I, Repentia: Aurora, a starving underhiver child, is guided by faith and a mysterious glowing figure to the halls of the Schola Progenium only to find that the welcoming arms of the Emperor she dreamed of were as cold, hard, and brutal as the truth the schola proclaims. Now on an uncertain path, accused of heretical taint, and doubting the words of her own saint, Aurora is thrown one last lifeline but taking it may be a doom just as certain as accepting the mercy of the Ordo Malleus and not just for her, but for Sister Helena, and perhaps the whole Gilead Sector as well...
I, Repentia: An Original WH40K Fiction [Book 2 of The Aurora Archive (See I, Vermin, Book 1)]
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Introduction
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For anyone that found their way here without reading The Aurora Archive Part 1: I, Vermin.... this is about to be just a little confusing 
Please enjoy, but consider going back to the beginning (or feel free to ask questions!).
For anyone wondering if things are going to start looking up for Aurora... (because she's been kicked while she's down a LOT in book 1... yes, yes they are... Starting in Chapter 2)
Our Protagonist Aurora begins Book 2 at the age of 10. She begins book 1 at the age of 4, so there is a bit of scene setting you're going to miss [and at least two major plot threads that get dropped in book 1 and have a lot of play in book 2] (including, secret traitors!).
Book 1: I, Vermin: An Original WH40K fiction
I, Repentia: Aurora, a starving underhiver child, is guided by faith and a mysterious glowing figure to the halls of the Schola Progenium only to find that the welcoming arms of the Emperor she dreamed of were as cold, hard, and brutal as the truth the schola proclaims. Now on an uncertain path, accused of heretical taint, and doubting the words of her own saint, Aurora is thrown one last lifeline but taking it may be a doom just as certain as accepting the mercy of the Ordo Malleus and not just for her, but for Sister Helena, and perhaps the whole Gilead Sector as well...
Welcome, and please join me as we begin Book 2 of the Aurora Archive and delve into a few of the events on Gilead Primus leading up to the opening of the Great Rift...
Please enjoy, but consider going back to the beginning (or feel free to ask questions!).For anyone wondering if things are going to start looking up for Aurora... (because she's been kicked while she's down a LOT in book 1... yes, yes they are... Starting in Chapter 2)
Our Protagonist Aurora begins Book 2 at the age of 10. She begins book 1 at the age of 4, so there is a bit of scene setting you're going to miss [and at least two major plot threads that get dropped in book 1 and have a lot of play in book 2] (including, secret traitors!).
Book 1: I, Vermin: An Original WH40K fiction
I, Repentia: Aurora, a starving underhiver child, is guided by faith and a mysterious glowing figure to the halls of the Schola Progenium only to find that the welcoming arms of the Emperor she dreamed of were as cold, hard, and brutal as the truth the schola proclaims. Now on an uncertain path, accused of heretical taint, and doubting the words of her own saint, Aurora is thrown one last lifeline but taking it may be a doom just as certain as accepting the mercy of the Ordo Malleus and not just for her, but for Sister Helena, and perhaps the whole Gilead Sector as well...
Welcome, and please join me as we begin Book 2 of the Aurora Archive and delve into a few of the events on Gilead Primus leading up to the opening of the Great Rift...
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Prologue: Rule of the Sororitas by Jessamine Hallas, Founder, Order of the Sanctified Shield...
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Rule of the Sororitas: Order of the Sanctified Shield
Section CXVI: Litania
Subsection VI: Contra Haeresim
Sub-Subsection III: Contemptus
"Contempt is the unyielding armor that guards the soul from the insidious touch of corruption. It is not mere disdain but a righteous shield forged in the Emperor's holy fire. By embracing contempt for the heretic, the mutant, the witch, and all who defy His divine will, a Sister fortifies her spirit against doubt and temptation. Let your contempt be as unwavering as your faith, and no enemy, no seduction of the warp, no whisper of heresy shall ever penetrate your resolve. In contempt, we find purity; in purity, we find strength; in strength, we embody the Emperor's will."
— Canoness Jessamine Hallas, Founder of the Order of the Sanctified Shield
Contempt for the heretic, who twists the Emperor's truth.
Contempt for the mutant, a stain upon His perfect design.
Contempt for the xeno, who encroaches upon His divine realm.
Contempt for the witch, who consorts with unholy powers.
Contempt for the daemon, a manifestation of the warp's foulness.
Contempt for the unsanctioned psyker, who invites damnation and doom.
Contempt for the Tau, who lure humanity with false unity.
Contempt for the Eldar, whose arrogance defies His plan.
Contempt for the Dark Eldar, who revel only in pain and suffering.
Contempt for the Ork, the barbaric horde that threatens His domain.
Contempt for the Tyranid, the devourer that consumes all life.
Contempt for the Necron, the soulless machines that deny death.
Contempt for the worshipper of Tzeentch, who schemes against His will.
Contempt for the worshipper of Khorne, who kills without purpose.
Contempt for the worshipper of Nurgle, who embraces decay and ruin.
Contempt for the worshipper of Slaanesh, who succumbs to depravity.
Contempt for the apostate cardinal, who leads the faithful astray.
Contempt for the warp-tainted navigator, who guides ships to doom.
Contempt for the void pirate, who disrupts His sacred trade.
Contempt for the faithless, who deny the Emperor's light.
Contempt for the coward, who flees from His righteous duty.
Contempt for the Fallen Angel, who hides from His righteous wrath.
Contempt for the renegade Guardsman, who abandons His holy cause.
Contempt for the heretek, who defiles the Machine God's gifts.
Contempt for the corrupt official, who abuses His given authority.
Contempt for the idle noble, who neglects duty for decadence.
Contempt for the mercenary, who fights without faith or loyalty.
Contempt for the smuggler, who defies His laws for personal gain.
Contempt for the blasphemer, who defiles His sacred name.
Contempt for the greedy, who hoard wealth over His glory.
Contempt for the liar, who corrupts the purity of truth.
Contempt for the arrogant, who place themselves above His will.
Contempt for the weak-willed, who succumb to temptation.
Contempt for the indulgent, who favor pleasure over piety.
Contempt for the defiler, who desecrates His holy places.
Contempt for the usurper, who challenges His rightful rule.
Contempt for the seditious, who plot against His throne.
Contempt for the doubter, who lacks faith in His plan.
Contempt for the ungrateful, who forget His benevolence.
Contempt for the unjust, who pervert His laws.
Contempt for the impure, who tarnish the soul's clarity.
Contempt for the reckless, who endanger His works.
Contempt for the prideful, who deny their place beneath Him.
Contempt for the nihilist, who sees no purpose in His plan.
Contempt for the gluttonous, who consume without need.
Contempt for the defiler of oaths, who breaks sacred vows.
Contempt for the blighted, who spread corruption in His domain.
Contempt for the lukewarm, who lack zeal in His service.
Contempt for the insubordinate, who challenge His authority.
Contempt for the sinner unrepentant, who rejects His mercy.
Section CXVI: Litania
Subsection VI: Contra Haeresim
Sub-Subsection III: Contemptus
"Contempt is the unyielding armor that guards the soul from the insidious touch of corruption. It is not mere disdain but a righteous shield forged in the Emperor's holy fire. By embracing contempt for the heretic, the mutant, the witch, and all who defy His divine will, a Sister fortifies her spirit against doubt and temptation. Let your contempt be as unwavering as your faith, and no enemy, no seduction of the warp, no whisper of heresy shall ever penetrate your resolve. In contempt, we find purity; in purity, we find strength; in strength, we embody the Emperor's will."
— Canoness Jessamine Hallas, Founder of the Order of the Sanctified Shield
Contempt for the heretic, who twists the Emperor's truth.
Contempt for the mutant, a stain upon His perfect design.
Contempt for the xeno, who encroaches upon His divine realm.
Contempt for the witch, who consorts with unholy powers.
Contempt for the daemon, a manifestation of the warp's foulness.
Contempt for the unsanctioned psyker, who invites damnation and doom.
Contempt for the Tau, who lure humanity with false unity.
Contempt for the Eldar, whose arrogance defies His plan.
Contempt for the Dark Eldar, who revel only in pain and suffering.
Contempt for the Ork, the barbaric horde that threatens His domain.
Contempt for the Tyranid, the devourer that consumes all life.
Contempt for the Necron, the soulless machines that deny death.
