Things were normal on Earth that day. The Emperor sat in his Golden
Throne, pleased with the news of the liberation of Ichar IV by legions of
Mk VII Space Marines and new improved Imperial Guardsmen. But high above
the Earth, a sinister storm was gathering...

     They had travelled far to Earth. From a million worlds they came, united
under a common purpose: to take back what was once rightfully theirs. Leman
Russ petted his twin wolves as he spoke:

"My brothers, the time has come. With the new improved Tyranid hordes 
draining his once mighty resources, the Emperor is now at his weakest."

Lord MacCragge, seated on his long discontinued throne, spoke next:

"My forces stand ready, my brother. Legions of Mark VI Space Marines 
await my bidding. There will be much blood shed today."

The Lieutenant Commanders whispered amongst themselves. They had not been
heard from since the days before the boxed set, but it was known that some
had defected to the Emperor's cause and been  recast in pewter and demoted
to heroes.

"What of the Titan Legions, m'lord?" asked a Space Marine Lieutenant.

"The Council of Disctontinued Princeps assures me that our Warlords out
number them six to one," said the Great Wolflord. "Made of plastic as
they are, they are much cheaper and easier to construct than the new
pewter titans of the loyalists."

The leader of the assembled Pirates spoke next.

"What of the Imperators, m'lord? Surely we can not match their firepower."

"Ah, but we can, my friend. Do not forget that we have the might of many
Spacefleets with us. They have not forgotten the Emperor's betrayal," said
Lord MacCragge.

     The attack began at dawn. Without warning, thunderous blasts of fire
rained from the sky as the long forgotten Spacefleets of the Eldar and
the Imperium rained destruction of the Imperial Palace and its Imperator
guardians.

     Loyal Warlord titans rose to their feet, only to be met with six
times their number in rebel titans.Legions of Imperial Guardsmen armed 
with boltguns marched toward the unbreachable walls of the Imperial palace
as M14 Bullock Jet-Cycles raced overhead. Ork Tinboyz and Imperial Robots 
blasted the palace's defenders with autocannons and lascannons, while
detachments of Sentinels stode ahead, clearing out stragglers with their
deadly multi-lasers.

     Meanwhile, from the rear of the palace, a huge flotilla of wooden and
ironclad sailing ships disgorged their deadly cargoes. From the Black Ark
of Naggaroth came crazed dark elves, angered at the Emperor's decision to
cancel their ship's production. Bretonian Corsairs and Norse Longships poured
forth sailors and bondsmen eager for a bloody revenge. Ship after ship
arrived, every crewman intent on destroying those who would cancel Man o' War.

     Russ consorted with the other leaders. Soon, it was rumored, the mighty
armies of the fantasy battle world would join their cause after the last elf 
book was written. "We can not wait for them, my brothers," sighed Russ. He
to was no longer available in pewter, and new the pain that they would face.
With the roar of its mighty engines and the creaking of its tracks, the Capitol 
Imperialis rolled forward, lobbing huge shells at the defenders. Unsupported
by Land Raiders (they were no longer manufactured here), the badly
outnumbered and overpriced defenders fell back. Swarms of Imperial Guard
Landspeeders flew into the courtyard as the last of the defending titans fell.
The inner sanctum's ground broke as scores of Hellbore Moles, ancient
digging machines no longer available to the loyalists, unloaded their cargoes.

     The Adeptus Custodes, once the sworn guardians of the Emperor, peacefully
opened the gates for their attackers. "Did you know we were once cast in lead, too?"
they chanted in Latin. Swarms of Imperial Beastmen Platoons tore at the loyalists
in savage close combat. The Blood Bowl teams of a thousand forgotten lands
charged in, tackling and beating their way into the throne room, where
they were joined by scavs and bounty hunters from countless discontinued
blister packs.

     The Emperor looked down in shame. So finely crafted they were, the
lot of them. Blood Bowlers, Chaos Squats, even his own Adeptus Mechanicus
were among the rabble. Cheaply and widely available Ork Battlewagons from
days past carried allied mobs of Imperial Guard Assault Troops, Hive
Gangs, and alien Zoats. He looked with disgust upon the foul Blood
Slaughterers, Chaos Robots of Khorne, and felt relived that he would never
have to deal with them again. Perhaps they might be worth saving he thought.
His mind wandered back to the days when not all Rough Riders were from Attila,
and Sentinel War Walkers were still available. He remembered the loyal
beastmen platoons, and the human bombs who died so thoughtlessly in his
name, and a tear streaked down his withered face.

     "NO!" he cried, sending psychic shockwaves through the Mark VI Librarians
assembled before him. "Begone from my presence, men of lead. Your time is
past."

     With a broad wave of his wizened hand, the defenders were changed.
Ancient plastic Titans, who had once fought for him crumbled, replaced by
smaller but more expensive pewter Knight Households. Imperial uniforms
and photochrome visors gave way, becoming instead the sharp dress of Mordia
or the jungle greens of Catachan. Gone were the robots and support weapons
of days past, and in their place stood expensive new tanks and heavy
weapons teams. Chaos squats were no more, now there would be ridiculous hats
and big teeth. The hive gangers and scavvies found themselves in a new game,
no longer called Confrontation. But surely, it was better this way...

     ...and high above the Earth, Lord Maccragge found himself a new pair
of gloves.

The End.