Dreams are a weird thing.

I had a weird dream just the night before I wrote this, possibly because of my current Cody/Sierra thing, which is now my new One True Pairing. (I'm a sucker for Huge Girl Tiny Guy.) For some reason, because I was busying my mind with that sort of thing, I had Total Drama dreams. I have NO idea what they were about, but for some reason, it shifted towards the end of me living with complete strangers with hostile intentions and for some reason there was a pool involved.

Anyway, for some reason, me in the dream was watching reruns of a season of Total Drama that never was, and the end credits featured, among other people, Rossiu from Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann. The dream-me felt compelled to explain to my dream foes who Rossiu actually IS and why it's cool that he should be there. (Even in my dreams, I refuse to shut up and stop explaining everything to everyone.)

When I woke up, due to dream logic, I was absolutely convinced that Rossiu somehow had a bit role in Total Drama somewhere. I realized the truth, of course, but this plot bunny stuck in my head:

'What if Rossiu was in Total Drama? What if something happened to push Sierra and Cody more firmly together? And what if I put Orks in it too? And the break-out guy from Gurren Lagann?'

Thus, I came up with this crossover of Gurren Lagann, Total Drama and Warhammer 40,000. Probably other stuff later on.

Let the chaos...commence.

Disclaimer: I don't own Gurren Lagann, Total Drama Island, or Warhammer 40, 000, or any other series that may show up later on.


It is the 41st Millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.

Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amonst untold billions. It is to live in the cruelest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

-Pretty much everything you need to know about Grimdark in general and Warhammer 40,000 in particular

"Mark my words! This drill will open a hole in the universe! And that hole will be a path for those behind us! The dreams of those who've fallen! The hopes of those who'll follow! Those two sets of dreams weave together in a double helix! Drilling a path towards tomorrow! And that's Tengen Toppa! That's Gurren Lagann! My drill is the drill...THAT CREATES THE HEAVENS!"

-Simon the Digger, Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann

"Go, then. There are other worlds then these."

-Jake Chambers, The Gunslinger, effectively paraphrasing stuff that's gonna happen later here


It is said that history repeats itself.

This is because people are very good at pointing out the stupidly obvious.

However, sometimes it gets a bit more...intricate than political matters or what-have-you. Sometimes it's more personal.

Sometimes a man becomes the same sort of man he was in another life, even though it makes absolutely no damn sense at all for it to be like that.

It's weird but, say the philosophers, that's life for you.


Somewhere in the deepest parts of Canada...

It was a good mysterious bunker.

You didn't get bunkers like this very often. You had to go to some lengths to make them like this. No, this was a proper 'so deep a bomb'll just nick it, steel walls under a dozen feet of solid rock, snow practically covering the whole thing' kind of bunker.

It had, at some point in the past, been a military installation by a fringe branch of the Canadian government that had spared no expense in constructing a super-awesome bunker of DOOM in their mysterious and evil plot to take over the world. Then they realized that taking over the world through military might was impractical, stupid and a waste of time, so they turned towards a more lucrative means of doing so: reality TV.

(The man who made this happened insisted that a demon with snake-eyes named Crowley had given him the idea. No one believed him, at least outside of the owner of a small bookstore elsewhere, but he wasn't precisely human so it didn't count.)

This, for the curious, was the origin of the extremely successful reality TV show known, through it's various seasons as Total Drama Island, Total Drama Action (which had flopped big time) and Total Drama World Tour. Inside the deepest part of the bunker, big important things were happening.

Or, to be more accurate, the sadistic and possibly sociopathic host of the Total Drama series, Chris MacLean, was doing what he was most famous for besides tormenting his hapless contestants, indulging in absurd levels of narcissim and becoming increasingly paranoid about eight-pointed shapes: harrassing the interns.

The setting of such nastiness was what had probably been a war-room in the bunker, for important political people to adminster the business-end of war from safety. The tables had been removed and all kinds of stuff put in, and among them were three booths near the vault-type security door, these booths being the same sort as used on singing audition reality series.

