The Warp churned—a kaleidoscope of impossible colours and screaming paradoxes. But tonight, improbably, there was a conductor in the chaos. A mad maestro. A grinning deviant whose very presence was an insult to linear thought.
The Maestro of Madness. The Joker.
His influence was not brute destruction. No, that was for amateurs. His was orchestrated absurdity—grand farce weaponized as corruption. Across the galaxy, sanity began to unravel not with howls, but with laughter. Imperial officers woke up to find their medals replaced by banana peels; Ork warbosses began speaking in rhymed verse before detonating from compressed irony; Astartes battle sermons dissolved into limericks about bolters and roses.
Each act absurd, each moment a performance. This wasn't war. This was show business on a cosmic scale.
And the galaxy was becoming his stage.
The Convergence
Deep within the Warp—beyond the reach of star charts, beyond the grip of logic—a pocket of impossible space twisted itself into being. This was no mere daemonic lair or Warp anomaly. This was a convergence point, a nexus designed by the will of Tzeentch and warped further by Slaanesh's artistry.
And at its centre floated a vast, obsidian table shaped like a broken hourglass, reflecting nothing but leering, contradictory faces.
They were gathering.
The Champions.
The ones chosen by the Chaos Gods.
Darth Vader stood silent, his form towering in ancient black armor more machine than man. Steam hissed from vents along his back, the rasp of his breath cutting through the psychic atmosphere like a scalpel. Once a Sith Lord, now a Champion of Khorne and Tzeentch, Vader walked the razor's edge between disciplined rage and unknowable purpose.
Beside him sat Dr. Henry Wu, his long coat shimmering with biologically unstable aether-tissue. The scientist looked oddly serene, sipping Warp-distilled wine while images of recombinant gene-clades danced across his skin. A disciple of Tzeentch and Nurgle, Wu represented corruption at the molecular level.
Others appeared in flickers: the burning form of Shao Kahn, muscles bulging with Khorne's fire and Nurgle's rot; the sensual, shadowed presence of Hisoka, kissed by Slaanesh and sharpened by Khorne; the spectral terror of the Witch-king of Angmar, whose scream haunted the folds of reality, bearing the seal of Slaanesh and Nurgle; and Griffith, ever composed, ever beautiful, eyes shimmering with Khorne and Tzeentch's cold ambition.
But at the head of the table, as always, sat the smallest of them.
The Maestro.
The Joker.
His outfit shimmered with colors that defied taxonomy—garish yet elegant, mocking the very concept of fashion. His grin was too wide, his eyes far too aware. He held no weapon, but reality itself seemed to lean away from him.
"Gentlemen! And... ambiguously fluid eldritch abominations!" Joker clapped his hands. The sound didn't echo—it laughed. "Welcome to the madness! Or is it a business meeting? Can't tell these days. You all look so... tense."
Vader's voice rumbled, emotionless but edged. "We are not here for your games, Joker."
"Oh, I know, I know," Joker drawled, tracing a lazy spiral in the air with his finger, creating a miniature screaming sun. "Big things are happening. Power is shifting. Portals are opening. Oh my stars and garters, it's like a grand finale and opening act all at once!"
Wu nodded slowly. "There has been a deviation. An unseen hand is moving pieces that don't belong to this board."
Griffith, ever calm, offered his own insight. "Our blessings are not fading. But they are... diluted. Reality itself resists. It is not the work of the Corpse-God. Nor the Tyranids. Something... external."
The Joker paused.
His grin faltered.
For a fraction of a heartbeat.
And then returned, wider than ever.
"Ooooooooh! Spooky story time!" he cackled, leaping onto the table and pirouetting. "Is it aliens? Time-traveling librarians? A rogue Inquisitor with authorial intent? Or perhaps... someone writing the whole script!"
A hush fell.
Even Hisoka blinked.
Dr. Wu looked up. "You understand."
"I understand narrative, darling. And I smell it—like burnt popcorn and bad reviews. Someone's editing the scene. Someone outside." He snapped his fingers. "A meta-author. An intruder! A meddler! A critic!"
Vader remained motionless, but his breathing hitched. "Then we are not the apex predators of this tale."
"Nope!" Joker sang. "We're cast. Extras. Maybe stars. But someone else is holding the pen."
The Champions looked among themselves, and for once—even here—there was no posturing. No dominance. Just quiet fear. Fear of something bigger. Stranger.
"I find it exhilarating!" the Joker declared, throwing his arms wide. "A stage with no floor! A punchline we haven't heard yet! That's comedy, kids! That's life!"
Imperium
Far beyond the madness of the Warp, in the crystalline corridors of the Webway, Cegorach watched.
The Laughing God of the Eldar leaned against a mirror that showed the Joker's reflection—though inverted and wrong, as if the Maestro had never been an Aeldari avatar, but something stranger.
He saw the truth.
The Joker was no longer merely a mortal touched by Chaos.
He had become a self-writing paradox—a singularity of meaning and anti-meaning, a walking contradiction that even the Chaos Gods could not predict.
"He's not one of mine anymore," Cegorach murmured. "He's... someone else's. Or perhaps his own."
Behind him, the infinite mirrors shuddered. Across a million reflections, the same phrase echoed: "The script is broken."
And in the stilled, hallowed chamber on Terra, where the Emperor endures on His Throne of pain and will, His thoughts stirred.
Not speech.
Not even psychic words.
Just pressure—intent—as vast as the sea of souls.
The Emperor reached out, and Cegorach answered.
"The Play is breaking".
"Indeed, old friend. And the Fool has seized the stage".
"Force will not suffice. Narrative must answer narrative".
"Then we must rewrite. Together".
Across the Weave, Cegorach began summoning stories. Realities parallel to this one. Beings not bound by the Warp's rules. Untouched by Chaos.
Viruses in the script. Antagonists to the Joker's joke.
Back in the convergence, the Champions stirred uneasily.
Vader felt the tremor in the Warp.
Dr. Wu blinked as data shifted on his palm. Constants were changing.
Griffith looked up at a sky that no longer existed.
The Witch-king hissed as his shadow stretched where it shouldn't.
And the Joker?
He laughed.
"Ooooh, I feel it! The stage lights are dimming! New actors! New costumes!" He clapped, eyes alight with genuine wonder. "I wonder if they've read the script? I hope not! Makes for better improv!"
Wu said softly, "Something is entering. Not from below. From... above."
"From the margins of the page, my dear doctor!" Joker twirled. "From where the footnotes rebel and the glossary writes back!"
A pause.
"Whoever they are... they're coming."
And the story—
the real story—
was about to begin.