehicles without any sense of high technology—they were the dream.

’Where is my power armor? Where is my chainsword? Where are the hive cities that pierced the clouds? How is it that the people here show no trace of mutation or modification?’

He slowly covered his head, struggling to understand the situation. He felt as if he had fallen into an illusion woven by Tzeentchian scum; he needed the cover fire of his battle-brothers.

But no Astartes burst into the illusion with bolters blazing; no Librarian’s psychic intervention brought salvation. After a long time, he lowered his hands, feeling the warm summer wind passing through his fingers.

The pain vanished from his face, leaving him as calm as ever.

’But this is the real world. I have spent two full days confirming this. Shinji Ikari, you must not waver without cause.’

His body had gone from strong and powerful to weak and fragile, but his thought patterns were deeply ingrained. Under this mindset, he wondered why he went to the distant 41st Millennium, and why he returned—

”Everything is the guidance of the God-Emperor.”

Shinji crossed his hands over his chest, left fist pressed against his heart, right hand covering it, and softly recited a prayer.

There was no need for confusion. Regardless of the despair or chaos he found himself in, the Emperor would always provide the way.

This was the mark left on him by countless prayers during his service. The power of faith had carried him through the despair of transit; when encountering something he couldn’t understand, praying to the Emperor was never wrong.

”Then things are simple. Guided by the Emperor, I have returned home. He must have a mission for me, and I am still in service.”

Absolute firmness replaced his confusion. He stopped looking at himself in the mirror and stopped looking out the window. He returned to the table, looking at the coffee cup. A pale light emerged in his eyes, and the liquid in the cup stirred as if by an invisible hand, swirling into a vortex.

”Emperor protect us. Although I have lost my Astartes body, I have brought back my psychic powers. It is a pity they are much weaker than during my service.”

As a former Chapter Librarian, psychic power was his primary weapon. This proved that the century-long crusade was no mere fever dream.

’So what is the mission for my return? How should I use the Emperor’s gift? The essence of a psyker is a tether to the Warp. Why was I allowed to keep my psychic powers?

Could it be that this place also has a sea of souls (the Warp) where mental energy takes form?’

Countless questions circled his mind. Shinji tapped his fingers lightly on the table. Suddenly, his ears twitched; he heard footsteps approaching outside the door. Instinctively, he drew a dinner knife from under the table.

In the past, he would have known nothing, but over the last two days, he had discovered he was under close surveillance. There were always armed men with poor disguises loitering nearby.

Indeed, he was weak now, but relying on his remaining psychic power and combat experience, he could slaughter dozens of people even with a pencil.

Ding-dong.

”Shinji-kun, please open the door.”

A young man dressed like a delivery worker stood outside, waiting impatiently for a long while. Suddenly, the door opened a crack, and the youth with delicate features revealed half his face.

The man froze, actually feeling a trace of danger, as if he would surely die if he made a rash move.

’How is that possible? He’s just a stinky kid who is a bit shut-in.’

He sneered, yet instinctively looked around. The people delivering newspapers and milk also glanced over quietly before continuing their work.

Shinji saw this entire scene. During the two days he had spent locked inside confirming his situation, these armed personnel had become increasingly numerous.

He leaned his entire weight against the door, holding the dinner knife behind his back, and asked calmly, ”What is it?”

”Oh, you have some mail. Please sign for it.” The man opened his leather bag, taking out a letter while speaking casually: ”Shinji-kun, are you sick? You haven’t stepped out for two whole days.”

”How do you know I haven’t stepped out for two days?” Shinji asked, frowning, while lamenting the man’s incompetence. As the man took out the letter, Shinji had already caught a glimpse of a metallic luster inside the bag.

It was a primitive kinetic weapon.

”Uh, my younger brother is in the same class as you. Forgot?” The man was momentarily tongue-tied, the sense of danger intensifying.

’Was that a thing?’

Shinji had no time to recall such trivial matters. He took the letter and slammed the door shut.

’You jerk, you were supposed to get my receipt!’

The man was somewhat helpless, yet felt a strange relief. He shrugged toward his colleagues and pressed his communicator.

”Package delivered. But this brat is a bit strange. How could his personality change so much after being cooped up for two days?”

”Probably just a case of ’Chuunibyou’. Kids his age are always hard to figure out.” The superior’s reply came through the earpiece, tone relaxed. ”Proceed as planned. If there are no signs of him heading to Neo Tokyo-3 within the day, switch to the backup plan. Thank God, this boring job of babysitting a brat is finally coming to an end.”

While a group of agents complained, Shinji leaned against the door, listening to the receding footsteps, and put the dinner knife back.

’Confirmed: These incompetent armed men harbor no malice. Are they actually protecting me?’

He relaxed slightly. Many things that were hard to explain in the past now had answers—such as why someone would always jump out to help when he was bullied at school, or the time he was robbed by thugs and several ”good citizens” suddenly appeared to act with righteousness.

”Is everything I do under surveillance? And this is the reason.”

He tore open the envelope. It contained only a single sentence:

[Come to Neo Tokyo-3. I have something to ask of you. Once you arrive, contact this person; she will come to pick you up.]

So concise and to the point—more like an operational order from a Captain of the Chapter. But when Shinji looked at the signature at the end, his expression turned complex.

[Gendo Ikari].

Some not-so-wonderful memories surfaced. The image of a thin-faced man wearing square-framed glasses emerged in his mind, causing ripples in his calm heart.

Some fear, some longing, some conflict, and a hint of resentment.

’Father...’

Shinji took a deep breath, and then, forcibly erased those memories.

”The weight this person occupies in my life is less than a tenth. An Astartes only has his Primarch as a father. However, this does remind me of a few things.”

His gaze became rational and firm once more. If he remembered correctly, Gendo Ikari worked for a secret organization. He had abandoned Shinji when he was very young. His teachers said his work was to protect humanity and was extremely important.

’Protect humanity? What kind of thing is threatening the survival of humanity?’

Shinji smelled the scent of destiny. It was as if he had found direction in his confusion.

He pulled a photograph from the envelope. It depicted a woman with long deep-blue hair, stunning looks, wearing a loose T-shirt with a noticeable cleavage—quite in the style of Slaanesh.

’Misato Katsuragi?’

He memorized the name, glanced at the short letter again, leaned against the door, and closed his eyes.

’How to proceed?’

If it were the old Shinji, he would probably be mired in the conflict of meeting his father, and wouldn’t have the courage to step out the door without wasting half a day.

But now, it only took three seconds. Shinji opened his eyes, hoisted the luggage he had already packed onto his back, opened the door, and stepped into the sunlight.

His thin body stood straight, his gaze cold and resolute. He did not look like a boy, but like a warrior returning to an endless battlefield after a brief respite.

What he brought back from the distant 41st Millennium was not just psychic powers, but—

A heart of steel forged in blood.