"No, no," Chris said; he was a handsome strong-chinned light-skinned man with dark hair and a slightly worrying grin, wearing his trademark blue button-up shirts and brown slacks. In deferrence to his own awesomeness, he was sitting with his feet on the booth, one shoe in kicking range of the button. "That's not how you swing those fish. More in the wrist! Move a little more! Ooh, watch out for the-" There was a sound of breaking water, a loud snapping, and a girlish scream. "Eh, never mind. We hardly knew ye...er, whatever your name was."

"Not that this isn't funny," Said Blainely, a voluptuous woman with long blonde hair and a attitude more appropiate to a dead prune. "But isn't there a word for this kind of thing, um, thinking of it now, starts with 'ill', maybe a bit 'mur', oh, that's right, 'illegal' and 'murder'!"

Chris shrugged. "Eh, no big deal, we'll just get them back with clones and junk."

"...We have cloning technology."

"Sure we do. We're Canadian."

A moment passed as they silently acknowledged that, as Canadians, they were the unknown lords and masters of the world. Cloning technology was the least of their wonders. (The day when a foolish nation tried to conquer their country only to be faced by fifty-foot-tall killer robots with heat vision was soon to dawn...)

"PUT YOUR BACKS INNA IT!" Roared Chef Hatchet, a huge, alarming and mildly deranged black man wearing a chef's attire (though it was a matter of some dispute if he actually was a chef); his booth appeared to have been seriously damaged by the way he kept slamming on the button. "Swing harder! Knock somebody down already!"

Their attention was being directed at the horror in the middle of the room.

Picture a tree. A very large tree, a good-sized redwood that was still small enough to fit into the room. Picture this tree being supported by a complicated array bolted to the ground, it's roots spread into what is unmistakably an aquarium; it is unmistakable because there are quite a lot of sharks swimming in there, with laser-beam blasting things on their heads.

Picture that, on top of the array holding the tree up, there is a series of crosswalks made of quite fragile wood. On top of these, about six or so interns were fighting each other at the behest of Chris, Chef, and Blainely (who had been recognized for her cruelty, narcissim and personality disorders by being declared an executive producer of the Total Drama series to come). This fighting was done with live sword fish that had, for some unknowable reason, been genetically engineered with dagger-like scales and two heads. Also, a sword-bill that resembled an organic chainsaw. For reasons that tended towards being a sadist, Chris had tasked them to cut down the mighty tree in front of them before the others did with the fish while avoiding getting lasered or eaten by sharks, and incidentally knock the other interns off if they could. (Chris would cheerfully admit that there was no real point to this challenge, since it involved cutting down a tree with a fish, so it likely wouldn't make it as a challenge into Total Drama Reloaded, but he was bored, there was money lying around, and it was either this or making them do an obstacle run for a shrubbery and he wasn't quite sure what a shrubbery actually was.)

Also, there was, of course, an exterior motive.

Someone hit the water after being pushed off in a panic; the sharks came in, there was a pause, and then he was violently hurled out of the water. (Given that the other interns that had fallen in were generally still in there but in a lot of pieces, he was pretty lucky there.) Chris raised an eyebrow. "...Huh."

"They didn't want me," Complained the intern, a dorky looking redhead with a huge nose named Billy.

"And we don't either," Blainely said, pressing down her button. "You're out! To the underground operations with you!"

A trapdoor appeared under Billy and he fell with a less-then-noble cry of "WHEEEE!"

The trapdoor slammed behind him with a terrible finality. "Ahem," Said one of the other interns. "Are there really underground operations?"

"Sure," Chris said, not sounding overly concerned. "Whatever." He picked a bit of bread and threw it into a nearby cage where a horribly ill and feral boy was shrieking and banging at the bars.

"...Why do we still have that Ezekiel kid here again?" Chef said, trying not to stare.

"Because no one said I couldn't and I always wanted a pet!" Chris threw some more bread at Ezekiel.