Contempt for the worshipper of Tzeentch, who schemes against His will.
Contempt for the worshipper of Khorne, who kills without purpose.
Contempt for the worshipper of Nurgle, who embraces decay and ruin.
Contempt for the worshipper of Slaanesh, who succumbs to depravity.
Contempt for the apostate cardinal, who leads the faithful astray.
Contempt for the warp-tainted navigator, who guides ships to doom.
Contempt for the void pirate, who disrupts His sacred trade.
Contempt for the faithless, who deny the Emperor's light.
Contempt for the coward, who flees from His righteous duty.
Contempt for the Fallen Angel, who hides from His righteous wrath.
Contempt for the renegade Guardsman, who abandons His holy cause.
Contempt for the heretek, who defiles the Machine God's gifts.
Contempt for the corrupt official, who abuses His given authority.
Contempt for the idle noble, who neglects duty for decadence.
Contempt for the mercenary, who fights without faith or loyalty.
Contempt for the smuggler, who defies His laws for personal gain.
Contempt for the blasphemer, who defiles His sacred name.
Contempt for the greedy, who hoard wealth over His glory.
Contempt for the liar, who corrupts the purity of truth.
Contempt for the arrogant, who place themselves above His will.
Contempt for the weak-willed, who succumb to temptation.
Contempt for the indulgent, who favor pleasure over piety.
Contempt for the defiler, who desecrates His holy places.
Contempt for the usurper, who challenges His rightful rule.
Contempt for the seditious, who plot against His throne.
Contempt for the doubter, who lacks faith in His plan.
Contempt for the ungrateful, who forget His benevolence.
Contempt for the unjust, who pervert His laws.
Contempt for the impure, who tarnish the soul's clarity.
Contempt for the reckless, who endanger His works.
Contempt for the prideful, who deny their place beneath Him.
Contempt for the nihilist, who sees no purpose in His plan.
Contempt for the gluttonous, who consume without need.
Contempt for the defiler of oaths, who breaks sacred vows.
Contempt for the blighted, who spread corruption in His domain.
Contempt for the lukewarm, who lack zeal in His service.
Contempt for the insubordinate, who challenge His authority.
Contempt for the sinner unrepentant, who rejects His mercy.
Chapter 1: Contempt
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Chapter 1: Contempt
The world is pain.
I wake to the taste of blood on my tongue, my throat raw, and my body burning from the inside out. My arms are stretched wide, pulled tight by metal rings cutting into my skin. I try to move, but I can't. My left arm, my augmetic stretches dead, numb, and as useless as the rest of me. My body is slick with sweat and filth, and the smell hits me before anything else, like something rotting deep inside my chest. My stomach clenches, threatening to heave, but there's nothing left to bring up. I've already lost everything.
Everything but the pain.
The excruciator hums softly around me, a soft, constant noise like a wasp's wings. I know it too well. I don't know how long I've been here, how many times I've woken like this. There's a blur in my mind, a smear of agony that stretches back to when… to when…
Sister Helena. She found me.
There was fire in her eyes, fire from her hands. Then there was… this.
I can't think past it. Can't breathe past the weight of it. The marks, the brands on my skin throb beneath the ropes of blackened oozing tissue. I can feel them, crawling, writhing, whispering. My vision swims. I try to pray, but the words are broken, stuck in my throat. "Emperor... protect me..."
A sound cuts through the haze, footsteps. Slow, deliberate. The scrape of boots on metal grates, each one dragging me back to the surface, to the here and now.
Him.
Explicator Sullivan stands before me, his thin frame casting a long shadow in the harsh light of the chamber. His face is sharp, too sharp, like a blade ready to cut. He holds the excruciator's control like a relic, something sacred and powerful. He looks at me like I'm something less than human. An insect. A worm. Something that needs to be crushed by the weight of the mighty Ordos Hereticus.
"Ready to be honest now, are we? Still alive?" His voice is calm, soft, the way a serpent might speak. "I was wondering how long it would take for you to wake up this time."
I can't speak. My mouth is too dry, my lips cracked. I can't even muster the strength to glare at him. A shiver runs along my whole body that has nothing to do with the cold air on my naked flesh and everything to do with the gaze of the man that tracks over it, seeing not me, not Aurora, not even a person, just a heretic.
"I tire of this, girl," Sullivan says, pacing slowly in front of me. "Lucious. Tell me about him. The marks. The chaos taint you carry." He flicks the excruciator, and a jolt of white-hot pain sears through my chest, arching my back. I scream, but it's hoarse, a ragged sound. The sound of a wounded animal dying in a trap, a hopeless, empty noise.
"I don't... I don't know," I rasp. The words taste like dirt in my mouth, but I say them because they're true. I don't know what he wants, what he thinks I know. I don't know what I did to deserve this. I told him everything that happened, everything!
I told him that Lucious... he... he—
"Wrong answer," Sullivan hisses. The excruciator hums louder, and from inside me comes heat. My bones feel like they're melting, and I scream again, but it's weak, too weak.
"Where did he get the book?" Sullivan's voice slices through the haze of agony. "The living page? The eye! Who else is in the cult? How deep does the corruption run? When and how did they recruit you!?"
I don't know. I can't think. There's just pain, and his voice, and the burning.
"I... I don't know," I whisper again, tears running down my face. "I don't... know... please… I'm not… heretic…"
"Pathetic." He presses the control again, and the excruciator flares to life. I thrash against the restraints, every nerve on fire, but I can't escape. I can't breathe. The pain... it's too much. The edges of my vision go black, and for a moment, I think I might pass out again. I hope I do.
But I don't. I just hang there, shaking, sobbing, broken.
Sullivan leans in close, his breath hot on my cheek. "The Emperor protects, girl. But only the faithful. Are you faithful?"
I don't answer. I can't.
"Tell me, child," he whispers, his lips curling into a cruel smile. "Are you still faithful after everything? After the marks, the burning, the running, the suffering? Does the Emperor hear your prayers? Is that the lie you're telling yourself right now? Is that the lie you're telling me!?"
He flicks the switch again, and my whole body convulses, my vision bursting with red, with fire, with screams. I can't think, can't breathe, can't... anything.
He's going to kill me.
I know it. He's going to kill me here, and no one will ever know. No one will care. Because I'm a heretic. I'm a heretic and this is what I deserve. He's said so many times. At least… if he's right… then I do, really do deserve it.
But then... then... a sound. Distant, faint, but there. The steady thud of ceramite boots. The slow, heavy scrape of metal on metal. It cuts through the fog, through the agony. I know that sound…
Sister Helena.
My heart skips. She's coming. She's here.
Sullivan hears it too. His eyes narrow, and for a moment, he hesitates. Just for a moment. But then he sneers, flicking the control again. Another wave of pain rolls through me, but I grit my teeth, forcing myself not to scream.
He will not hear me scream again.
I scream…
The footsteps grow louder, so does the shouting, then, somewhere close by, a door slams open with enough force that I feel the vibrations through the rings holding me suspended in the air. The air shifts, cold and heavy, and a flat, blank wall becomes suddenly transparent, revealing Sister Helena in her power armor battered, scorched. Her eyes, burning like twin suns, lock onto Sullivan with a fury that makes my heart lurch with hope.
Sullivan straightens, turning to face her, but there's still a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes that I observe with weak but definitive relish. He doesn't speak. Not before she does.
Helena's voice cuts through the silence like a blade. "Explicator Sullivan."
The air in the room turns colder. Sullivan's back stiffens. I can't see him now, but I hear the sudden halt in his pacing, the tension crackling through the air.
"Sister Helena."
Her voice. I know that voice. It cuts through the haze, through the pain, colder and harder than anything I've ever heard. It's like steel, like the burn of a blade drawn across skin.
"I was not aware," Helena's voice is low, simmering with barely restrained wrath, "that the Ordo Hereticus had the authority to take my flesh tithe without so much as a word. Or is it common practice now to treat Sisters' property with such flagrant disregard?"
Her tone drips with fury. I can just barely see her, but I don't need to. I can feel her anger, the weight of it pressing into the room. It's like she's filling the air with her rage, swallowing up the suffocating stench of sweat and fear. New scents, burning, ozone, and blood, flow under the cracks of the door.
There's silence. Then, Sullivan speaks, his voice strained and dripping with false politeness like a sneer expressed vocally.
