Rosenadel jumped to his feet as he heard a pneumatic hiss and the door opposite him opened. A Tyranid walked in, stood to the side, and Arkot followed. The Tyranid guard left and Arkot sat opposite Rosenadel, who had quickly shoved his Rosette down his armour.
“Human,” Arkot acknowledged, inclining his head. Rosenadel did likewise.
“Xenos,” he replied, his tone venomous. He locked eyes with Arkot for a moment. The two sat, motionless, then Arkot opened a folder with his two lower arms.
“I would like to ask you some questions, human,” Arkot said, looking sidelong at Rosenadel while taking a pen from inside the folder.
“Why?” Rosenadel asked, his voice almost a growl. He could not believe he was being interviewed by xenos filth.
“To gauge your psychological health,” Arkot replied, looking up from a file he had pulled out. That answer surprised Rosenadel. Not only were these Tyranid sentient, but they had an advanced understanding of science also. He was slowly beginning to suspect outside involvement.
“Very well,” he sighed, examining his hands. His nails had been cut from long, dirt covered claws to manicured fingernails, more fitting of a remembrancer than a warrior.
“What date is it?” Arkot asked.
“Day two-hundred-and-thirty-three of year nine-hundred-and-ninety-eight, millennium 41,” Rosenadel answered. Arkot cocked the bony ridge over his right eye.
“What galaxy are you in?” the Tyranid asked.
“The Milky Way galaxy.”
“What race of creature are you?”
“Human.”
“Scientific designation?”
“**** Sapiens Sapiens.”
“What race am I?”
“That is debatable,” Rosenadel answered, causing Arkot to tilt his head in confusion. “You claim to be Tyranid, but you are sentient and you have no link to the hive mind. In addition, you do not have weapons grafted onto you, but clawed hands. So, logic reasons, you are no Tyranid, Arkot. You are lying.”
“Am I? You claim to be in the Milky Way. You are not. You are in the Triangulum Galaxy, NGC 598. Also, you claim it is the year nine-hundred-and-ninety-eight, millennium 41. This is also incorrect, it is the year nine-hundred-and-ninety-eight, millennium 44.” Arkot let it sink in, then added, “Tell me, why are you're answers incorrect?”
“They are not, you are lying.” Arkot sighed.
“You call me xenos. That is a term once used by the Imperium of Man. Why?”
“Because that is what you are, xenos filth. I am tasked by the Holy God-Emperor to destroy your kind.” Arkot's eyes widened, and he looked at Rosenadel's chest. He reached over, and Rosenadel moved to stop him, but the two lower arms shot out and restrained him. Arkot slid out Rosenadel's Rosette, and sighed.
“What is your name?” Arkot asked, leaning back and letting Rosenadel relax again, withdrawing his long arms.
“Lord Inquisitor Ignatius Rosenadel, Ordo Xenos,” Rosenadel answered, scowling.
“Damn...” Arkot sighed, rubbing his forehead. Somehow he managed not to slice his skull open with his razor sharp claws, but Rosenadel didn't bother figuring out how.
“What, xenos?”
“It is...as I feared. Inquisitor...I'm not sure how to put this to you...” Arkot said before trailing off.
“Say it, filth!” Rosenadel pushed, a look of anger replacing his scowl.
“The Milky Way, nor this galaxy, belong to the Imperium of Man...anymore.” Rosenadel looked like he was about to lunge, but he restrained himself.
“What do you mean? What are these lies based on?” he growled.
“They are not lies. You see, the Imperium of Man no longer exists.”