One of the interns, a young and vaugely Asian boy with a solemn face and dark hair tied back in a ponytail, knocked another intern off the side of the crosswalks, dooming him but at least it wasn't the sharks. He looked at the tree, at the fish in his hands, and reconsidered.

An impossible task, he considered, is not impossible when you look at it from the proper angle.

Chris, gleefully grinning at the horror under his control, was having an awesome time. He grinned. "So, Blainely! What's the latest on the old-school contestants? It's been half a year said the World Tour, something good's gotta have happened."

Blainely stared. "...Why do you care?"

Chris grinned evilly. "I got an idea. For another show."


"What do you think this intern thing is for? I need some guys to do stuff on it, and picking them myself is boring, so...this happens!"

"Huh. I thought you were just being a sadist."


"Well," Blainely said, remembering some of the stuff she'd heard from Celebrity Manhunt. "I-" There was a ripping, roaring, loud sound. "The hell?"

There was a even louder noise; this is to be expected when a redwood is cut in half and falls over to crash most of an aquarium, to the surprise and shock of the sharks residing in that aquarium.

Behind the stump was the solemn-looking intern. Sawdust whirled around him like a storm. In his hand was a chainsaw. "I cut the tree down," He said evenly. "I believe...I have won."

The three judges stared. "...Is he allowed to do that?" Chef muttered to Chris.

"No one said I couldn't," The intern said.

"Yeah, gotta remember that later," Chris said. "Uh, okay...yeah, you win. I think?" He waved at the rest. "You guys get on out of here-"

"FREEDOM!" The interns and sharks shouted, running right through the nearest door. Right over Chris, as a matter of fact. "Ow," He said.

He got up, and the intern slowly walked over to him. He still had the chainsaw, and a really disturbing blank expression. "Uh, hi," Chris said.

The intern stared politely at him.


The intern continued to stare at him.

Chris blinked.

The intern, again, kept staring.

"...Could you put down the chainsaw? Please?" The intern did so. "Okay, uh...um..." Chris never bothered to remember the intern's names. "Your name's...uh...Mitsuki?"









"Sir," The intern said, somehow saying so politely that it came back the other side a grave insult. "Perhaps you could look at my nametag?"

Chris frowned and decided to make this intern do some sort of horrible challenge later. "...'Rossiu Adel'? Your name's Rossiu?"


"Uh, I'm not a grammer Nazi or anything, but shouldn't it be spelled like Rousseau?"

"How did he prounounce the grammer?" Blainely asked Chef, who shrugged.

Rossiu frowned faintly, and shrugged; he didn't know either.

Chris appeared to consider. "Aren't you a little young to be an intern?"

Rossiu, who appeared to be at most in his mid-teens, shrugged. "Yes. Yes I am."

"Eh." Chris leaned forward a bit, grinning like a hyena. (The fictional sort, not the real ones, which get a bad rap these days.) "So I was thinking about doing a show with the old contestants..." He explained his proposal to Rossiu. A zeppelin was involved. As were hidden cameras, the promise of ratings and a slight hint of 'I am gonna make you pay for stuff'.

Rossiu, figuring that it really didn't matter what he said, nodded. "Very well."

Chris grinned. Rossiu, a feeling of certain doom dawning on him, twitched.


Somewhere quite a long ways away...

Space is big. Like, really really big. You think it's a long way from your house to the shopping plaza, but that's nothing to space...

Introductions to the vastness of space go on like this quite a lot. Frankly, there is no accounting for how absurdly big the universe is. So the rational brain simply deals with it by, basically, not dealing with it. It pretends the universe is something nicer and easier for the sane brain to comprehend, puts the concept of 'existence' into a neat little box so it doesn't frighten anyone.

In the same vein, no one wants to think about what a multiverse is in terms of bigness.

Somewhere by a distant dead planet, space shudders and spits out a small ship that doesn't look like it should even had gotten off the ground.