"You forget yourself, Sister. This is a matter of Chaos contamination. The girl is—"
"Do not speak to me of Chaos, Explicator," Helena interrupts, her words sharp and hard as a bolt round as they crack over the intercom. "I've just fought through a battalion's worth of actual, organized cultists, only to discover that while I was defending the Emperor's children, you saw fit to torture mine."
The coldness of her words sends a shiver through me. I try to move, to shift even slightly in the excruciator's grip, but the restraints hold firm. My body feels like it's made of lead. My augmetic is still dead weight, burning where it connects to my flesh.
Sullivan stammers, but quickly recovers, his voice dripping with condescension. "Torture!? Sister, this is interrogation. The girl is marked. She's—"
"I know what she is," Helena snarls. "and, I know what she is not. She is my flesh tithe. My responsibility. And if you damage her beyond repair, Explicator, it will be you explaining to Inquisitor Angstrom why the Ordo Malleus must now involve itself in your petty affairs."
I hear the sharp intake of breath from Sullivan. He's rattled now. He wasn't expecting that. Helena... she knows Angstrom, his boss maybe? I cling to the thought, to the faint hope it brings, even if I don't fully understand it.
There's the hiss of a door opening and closing. The brief breeze that wafts in carries the distinct stench of death and fire and battle to my nose. Compared to everything else, it tastes like holy incense.
"I am well within my rights to interrogate her!" Sullivan snaps, though his voice trembles at the edges. He's on the intercom to now. Some part of me not reduced to a quivering mush wonders if he realizes that Helena set her helmet down on the broadcast key. "You brought her back to the lift, you gave her to me!"
"For evacuation!" Helena seethes, "for containment! For safekeeping while me and my constantina held the line for yours and three other lift's worth of the Emperor's faithful!"
Sullivan seems to find himself and rally, "This is an Inquisitorial matter. The girl may yet be a Chaos agent!"
Helena's fists are clenching and unclenching, servos grinding together, growling like furies waiting to be free of the leash, "I lost three girls down there, Explicator. I should be with their bodies now, performing sacred rites, instead I'm forced to trade words with a witless worm like you. Release Aurora to me or I promise you… you will not like what happens next."
I can't see it, but I can hear the sneer in Sullivan's voice and my hope falters. He taps something on his chest, "I will not be cowed by your... empty threats, Sister. You have no authority here!"
A pause. Silence stretches, thick and heavy.
Then, Helena speaks again, her voice slow and deliberate, each word a hammer blow. "If you believe my threats to be empty, you are a greater fool than I thought, explicator. If you cannot extract the information you need from a ten year old child without breaking her mind or body, you are truly worthless to the Inquisition. I will see to it that Angstrom knows of your incompetence. I've been playing these games a lot longer than you, upstart. I will make sure that you face the consequences and more than that, that I'm the one to deliver them. Test my word to your peril."
The relief is like cold water, but it's faint, fragile. I don't trust it. Not yet. I'm still hanging here, still trapped, but… She believes me? She's protecting me? I'm not tainted? I'm not... lost, not in her opinion?
God Emperor… hers is the only opinion I care about right now.
Tears well up, hot and stinging, as I cling to that thought. Helena... she's here. She's here.
"I understand your concern, Sister," he says, but his voice is different now. There's a hesitation in it, a crack, carefully hidden. He's scared. "Perhaps I will adjust my methods if your tithe proves cooperative. As to permanent damage, well, I make no promises where the comfort of heretics is concerned."
Another long pause. I can hear the tension in the air, like a wire pulled tight, ready to snap. I can't breathe, can't think past the thudding of my heart. What if... what if he doesn't listen? What if...?
I hear Sullivan's footsteps retreating, the door hisses open again. I crane my neck to see.
There…
"I forbid you to speak to her!" Sullivan's voice echoes from the other room, hollow, tinged once more with arrogance.
I can barely see through the haze of pain and exhaustion, but I know she's here. Sister Helena.
My head lolls to the side, my vision swimming as I force my swollen eyes to focus. The metal rings bite into my wrists and ankles, the raw skin beneath them slick with blood and sweat. My body is... ruined. There's no other word. Filth clings to me like a second skin, bile, blood, everything pooling beneath me in a grotesque mix. I must look... wretched.
The footsteps are slow, deliberate. I hear the faint clink of her armor as she moves, the soft hiss of the servos in her joints. Helena doesn't rush. She never does.
A shadow falls over me, and there she is, standing before me. A titan of ceramite and wrath, the warrior I've always admired, even feared. Her armor is scorched and blackened, gold sigils chipped and smeared with ash and gore. Her helm is still off, her eyes—those terrible, burning eyes—look down at me. I can't tell what she's thinking, but... I know she sees me. All of me.
I don't want her to.
My body trembles as I try to move, try to lift my head, but I can't. Every inch of me screams in protest. My left arm... dead. The augmetic is useless, limp and heavy, the connection to my flesh seared and blackened. It burns where it fuses to me.
Helena steps closer, her shadow swallowing me whole. I try to look away, try to hide from her gaze, but there's nowhere to go. I'm trapped here, exposed, helpless. And she... she sees everything.
The places where I burned away the marks still throb with a sickening heat. The flesh is raw, blistered, oozing. The infection's already set in—I can smell it, the rancid, sour stench of rot creeping into my skin. I can't bear to think what she must see. I'm... filthy. The mark of Chaos is gone, but I am... broken. A heretic.
I want to speak, to say something, anything, but the words die in my throat. What could I say? What could I possibly tell her that she doesn't already know?
Her eyes narrow, and she gives me a look. It's fierce, commanding, like she's trying to burn something into my soul just by staring at me.
But she doesn't speak.
Instead, her fingers move, quick and sharp, flashing in the air. Use your armor!
Armor? My mind is a blur, trying to make sense of the words, of the world around me. What armor? I don't have anything left. There's nothing protecting me. Not anymore.
Fingers twitch on my left hand—my only hand—and it shakes, the motion weak and broken as I manage to sign back. What armor?
Helena doesn't flinch. Her fingers move again, smooth, precise. Mental armor. Contempt. Contempt for the xeno. Contempt for the mutant. Contempt for the daemon. Contempt for the heretic.
Contempt.
I blink, trying to make sense of it. My mind is sluggish, heavy, but the words anchor themselves in the fog.
Contempt.
For all the things that twist and defile the Emperor's light. For all the things that seek to break me, to stain me.
Helena's expression hardens, but I see it—just for a moment. There's something else beneath the surface, something... I can't place it. Something I've never seen in her before. Maybe it's compassion. Maybe it's something worse.
She turns away, her form resolute, unyielding as she strides toward the door. The clink of her armor is the only sound in the room now, heavy and metallic.
She pauses, just before she leaves, and without looking back, she makes a simple gesture in the air. Battle-sign, but not, simpler, military, a clear message to me and clearly lost on Sullivan.
Hold, the name for the movement, one of many that each mean to stand one's ground in the face of the enemy. But this one is temporary, hold out, hold out for reinforcements, don't break, don't break because help is coming.
And then she's gone.
The room falls silent, save for the soft hum of the excruciator and the distant sound of my own shallow breathing. I hang there, my body aching, my mind a jumble of thoughts I can't quite grasp. But her words linger, her presence still filling the room even though she's gone.
Contempt.
I repeat it to myself, over and over, clinging to the word like a lifeline. Signing it until my hand locks in a rictus of permanent cramp from the attempt.
Contempt for the heretic.
Contempt for Lucious.
Contempt for the marks that tried to claim me.
The Emperor protects, but what does it mean to contempt? I've never thought about it before. Now it's all I can think about.
The Emperor protects, so then, what shall I fear?
Fear.
That insidious motivating force which drove me to flee from being a student, which nearly drove me to flee from being alive.
Fear.
The Emperor protects, and if that is true, if I believe it, then I can hold in contempt my fear, anything that would try to harm me, to harm Him, to harm His Imperium of which I am the smallest part.
Contempt.
I giggle. It's a choked, urping noise which bubbles around my lips and snorts out my cracked nostrils. It builds to a laugh which shakes me until the pain of the movement threatens to pull me back into unconsciousness.
Contempt.
Helena is right. The Emperor protects. If I have faith, then I have nothing to fear. If I have faith then everything that stands against me, even Lucious, even the marks he wrought on my skin, all of it is a lie, a lie with no power over me, futile. And what is futile, is contemptable. Suddenly, the idea that marks carved in flesh could overpower the light of the Emperor I carry inside… is laughable…
Sullivan's footsteps return, slow and deliberate, as he walks toward me. His breath is cold on my cheek, and I can hear the sneer in his voice as he speaks.
"Do you think she'll save you?" He whispers, his voice low and venomous. "The Sister can't protect you, girl. You belong to the inquisition now."
"But… the… Emperor… can." I force the words out, one after the other, and put everything I have left into them.
Contempt, I think. I focus on the word, letting it fill me, blocking out the pain, the fear, the darkness.
Contempt.
I will hold onto it, until it kills me…
Time continues to pass, I know it must because I've been given water, fluid is injected into my good arm at intervals. More than water is injected. Ever since Helena left the world has been a shifting murk of half remembered questions, unprompted answers, and patches of nothing that seem to take up more and more memory.
Is it morning, evening? Has it been hours, days, a year?
Contempt.
Will Helena come back for me?
Contempt.
The world is slipping away again, fading into a slow, gray blur. The taste of blood still coats my tongue, my throat still raw, my body a furnace of pain. But it's... distant now, almost like it's not mine anymore. Like I'm floating above it, away from it.
After she left, Sullivan changed tactics and more than saline has been pumped into my veins.
The drugs are creeping in again, thick and slow, turning everything to smoke. They hum through my veins like a swarm of bees, buzzing in my ears, making the edges of everything soft and slippery.
I blink.
Try to blink.
The light above me swims, bending and twisting like it's underwater. I can't tell how long I've been here. It feels like forever. Like time doesn't mean anything anymore. The rings bite into my wrists and ankles, but even that's dulled, numbed. I feel... empty.
But the infection festers. I can still feel that. It's slow, crawling through my skin like worms, gnawing at me from the inside. The marks I burned... they're rotting. I can smell it. I can feel it, every sickening pulse of decay.
I think I'm dying.
Slowly.
Sullivan's voice comes through the haze now and then, but it's warped, strange, like it's coming from a faraway place. His words bend and break, twisting in the fog that fills my mind.
"Lucious," he says again, always Lucious. "Tell me... tell me about the cult... the book... the eye..."
I try to focus, try to catch the words, but they slip away, swirling in the drugged mist. I want to answer, to make it stop, but I don't know what to say. I don't know anything. I've already told him. I've told him everything, my whole life's story, even parts I don't remember. But he keeps asking, keeps pushing, like there's something he thinks I'm hiding. Like there's some secret locked away inside me that I don't even know about.
I do answer him, even when I don't mean to, even when I have nothing to say, even when I don't hear the answers I give.
The excruciator doesn't hurt as much anymore. The pain is still there, but it's distant, muffled, buried under the weight of the drugs. I almost wish it didn't fade. It's something, at least. Something solid, something real.
He's standing over me again. I can feel his breath, cold and sharp, as it ghosts over my skin. His hand is on the excruciator's control, his fingers light, teasing the device. He hasn't pressed it yet, not again, but he will. I know he will.
And when he does, I'll scream. I always scream. I try not to, try to hold it in, but it breaks out of me, tearing through my throat like a jagged blade. I hate him for making me scream. I hate myself for screaming.
But I hold onto something else now.
Contempt.
It's a word I don't fully understand, not yet. But I repeat it, over and over, like a prayer. Contempt for the heretic. Contempt for the mutant. Contempt for everything that defiles the Emperor's light.
Contempt for Sullivan.
Contempt for myself.
The Emperor protects.
Sullivan's fingers twitch on the control, and I brace myself, my body tensing even though I'm not sure I can feel anything anymore. The hum of the excruciator rises, the tension building in the air, thick and heavy. I grit my teeth, clutching the word in my mind like a shield.
Contempt.
I will not scream this time.
I will not scream this time.
The world flashes red, the pain crashing through me in waves. I bite down hard, my jaw clenched, but the scream rips free anyway, hoarse and broken.
Sullivan's voice comes again, cold and sharp like broken glass. "Tell me about Lucious. Tell me about the cult. Who else is involved? How deep does it run? When did you first become aware of it? When did you first become a member? Was it in the scholam itself? Are there faculty members involved?"
I don't know. I don't know anything. I don't...
"I don't know," I whisper, my voice barely a breath. "I don't... I don't know..."
He sneers. I can hear it in his voice. "You're lying. You know something. You remember something. Tell me, girl, and this can all end."
The buzzing in my head grows louder, drowning out his words. The drugs... they make everything soft, hazy. I can't think. Can't remember what's real. Time stretches, bends, twists. I don't know how long I've been here. Hours? Days?
I think...
I think I'm dying.
The infection is spreading, the fever burning through me like a wildfire. My body is failing. I can barely lift my head, barely keep my eyes open. Each breath is a struggle, a battle I'm losing.
But I won't give him what he wants. I can't. I don't even know what it is he wants anymore, but I won't give it.
The Emperor protects.
I hold onto that. I cling to it with everything I have left, even as my body withers and rots around me. The Emperor protects, even now. Even if I die here, in this cell, He will protect me. My soul. My faith.
Contempt.
It echoes through my mind, the only thing I can grasp, the only thing that feels solid in the endless, drug-induced fog. I will hold onto that. I will hold onto my faith, even as everything else slips away.
I close my eyes, letting the word sink into the darkness.
Contempt.
The Emperor protects.
I think...
I think I'll die fairly soon now.
But if I die with contempt in my heart, with faith still burning... then I will die in the Emperor's light.
And that... that is enough.
I close my eyes, for long moments I stop breathing and forgo the effort of starting again.
Hold.
I groan and force another breath into my lungs. Tears glisten in my eyes.
I'm sorry, Sister Helena, Valeria, I don't think I can anymore…
Please... come quickly...
The world is pain.
I wake to the taste of blood on my tongue, my throat raw, and my body burning from the inside out. My arms are stretched wide, pulled tight by metal rings cutting into my skin. I try to move, but I can't. My left arm, my augmetic stretches dead, numb, and as useless as the rest of me. My body is slick with sweat and filth, and the smell hits me before anything else, like something rotting deep inside my chest. My stomach clenches, threatening to heave, but there's nothing left to bring up. I've already lost everything.
Everything but the pain.
The excruciator hums softly around me, a soft, constant noise like a wasp's wings. I know it too well. I don't know how long I've been here, how many times I've woken like this. There's a blur in my mind, a smear of agony that stretches back to when… to when…
Sister Helena. She found me.
There was fire in her eyes, fire from her hands. Then there was… this.
I can't think past it. Can't breathe past the weight of it. The marks, the brands on my skin throb beneath the ropes of blackened oozing tissue. I can feel them, crawling, writhing, whispering. My vision swims. I try to pray, but the words are broken, stuck in my throat. "Emperor... protect me..."
A sound cuts through the haze, footsteps. Slow, deliberate. The scrape of boots on metal grates, each one dragging me back to the surface, to the here and now.
Him.
Explicator Sullivan stands before me, his thin frame casting a long shadow in the harsh light of the chamber. His face is sharp, too sharp, like a blade ready to cut. He holds the excruciator's control like a relic, something sacred and powerful. He looks at me like I'm something less than human. An insect. A worm. Something that needs to be crushed by the weight of the mighty Ordos Hereticus.
"Ready to be honest now, are we? Still alive?" His voice is calm, soft, the way a serpent might speak. "I was wondering how long it would take for you to wake up this time."
I can't speak. My mouth is too dry, my lips cracked. I can't even muster the strength to glare at him. A shiver runs along my whole body that has nothing to do with the cold air on my naked flesh and everything to do with the gaze of the man that tracks over it, seeing not me, not Aurora, not even a person, just a heretic.
"I tire of this, girl," Sullivan says, pacing slowly in front of me. "Lucious. Tell me about him. The marks. The chaos taint you carry." He flicks the excruciator, and a jolt of white-hot pain sears through my chest, arching my back. I scream, but it's hoarse, a ragged sound. The sound of a wounded animal dying in a trap, a hopeless, empty noise.
"I don't... I don't know," I rasp. The words taste like dirt in my mouth, but I say them because they're true. I don't know what he wants, what he thinks I know. I don't know what I did to deserve this. I told him everything that happened, everything!
I told him that Lucious... he... he—
"Wrong answer," Sullivan hisses. The excruciator hums louder, and from inside me comes heat. My bones feel like they're melting, and I scream again, but it's weak, too weak.