It's big, and looks a lot like a flying box. A big metal box welded and riveted and soldered together and painted blue. For luck, possibly. Huge engines at one engine propell it, spitting green fire in spite of the fact that it's the vacuum of outer space and there's nothing to burn. Weapons protrude from every surface. Massive, gigantic versions of gatling guns, cannons, rocket launchers, and stranger things that glow with plasma and forces that frankly shouldn't exist.

The very universe ripples around it; the raw consensus of collective reality descending upon this ship that is powered by the raw belief of it's occupants and realizing that physics is peanuts next to the power of belief, no matter how absurd.

Inside the ship, it is anarchy. Great green lumbering brutes, misshapen yellow fangs in their jaws and eyes glowing red, swarm throughout; a lot of them are doing the tasks that keep the thing running, others are doing maintenence, but this doesn't last long, and upon a predetermined signal, they rush into what could, with some heisitation, be called the bridge of the ship.

The monstrous creatures gather together in a green tide in front of what they have built to be a vauge resemblence of a podium but is more accurately a massive speaker standing on top of a broken statue's base, and there is in turn a throne made of pillows-over-scrap rammed into the speaker's front.

The brutes paid attention as the man sitting in that throne grinned down at them and stood up. "Oy, BOYZ!" He screamed, speaking in a bizarre parody of a working-class English accent.

"BOSS!" They roar back.

"Where da hells is we, huh?"

The brutes rose up as one to answer, paused, and fell back. A small one raised his hand and said, "I dunno."

Grumbling signaled that the small one had a point. "Da grot's right," The man in the throne said. "We don't know where da hells we is...


The monsters cheered in a massive roar. It didn't really matter what anyone said, they would have probably cheered, but for this man...he was special.

He wasn't just a Warboss. He was da Boss.

"We just went and stomped da Chaos Boyz!" The man said. He was hardly a man in age; a young adult, at best. Limber and built for speed, not yet with the bulk of a full-grown man, he nevertheless had a presence that seemed to imply immense form, vastly greater than any of the monsters listening to him, enraptured.

"We stomped 'em good! And da ones we left got mopped up good by the humie boyz! Dat world they ran like da squigs dey are? Ain't GONNA SEE DER UGLY MUGS AGAIN! COZ' OF US, DAT WORLD'S FREE!" Green tattoos wrapped across most of his body, perhaps in imitation of the creatures in front of him; over his shoulders and on his back and around his arms, mostly twisting curves, and the overall effect was of emerald spirals curving around his skin.

"And free's good, boyz! Free's da first thing da other's gotta get before they can see da light and start gettin' good an' ORKY! And what's da best thing for dem 'till every'un's as good an' Orky as us!"

"SHOW 'EM DA RIGHT AND PROPPA!" Shouted the monsters in front of him, like an army to a hero, or worshippers to an avenging god.

The man grinned. Implausibly blue hair backlit his scarred face, a shock of sky-hued color, and the orange rock cut into a V-shape and polished until it was translucent. (It wasn't supposed to work like that, but this man didn't care about trivial things like 'the laws of physics'.) "Dat's my boyz! SO! You knows what we gonna do! We're gonna ride da Warp! We're gonna take the Chaos and shove it's head back up it's own ass and beat it 'till dem half-rate Chaos boyz and der lame gods see dat GORK AND MORK are coming to rip 'em new ones, and we'z gonna clear da way for GORK AND MORK! We's gonna go to every star in the sky, we'z gonna find what's wrong on the da worlds we see, and we're gonna STOMP DA WRONG FLAT!"

In his other hand was a beautiful monstrosity, like a chainsaw but grafted to a hilt, a spike-studded grim around his hand, the blade of the thing wider than he was and certainly taller. Yet, he lifted it as though it weighed no more than a feather. He pulled the trigger, and the machine's roar echoed the roaring soul of his every word.

"We're gonna save da whole damn multiverse!" The man yelled.

"WOO-YEEAH!" The monsters roared.

The man removed the V-shaped translucent stone from his eyes. One of his eyes was as red as any of the monster's before him. The other, though...the pupil had spun out into an ever twisting spiral, glowing with a glorious green light. The light of his soul; the light of a will that would break a fallen universe and put it back in a better shape.