"Where did he get the book?" Sullivan's voice slices through the haze of agony. "The living page? The eye! Who else is in the cult? How deep does the corruption run? When and how did they recruit you!?"
I don't know. I can't think. There's just pain, and his voice, and the burning.
"I... I don't know," I whisper again, tears running down my face. "I don't... know... please… I'm not… heretic…"
"Pathetic." He presses the control again, and the excruciator flares to life. I thrash against the restraints, every nerve on fire, but I can't escape. I can't breathe. The pain... it's too much. The edges of my vision go black, and for a moment, I think I might pass out again. I hope I do.
But I don't. I just hang there, shaking, sobbing, broken.
Sullivan leans in close, his breath hot on my cheek. "The Emperor protects, girl. But only the faithful. Are you faithful?"
I don't answer. I can't.
"Tell me, child," he whispers, his lips curling into a cruel smile. "Are you still faithful after everything? After the marks, the burning, the running, the suffering? Does the Emperor hear your prayers? Is that the lie you're telling yourself right now? Is that the lie you're telling me!?"
He flicks the switch again, and my whole body convulses, my vision bursting with red, with fire, with screams. I can't think, can't breathe, can't... anything.
He's going to kill me.
I know it. He's going to kill me here, and no one will ever know. No one will care. Because I'm a heretic. I'm a heretic and this is what I deserve. He's said so many times. At least… if he's right… then I do, really do deserve it.
But then... then... a sound. Distant, faint, but there. The steady thud of ceramite boots. The slow, heavy scrape of metal on metal. It cuts through the fog, through the agony. I know that sound…
Sister Helena.
My heart skips. She's coming. She's here.
Sullivan hears it too. His eyes narrow, and for a moment, he hesitates. Just for a moment. But then he sneers, flicking the control again. Another wave of pain rolls through me, but I grit my teeth, forcing myself not to scream.
He will not hear me scream again.
I scream…
The footsteps grow louder, so does the shouting, then, somewhere close by, a door slams open with enough force that I feel the vibrations through the rings holding me suspended in the air. The air shifts, cold and heavy, and a flat, blank wall becomes suddenly transparent, revealing Sister Helena in her power armor battered, scorched. Her eyes, burning like twin suns, lock onto Sullivan with a fury that makes my heart lurch with hope.
Sullivan straightens, turning to face her, but there's still a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes that I observe with weak but definitive relish. He doesn't speak. Not before she does.
Helena's voice cuts through the silence like a blade. "Explicator Sullivan."
The air in the room turns colder. Sullivan's back stiffens. I can't see him now, but I hear the sudden halt in his pacing, the tension crackling through the air.
"Sister Helena."
Her voice. I know that voice. It cuts through the haze, through the pain, colder and harder than anything I've ever heard. It's like steel, like the burn of a blade drawn across skin.
"I was not aware," Helena's voice is low, simmering with barely restrained wrath, "that the Ordo Hereticus had the authority to take my flesh tithe without so much as a word. Or is it common practice now to treat Sisters' property with such flagrant disregard?"
Her tone drips with fury. I can just barely see her, but I don't need to. I can feel her anger, the weight of it pressing into the room. It's like she's filling the air with her rage, swallowing up the suffocating stench of sweat and fear. New scents, burning, ozone, and blood, flow under the cracks of the door.
There's silence. Then, Sullivan speaks, his voice strained and dripping with false politeness like a sneer expressed vocally.
"You forget yourself, Sister. This is a matter of Chaos contamination. The girl is—"
"Do not speak to me of Chaos, Explicator," Helena interrupts, her words sharp and hard as a bolt round as they crack over the intercom. "I've just fought through a battalion's worth of actual, organized cultists, only to discover that while I was defending the Emperor's children, you saw fit to torture mine."
The coldness of her words sends a shiver through me. I try to move, to shift even slightly in the excruciator's grip, but the restraints hold firm. My body feels like it's made of lead. My augmetic is still dead weight, burning where it connects to my flesh.
Sullivan stammers, but quickly recovers, his voice dripping with condescension. "Torture!? Sister, this is interrogation. The girl is marked. She's—"
"I know what she is," Helena snarls. "and, I know what she is not. She is my flesh tithe. My responsibility. And if you damage her beyond repair, Explicator, it will be you explaining to Inquisitor Angstrom why the Ordo Malleus must now involve itself in your petty affairs."
I hear the sharp intake of breath from Sullivan. He's rattled now. He wasn't expecting that. Helena... she knows Angstrom, his boss maybe? I cling to the thought, to the faint hope it brings, even if I don't fully understand it.
There's the hiss of a door opening and closing. The brief breeze that wafts in carries the distinct stench of death and fire and battle to my nose. Compared to everything else, it tastes like holy incense.
"I am well within my rights to interrogate her!" Sullivan snaps, though his voice trembles at the edges. He's on the intercom to now. Some part of me not reduced to a quivering mush wonders if he realizes that Helena set her helmet down on the broadcast key. "You brought her back to the lift, you gave her to me!"
"For evacuation!" Helena seethes, "for containment! For safekeeping while me and my constantina held the line for yours and three other lift's worth of the Emperor's faithful!"
Sullivan seems to find himself and rally, "This is an Inquisitorial matter. The girl may yet be a Chaos agent!"
Helena's fists are clenching and unclenching, servos grinding together, growling like furies waiting to be free of the leash, "I lost three girls down there, Explicator. I should be with their bodies now, performing sacred rites, instead I'm forced to trade words with a witless worm like you. Release Aurora to me or I promise you… you will not like what happens next."
I can't see it, but I can hear the sneer in Sullivan's voice and my hope falters. He taps something on his chest, "I will not be cowed by your... empty threats, Sister. You have no authority here!"
A pause. Silence stretches, thick and heavy.
Then, Helena speaks again, her voice slow and deliberate, each word a hammer blow. "If you believe my threats to be empty, you are a greater fool than I thought, explicator. If you cannot extract the information you need from a ten year old child without breaking her mind or body, you are truly worthless to the Inquisition. I will see to it that Angstrom knows of your incompetence. I've been playing these games a lot longer than you, upstart. I will make sure that you face the consequences and more than that, that I'm the one to deliver them. Test my word to your peril."
The relief is like cold water, but it's faint, fragile. I don't trust it. Not yet. I'm still hanging here, still trapped, but… She believes me? She's protecting me? I'm not tainted? I'm not... lost, not in her opinion?
God Emperor… hers is the only opinion I care about right now.
Tears well up, hot and stinging, as I cling to that thought. Helena... she's here. She's here.
"I understand your concern, Sister," he says, but his voice is different now. There's a hesitation in it, a crack, carefully hidden. He's scared. "Perhaps I will adjust my methods if your tithe proves cooperative. As to permanent damage, well, I make no promises where the comfort of heretics is concerned."
Another long pause. I can hear the tension in the air, like a wire pulled tight, ready to snap. I can't breathe, can't think past the thudding of my heart. What if... what if he doesn't listen? What if...?
I hear Sullivan's footsteps retreating, the door hisses open again. I crane my neck to see.
There…
"I forbid you to speak to her!" Sullivan's voice echoes from the other room, hollow, tinged once more with arrogance.
I can barely see through the haze of pain and exhaustion, but I know she's here. Sister Helena.
My head lolls to the side, my vision swimming as I force my swollen eyes to focus. The metal rings bite into my wrists and ankles, the raw skin beneath them slick with blood and sweat. My body is... ruined. There's no other word. Filth clings to me like a second skin, bile, blood, everything pooling beneath me in a grotesque mix. I must look... wretched.
The footsteps are slow, deliberate. I hear the faint clink of her armor as she moves, the soft hiss of the servos in her joints. Helena doesn't rush. She never does.
A shadow falls over me, and there she is, standing before me. A titan of ceramite and wrath, the warrior I've always admired, even feared. Her armor is scorched and blackened, gold sigils chipped and smeared with ash and gore. Her helm is still off, her eyes—those terrible, burning eyes—look down at me. I can't tell what she's thinking, but... I know she sees me. All of me.
I don't want her to.
My body trembles as I try to move, try to lift my head, but I can't. Every inch of me screams in protest. My left arm... dead. The augmetic is useless, limp and heavy, the connection to my flesh seared and blackened. It burns where it fuses to me.
Helena steps closer, her shadow swallowing me whole. I try to look away, try to hide from her gaze, but there's nowhere to go. I'm trapped here, exposed, helpless. And she... she sees everything.
The places where I burned away the marks still throb with a sickening heat. The flesh is raw, blistered, oozing. The infection's already set in—I can smell it, the rancid, sour stench of rot creeping into my skin. I can't bear to think what she must see. I'm... filthy. The mark of Chaos is gone, but I am... broken. A heretic.
I want to speak, to say something, anything, but the words die in my throat. What could I say? What could I possibly tell her that she doesn't already know?
Her eyes narrow, and she gives me a look. It's fierce, commanding, like she's trying to burn something into my soul just by staring at me.
But she doesn't speak.
Instead, her fingers move, quick and sharp, flashing in the air. Use your armor!
Armor? My mind is a blur, trying to make sense of the words, of the world around me. What armor? I don't have anything left. There's nothing protecting me. Not anymore.
Fingers twitch on my left hand—my only hand—and it shakes, the motion weak and broken as I manage to sign back. What armor?
Helena doesn't flinch. Her fingers move again, smooth, precise. Mental armor. Contempt. Contempt for the xeno. Contempt for the mutant. Contempt for the daemon. Contempt for the heretic.
Contempt.
I blink, trying to make sense of it. My mind is sluggish, heavy, but the words anchor themselves in the fog.
Contempt.
For all the things that twist and defile the Emperor's light. For all the things that seek to break me, to stain me.
Helena's expression hardens, but I see it—just for a moment. There's something else beneath the surface, something... I can't place it. Something I've never seen in her before. Maybe it's compassion. Maybe it's something worse.
She turns away, her form resolute, unyielding as she strides toward the door. The clink of her armor is the only sound in the room now, heavy and metallic.
She pauses, just before she leaves, and without looking back, she makes a simple gesture in the air. Battle-sign, but not, simpler, military, a clear message to me and clearly lost on Sullivan.
Hold, the name for the movement, one of many that each mean to stand one's ground in the face of the enemy. But this one is temporary, hold out, hold out for reinforcements, don't break, don't break because help is coming.
And then she's gone.
The room falls silent, save for the soft hum of the excruciator and the distant sound of my own shallow breathing. I hang there, my body aching, my mind a jumble of thoughts I can't quite grasp. But her words linger, her presence still filling the room even though she's gone.
Contempt.
I repeat it to myself, over and over, clinging to the word like a lifeline. Signing it until my hand locks in a rictus of permanent cramp from the attempt.
Contempt for the heretic.
Contempt for Lucious.
Contempt for the marks that tried to claim me.
The Emperor protects, but what does it mean to contempt? I've never thought about it before. Now it's all I can think about.
The Emperor protects, so then, what shall I fear?
Fear.
That insidious motivating force which drove me to flee from being a student, which nearly drove me to flee from being alive.
Fear.
The Emperor protects, and if that is true, if I believe it, then I can hold in contempt my fear, anything that would try to harm me, to harm Him, to harm His Imperium of which I am the smallest part.
Contempt.
I giggle. It's a choked, urping noise which bubbles around my lips and snorts out my cracked nostrils. It builds to a laugh which shakes me until the pain of the movement threatens to pull me back into unconsciousness.
Contempt.
Helena is right. The Emperor protects. If I have faith, then I have nothing to fear. If I have faith then everything that stands against me, even Lucious, even the marks he wrought on my skin, all of it is a lie, a lie with no power over me, futile. And what is futile, is contemptable. Suddenly, the idea that marks carved in flesh could overpower the light of the Emperor I carry inside… is laughable…
Sullivan's footsteps return, slow and deliberate, as he walks toward me. His breath is cold on my cheek, and I can hear the sneer in his voice as he speaks.
"Do you think she'll save you?" He whispers, his voice low and venomous. "The Sister can't protect you, girl. You belong to the inquisition now."
"But… the… Emperor… can." I force the words out, one after the other, and put everything I have left into them.
Contempt, I think. I focus on the word, letting it fill me, blocking out the pain, the fear, the darkness.
Contempt.
I will hold onto it, until it kills me…
Time continues to pass, I know it must because I've been given water, fluid is injected into my good arm at intervals. More than water is injected. Ever since Helena left the world has been a shifting murk of half remembered questions, unprompted answers, and patches of nothing that seem to take up more and more memory.
Is it morning, evening? Has it been hours, days, a year?
Contempt.
Will Helena come back for me?
Contempt.
The world is slipping away again, fading into a slow, gray blur. The taste of blood still coats my tongue, my throat still raw, my body a furnace of pain. But it's... distant now, almost like it's not mine anymore. Like I'm floating above it, away from it.
After she left, Sullivan changed tactics and more than saline has been pumped into my veins.
The drugs are creeping in again, thick and slow, turning everything to smoke. They hum through my veins like a swarm of bees, buzzing in my ears, making the edges of everything soft and slippery.
I blink.
Try to blink.
The light above me swims, bending and twisting like it's underwater. I can't tell how long I've been here. It feels like forever. Like time doesn't mean anything anymore. The rings bite into my wrists and ankles, but even that's dulled, numbed. I feel... empty.
But the infection festers. I can still feel that. It's slow, crawling through my skin like worms, gnawing at me from the inside. The marks I burned... they're rotting. I can smell it. I can feel it, every sickening pulse of decay.
I think I'm dying.
Slowly.
Sullivan's voice comes through the haze now and then, but it's warped, strange, like it's coming from a faraway place. His words bend and break, twisting in the fog that fills my mind.
"Lucious," he says again, always Lucious. "Tell me... tell me about the cult... the book... the eye..."
I try to focus, try to catch the words, but they slip away, swirling in the drugged mist. I want to answer, to make it stop, but I don't know what to say. I don't know anything. I've already told him. I've told him everything, my whole life's story, even parts I don't remember. But he keeps asking, keeps pushing, like there's something he thinks I'm hiding. Like there's some secret locked away inside me that I don't even know about.
I do answer him, even when I don't mean to, even when I have nothing to say, even when I don't hear the answers I give.
The excruciator doesn't hurt as much anymore. The pain is still there, but it's distant, muffled, buried under the weight of the drugs. I almost wish it didn't fade. It's something, at least. Something solid, something real.
He's standing over me again. I can feel his breath, cold and sharp, as it ghosts over my skin. His hand is on the excruciator's control, his fingers light, teasing the device. He hasn't pressed it yet, not again, but he will. I know he will.
And when he does, I'll scream. I always scream. I try not to, try to hold it in, but it breaks out of me, tearing through my throat like a jagged blade. I hate him for making me scream. I hate myself for screaming.
But I hold onto something else now.
Contempt.
It's a word I don't fully understand, not yet. But I repeat it, over and over, like a prayer. Contempt for the heretic. Contempt for the mutant. Contempt for everything that defiles the Emperor's light.
Contempt for Sullivan.
Contempt for myself.
The Emperor protects.
Sullivan's fingers twitch on the control, and I brace myself, my body tensing even though I'm not sure I can feel anything anymore. The hum of the excruciator rises, the tension building in the air, thick and heavy. I grit my teeth, clutching the word in my mind like a shield.
Contempt.
I will not scream this time.
I will not scream this time.
The world flashes red, the pain crashing through me in waves. I bite down hard, my jaw clenched, but the scream rips free anyway, hoarse and broken.
Sullivan's voice comes again, cold and sharp like broken glass. "Tell me about Lucious. Tell me about the cult. Who else is involved? How deep does it run? When did you first become aware of it? When did you first become a member? Was it in the scholam itself? Are there faculty members involved?"
I don't know. I don't know anything. I don't...
"I don't know," I whisper, my voice barely a breath. "I don't... I don't know..."
He sneers. I can hear it in his voice. "You're lying. You know something. You remember something. Tell me, girl, and this can all end."
The buzzing in my head grows louder, drowning out his words. The drugs... they make everything soft, hazy. I can't think. Can't remember what's real. Time stretches, bends, twists. I don't know how long I've been here. Hours? Days?
I think...
I think I'm dying.
The infection is spreading, the fever burning through me like a wildfire. My body is failing. I can barely lift my head, barely keep my eyes open. Each breath is a struggle, a battle I'm losing.
But I won't give him what he wants. I can't. I don't even know what it is he wants anymore, but I won't give it.