He grinned.

"WHAT'S WE GONNA DO!" He asked his monstrous brethern.

"SHOW DEM DA RIGHT AND PROPPA!" They roared at him, with such insane enthusiasm that a few of them picked up the guy next to him and clubbed the guy in front.

The man revved his weapon, a chainsword. "AND WHO'S DA ONE YOU'S GONNA FOLLOW TO DO DAT?"

"DA BIG BOSS!" They shouted back.

The man's chainsword revved, a roar as loud and primal as a dragon's. "AND WHAT ARE WE GONNA SHOW DA MULITVERSE 'FORE WE'RE DONE!"

As one, they shouted, "DA BIGGEST WAAAUGH EVER!"

The man roared with them. "DEN WHAT ARE YA WAITING FOR, BOYZ! WE'S GOT WORK TA DO!"

He, and the monsters, his brothers, roared as one. "WAAAAAUGH!"

The universe trembled as a field of belief, a self-sustained force of unreality rocketed their ship outwards.

If one cared to listen, they could hear a mighty chant from the ship. "'Ere we go, 'ere we go, 'ere we go! 'ER WE GO!"

The WAAAUGH! went on.


Some days later, on Earth proper, somewhere in Canada...

A teenager, brown-haired and rather small, stared up into the night sky.

Something seemed...off.

The teen, who was named Cody, tilted his head, trying to determine what he was looking at.

A somewhat older dark-skinned girl with a rather gaudy hairstyle standing next to him did the same thing, but she seemed more interested in just doing it; she hummed loudly as she tilted her head more enthusiastically. Where the boy was small, she was a lot bigger in quite a lot of ways; she was very tall by most standards, curvy, and she was simply a lot bigger than Cody was. She tilted her head too far, and her odd hair fell off, proving itself to be a wig, and extremely short and scruffy hair was revealed.

"Sierra?" Cody said, not looking away. "Your wig?"

"Huh?" The girl, or rather Sierra, said. "Oh!" She ducked down and put the wig back on as fast as she could. "Thanks."

"No problem."

The two of them continued to stare at the sky; Cody for his own enigmatic reasons, and Sierra because it seemed like fun.

After the business of the World Tour, the two of them had become closer friends; (there was some delays involved in that; Sierra was begining to understand that obessive fangirl behavior was not conductive towards winning a boy as your friend and potential spouse, and Cody was still a little alarmed that Sierra had somehow managed to move into his neighborhood without any warning, but on the plus side, at least they had friends now, even if that was basically just each other) their current state being something between 'friends' and a higher relationship, though Cody was still honestly a bit scared of the implications. (Not as much as he would have been previously, mind you.)

This relationship matter was partly due to Cody coming to helping her during her medical problems after it all ended; given that it was due to her making him a cake for the first birthday anyone had remembered for quite a long time, it seemed the good thing to do. Something like that is not very conducive to people growing apart. Luckily, in the months since then, Sierra had recovered nicely, though her hair had yet to grow back. She was also quite plainly plotting on making Cody her boyfriend, but some thinking had determined that the overly aggressive approach only frightened Cody.

At the moment, they were enjoying what Sierra persisted in calling a date; this basically amounted to him wandering outside in the middle of the night, bewildered by some exceedingly odd astrological activity, and her following him around in an amiable sort of way.

Sierra glanced around quickly, a sneaky look on her face, and quiet sidled over to Cody. He didn't appear to notice. She got close to him...closer...closer...

"Sierra, you have your chest in my hair," Cody said. "Again."

"Whoops?" Sierra said, backing off a very slight fraction of a bit, trying and failing miserable to sound innocent.

Cody shrugged, somewhat resigned to his lot in life, and turned his attention back to the sky.

He blinked.

"Sierra?" He said in a small voice. "Do you see that?"

"Huh?" She said. "I dunno, what are you-" She stopped, making a small squeaking noise.

"You do see it!"

"Uh huh," She managed. "Yeah, uh huh...I see it."