The Emperor protects.
I hold onto that. I cling to it with everything I have left, even as my body withers and rots around me. The Emperor protects, even now. Even if I die here, in this cell, He will protect me. My soul. My faith.
Contempt.
It echoes through my mind, the only thing I can grasp, the only thing that feels solid in the endless, drug-induced fog. I will hold onto that. I will hold onto my faith, even as everything else slips away.
I close my eyes, letting the word sink into the darkness.
Contempt.
The Emperor protects.
I think...
I think I'll die fairly soon now.
But if I die with contempt in my heart, with faith still burning... then I will die in the Emperor's light.
And that... that is enough.
I close my eyes, for long moments I stop breathing and forgo the effort of starting again.
Hold.
I groan and force another breath into my lungs. Tears glisten in my eyes.
I'm sorry, Sister Helena, Valeria, I don't think I can anymore…
Please... come quickly...
Chapter 2: Lavender
New
Chapter 2: Lavender
I wake in a haze of nothing, a void where everything once was. I can't feel my skin, can't feel the metal rings biting into my wrists. The pain is there, but it's... distant. A memory of itself. The taste of blood on my tongue, the coppery tang, reminds me I'm still here.
Still alive.
I feel surprise, surprise that I haven't given up and with it shame.
How long? How long have I been here?
I blink, or at least I think I do, but the world doesn't change. It's all the same, this blur of gray, the shadows pressing in. My body's given up trying to fight. I feel... hollow. A shell.
Maybe I have already died. Maybe this is what death feels like for the condemned, the heretic…
The Emperor protects...
But does He? Where is He now?
Then I hear them. Voices. Muffled, distorted like they're coming from underwater. Two men, one furious, the other cold. I can't make out the words. My ears are full of this buzzing, like a swarm of insects crawling inside my skull. It's hard to think, hard to hold onto anything but that sound.
A name cuts through the murk—Faust—sharp, like a shard of broken glass. It's Sullivan's voice. I know it too well, its edges curled in arrogance and anger. He's always angry. Always wants me to say things I don't know. Always wanting more. Always wanting me to give him something, to... break.
But there's someone else. A new voice. Steady, colder. Faust. Sullivan spits the name like a curse. I think... I think they're arguing, shouting.
I try to focus, to piece together what they're saying, but my mind is slipping again, sliding away from me. My vision swims, the edges going dark. My head lolls to the side, the world tilting dangerously as if it might spill me out into the nothingness.
"...no longer under... jurisdiction..."
I'm awake again, how long was I out? Not long, the voices haven't changed.
It's the new voice talking now. Faust. The name claws through the fog again. The Ordo Malleus?
Something shifts inside me at that. Malleus. Something in my mind ticks over in memory of a schola classroom that seems a million miles away. The hunters of daemons. They think I'm... what? Possessed? One of them?
I'm not. I'm not. I'm not.
I'm… fading.
Sister Helena's voice cuts through the fog and I'm awake again. Her tone is cool and controlled, like a blade. She speaks, but I can't catch it. Too many sounds crashing into each other, mixing with the buzzing in my head. My eyelids flutter, heavy with the weight of everything I've lost.
I try to stay awake.
Try to stay here.
Here…
A thud echoes in my ears, and I snap back to awake, or whatever passes for awake now, for me, like this. The sound is boots on metal. The clatter of something, then a hiss of air. I know that sound, the door opening, like a breath being sucked out of the room. The tension, so thick I can feel it pressing down on me. I hang there, suspended in the metal rings, a puppet with no strings. My eyes are open, I'm sure of it, but I can't see.
I'm slipping again... no... hold... hold onto something, anything...
Contempt.
The word crawls back into my thoughts, and I cling to it. The only thing that's still real.
I'm not sure when the voices stop, but they do. There's silence now, save for the humming of the machines. The excruciator. It's always there, lurking, waiting for Sullivan's next move, buzzing, whispering in my ears. It's alive, I know it is. Perhaps I'm simply delusional but I can hear it, chuckling to itself, smiling, laughing, a twisted machine spirit performing a twisted service.
I try to breathe, but it's shallow, every inhale a sharp stab in my ribs. I don't know if I can keep doing this. My body feels... done. Over. A thing that's about to break apart and disappear.
"...her to my custody..."
The words drag me back, but they're hazy. Fuzzy. Sullivan is shouting again, something about chaos and rights and jurisdiction. I don't understand. Faust's voice remains calm, cutting through Sullivan's fury like ice through fire.
The Ordo Malleus. Faust. He's taking me. Away from Sullivan. Away from the Hereticus.
Is that good? I... don't know.
I think I'm fading again. My thoughts slip, sliding through the cracks. I feel the infection crawling under my skin, gnawing at the burned places where the marks used to be. It's going to kill me soon, I think. It's eating me alive, piece by piece. What does it matter who I belong to if there's nothing left of me?
The argument outside grows louder, more heated, but I'm drifting too far away to care. I'm so tired. I can't keep fighting this. Maybe it's better to just... let go.
But then, Helena's words echo in my head.
Hold.
I groan, the sound of it weak and pitiful, and my eyes burn with tears my body no longer has the moisture to produce.
I want to hold. I want to, but I can't. I can't do this anymore.
The voices blur into a single, endless noise. It rises, falls, crashes like waves. I can't tell where one ends and the other begins. The world tilts again, and I feel like I'm falling, though I know I'm still suspended, still trapped in the excruciator.
Hold...
But the word is slipping away, fading like everything else.
The smell hits me like a jolt—lavender. Sudden. Sharp. Like a hand gripping my soul and yanking me back from the edge of the abyss.
I was gone. I was ready to let go, to slip into the darkness. To die.
But now this scent, this impossible scent, drags me from the void. The air fills with it, rich and floral, cutting through the filth and rot that's caked onto my skin. It's Valeria's smell. Her hair. Her cleansing agent.
No, I think. It can't be real.
But it is. The scent surrounds me, pulling me from the nothingness. My throat tightens, my chest heaves, and I realize I've taken a breath. I'm still here. I'm still alive.
Why?
Then I hear it. Soft. A voice, singing, drifting through the dark.
"Emperor, shelter me under thy wings,
From the wicked, the wretched, from impure things.
Preserve my soul in thy burning light,
Banish the darkness, preserve through the night."
It's her voice. Valeria.
No. It can't be.
But the song continues, wrapping around me like warmth, like something familiar, something from before all of this. Before the excruciator, before the pain, before the chaos marks, before Lucious. It's calling me back. I want to reach out for it, but I can't move.
"Terror may strike, the heretic fall,
But the Emperor's might consumes them all.
Purge me of doubt, purge me of fear,
Purge me of every stain brought near."
My vision is still darkenss. I can't see. My body feels weightless, like I'm floating. But I'm not. I'm being lifted, freed from the metal rings that held me for so long. I should feel pain—I know I should—but all I can feel is that smell, that voice. My throat burns as I try to swallow, try to say something, but my voice is trapped somewhere deep inside me.
Her voice keeps singing.
"By thy will, I shall stand,
Emperor, hold me in thy hand.
Though the darkness seeks to devour,
Preserve me, Emperor, in this hour."
I'm slipping. The world fades again, the scent of lavender growing faint. I can't tell if it's real anymore. I'm not sure if any of this is real. The darkness pulls at me, but her voice—Valeria's voice—keeps bringing me back, even as my mind drifts in and out.
I can feel her hands now. Soft. They move gently, undoing the restraints, but the pain that rushes back as my limbs are freed is unbearable. I want to scream, but there's no strength left. It's a flood, tearing through me, but the voice... the voice is there. It's louder now, clearer, like she's closer.
"Emperor, preserver of body and soul,
Banish the shadow, make me whole.
Purge me of all that would tear me away,
From the light of thy face, from the path of thy way."
I feel something soft beneath me now. A stretcher, I think. I don't know how I know, but it's floating. A gentle hum vibrates through my skin. The movement of it stirs the air around me. Lavender. Always lavender.
"Preserve, O Emperor, thy humble child,
In thy burning gaze, fierce and wild.
Purge the taint, let none remain,
Until only thy light doth sustain."
I think I'm crying. Or maybe it's just sweat. I can't tell anymore. I can't hear anything but the song. The blackness keeps tugging at me, pulling me down, but Valeria's voice—her song—it's keeping me here, in this moment. Even as the pain grows worse, as the infection gnaws at my flesh, as my body screams for an end... her voice holds me.