She was, of course, speaking of a group of stars that certainly hadn't been there before and were spelling out YOU'RE PRETTY MUCH SCREWED AT THIS POINT.

She blinked. The stars were gone. She looked over and down at Cody, who looked up at her with a horrified expression. "...What was that?" Cody said, in a strangled little voice.

"An omen?" Sierra said. "A horrible, evil, suddenly-suspicious-and-spooky omen that violates every tenant of physics by being there?"

"Yeah," Cody said. "I was afraid of that." He paused. "Um. You don't suppose...we imagined that?"

"NO!" Sierra said, with surprising anger. "No, no, no no no no NO! No! No, just...NO! Don't you ever watch movies! Don't you ever watch disaster or horror or fantasy movies when the guy sees something weird happen and he decides it didn't happen or it was something else when it was so OBVIOUSLY an omen of horrible achey-breaky eat-your-face-up the-sun's-going-boom DOOM! Bad stuff happens, and I am NOT going to let my boyfriend go around being genre-unsavvy and get eaten by a grue!"

"I'm not your boyfriend," Cody said, with a slight hint that he was worried that the inverse might, in fact, be true and he hadn't realized it yet. "...A grue?"

"People on the Internet love Zork, but never mind!" Sierra poined at the sky frantically. "You know what this means?"

"That I've wasted my life being the chew-toy on a reality TV show?" Cody guessed.

"Yes. I mean, no! It means...it means...uh..."

"What does it mean?"

Sierra crossed her arms and tapped her foot. "If my endless hours of watching movies, playing video games and reading awesome fanfiction mean anything, it can only mean one thing..."


"...That a horrible elder god of sadism is coming and the only way to forestall it's wrath is for you and me to do the honeymoon thing right now?"

Cody blinked. "What, really?"

Sierra twitched. Cody was making such a innocent little face at her. "Ahhh, not the face! I can't lie to that face!"

"What face?"

"That one! Yes, that's the one!"

Cody blinked again. He seemed to realize what Sierra actually meant by her previous 'honeymoon' bit, having been distracted by the horrible omen. His face turned bright red, and with his brain suffering a sudden lack of blood, fainted on the ground.

Sierra stared. She poked gently in the stomach. He twitched a bit. She shrugged, pulled him over her shoulder and walked off.

In about five minutes, she was going to remember the whole 'omen of doom' thing, but for the moment the thought of Cody basically being under her power was going to occupy her dreams for quite a while. (Not that he ever wasn't, given that she was a lot bigger and stronger than him, but details.)


Somewhere else, a voice speaks.

It is a voice like slabs of lead slamming together, with the echoes of that which will end even Oblivion. The voice of the Ultimate Reality. The Harvester of Mankind. The Reaper Man. And to some, the Death of Kindness.


The man who this is addressed to laughs, in this place that is somewhere because everything else ought to be elsewhere. This man has the light skin and strong build of a typical man from a country called Amestris; his vivid green eyes are covered by a pair of rectangular glasses, and his dark hair stands up in odd ways.

He is covered, not in normal clothing, but in a bizarre mesh of moving blackness. Not shadows, for darkness is only cast by obstructions in the way of light, but dark light, the darkness at the other side of light.

He grins. "Hey, whatever gets those kid's attention, right?" He holds up his hand. On one finger is a ring carved from solid black crystal, with a peculiar shape on it.

Death shakes his head. He does not know humanity except as an observer, so the motion is jerky and goes on for a fair bit. He knows how it starts, but is not sure when you're supposed to stop. STILL, muses Death. IT MAY YET WORK. THEY WILL BE...WARY. AND THAT WILL OPEN A WAY FOR THE ORKS TO COME.

"Which will give those people a bit of a chance when they come, yeah?" The man said, raising an eyebrow.


"That's good." The man grinned. "So...you ever hear of a thing called 'Bridge'?"


The man rubbed his palms together. "Well! Time to figure out how it works, y'know?"

Death looked like he was going to regret this. Actually, Death looked like a skeleton, but that was mainly habit.