I slip again.
The song fades. The lavender fades. Everything fades. I think this is the end. It has to be. My eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, there's nothing but the comforting pull of oblivion.
Then...
"Hold!"
Helena's voice again. Her order.
I want to.
I try to.
But I can't.
It's slipping away. Everything's slipping. I'm falling again, into that deep, endless dark.
But then... I feel something.
Just a whisper of sensation.
Barely there.
In my left hand, the one that still feels like mine, the non-augmetic one.
A warmth.
A pressure.
Another hand.
A familiar hand, calloused in the center from hours with scalpel and bone-saw but soft as silk around the edges.
I'm not holding onto anything anymore.
Someone else is holding onto me.
Hold...
The hum of air, thick and rushing, fills my ears like I'm inside a great, roaring beast. There's movement—steady, rhythmic—but it's not mine. I can feel it through my body, through the soft surface beneath me, but it's not me.
I'm breathing. I can tell that much, but it's not my doing. My lungs are moving, inflating, deflating, steady and smooth, like I've forgotten how and someone else is doing it for me. Something is in my mouth, pushing down my throat. Something cold and metallic attached to my arm—my good arm, not the augmetic one.
I should feel panic. I should be terrified. But I'm not. I'm... too tired. Too far gone.
The lavender scent is still there, faint now but real enough.
I'm alive. Somehow.
And then I hear her voice.
Valeria.
It's not a song anymore. It's words. Clear. Sharp. Too sharp.
"…almost total renal failure. The prolonged suspension has resulted in extensive tissue damage—muscle atrophy, venous stasis, and peripheral nerve damage. Her nervous system has been overstimulated to the point of near-total shutdown." Valeria's voice is clinical now, detached, the words clipped with that focus she always has when she's assessing something. Me, this time. "She's been through seven days of direct electrical hyperstimulation. The excruciator's voltage has ravaged her entire system. Every nerve, every synapse. It's a miracle she hasn't gone into full cardiac arrest."
I'm not a miracle. I'm just... here.
There's a pause, and then she continues, her tone dropping, softer now, almost apologetic. "Psychic pain was channeled directly into her mind. Her brain's pain centers have been bombarded, continually, without relief. There's no way to know how much cognitive damage has been done, or if any of it can be repaired. She hasn't had real sleep in almost a week."
Sleep. I almost laugh. What is sleep?
"She's severely dehydrated. We've started IV fluids, but she's lost too much too quickly. The burns..." Valeria's voice catches. She stops. I can almost see her expression tighten in frustration. "The burns are... festering. The chaos marks were carved deep into her flesh. They've gone untreated for too long. The infection is everywhere. Emperor's mercy, it's spreading through her blood. We've got holy rehydrants, blessed antibiotics, and a small army of antiseptics pumping into her even now... but her body..." Another pause. "Her body's fighting a war on too many fronts."
I feel something drip down my cheek. Tears? Sweat? I don't know anymore.
Helena's voice, cold as iron. "Will she survive?"
Valeria hesitates. I can feel her doubt. It sinks into the air like poison.
"Sister Helena," she starts, her voice suddenly quiet, quivering even, "even if she survives the infection, the burns, the dehydration, there's still the fact she was suspended by her arms and legs for a week, without rest. The ligaments in her shoulders and hips are likely torn, the muscles strained to breaking point, atrophied. Her body is covered in filth, feces, and grime... she hasn't had proper hygiene in all that time. Her immune system is..." She trails off.
Another silence. Then Valeria speaks again, quieter this time, almost a whisper. "Her fever is so high; I'm amazed she's conscious at all. Malnutrition, severe electrolyte imbalance, and hypovolemia. Her body's barely holding on. And it's not just the physical. It's the mental strain. The pain... the trauma of it all. If we start treating her aggressively, if we try to reverse the damage... the shock to her system will kill her."
Another pause. Then Valeria says the words I knew were coming, words that slide into my bones like ice.
"Even now, she could die at any moment."
So, this is it, I think. This is what death feels like. A quiet, inevitable thing. A slow painful unraveling.
There's a long silence between them. It's heavy, oppressive, like a weight pressing down on my chest. I can hear the hum of our transport, the steady rhythm of air forced into my lungs, the subtle beep of machines keeping me tethered to life.
Valeria's voice returns, steady but resigned. "It's up to her now. We can stabilize her with the resignatio comatotis ritual, treat the physical injuries while her body experiences pseudo sleep, but she has to want to survive, to come back. If she gives up... there's nothing we can do. She won't make it. There'll be nothing there to bring back, to wake up."
Helena speaks, sharp and demanding, angry. "So if she wants to die, she'll die. But if she wants to live, she'll live? That's your professional medical opinion?"
Valeria sighs heavily. "No, Sister Helena. If Aurora simply wants to live, she'll still die. But if she wants to live more than anything else, if all her faith, all her will, all her stubbornness is bent on living—if every facet of her soul chooses to cling to her mortal flesh against all thoughts of relief, of rest, of mercy... then her odds are probably fifty-fifty, and even then there's no telling how much of her will come back."
A curse.
Helena curses.
I've never heard her curse before. Not ever.
Then, her voice, closer than ever before, a low growl that sinks into my ear. "Aruora, if you even think of giving up on me," she says, every word laced with venom, "if you take the coward's way out, I swear…" there's the faintest pause, a tremble, not of anger, or rage, not of pity or compassion, but of regret, regret for what she's decides to say next… "I swear by the Emperor I'll pray the saint tells your mother you were a faithless failure of a child."
The words burn, cutting deeper into whatever's left of me that Lucious' blade ever could. My mother. Failure. I can't fail. Not now. Not after everything.
I desperately want to respond, want to tell her I'm still here, still fighting, still holding, but I can't. The world is slipping again, the edges blurring, the darkness pulling at me, not the darkness of death, but the sludgy void of chemical sleep.
I wake in a haze of nothing, a void where everything once was. I can't feel my skin, can't feel the metal rings biting into my wrists. The pain is there, but it's... distant. A memory of itself. The taste of blood on my tongue, the coppery tang, reminds me I'm still here.
Still alive.
I feel surprise, surprise that I haven't given up and with it shame.
How long? How long have I been here?
I blink, or at least I think I do, but the world doesn't change. It's all the same, this blur of gray, the shadows pressing in. My body's given up trying to fight. I feel... hollow. A shell.
Maybe I have already died. Maybe this is what death feels like for the condemned, the heretic…
The Emperor protects...
But does He? Where is He now?
Then I hear them. Voices. Muffled, distorted like they're coming from underwater. Two men, one furious, the other cold. I can't make out the words. My ears are full of this buzzing, like a swarm of insects crawling inside my skull. It's hard to think, hard to hold onto anything but that sound.
A name cuts through the murk—Faust—sharp, like a shard of broken glass. It's Sullivan's voice. I know it too well, its edges curled in arrogance and anger. He's always angry. Always wants me to say things I don't know. Always wanting more. Always wanting me to give him something, to... break.
But there's someone else. A new voice. Steady, colder. Faust. Sullivan spits the name like a curse. I think... I think they're arguing, shouting.
I try to focus, to piece together what they're saying, but my mind is slipping again, sliding away from me. My vision swims, the edges going dark. My head lolls to the side, the world tilting dangerously as if it might spill me out into the nothingness.
"...no longer under... jurisdiction..."
I'm awake again, how long was I out? Not long, the voices haven't changed.
It's the new voice talking now. Faust. The name claws through the fog again. The Ordo Malleus?
Something shifts inside me at that. Malleus. Something in my mind ticks over in memory of a schola classroom that seems a million miles away. The hunters of daemons. They think I'm... what? Possessed? One of them?
I'm not. I'm not. I'm not.
I'm… fading.
Sister Helena's voice cuts through the fog and I'm awake again. Her tone is cool and controlled, like a blade. She speaks, but I can't catch it. Too many sounds crashing into each other, mixing with the buzzing in my head. My eyelids flutter, heavy with the weight of everything I've lost.
I try to stay awake.
Try to stay here.
Here…
A thud echoes in my ears, and I snap back to awake, or whatever passes for awake now, for me, like this. The sound is boots on metal. The clatter of something, then a hiss of air. I know that sound, the door opening, like a breath being sucked out of the room. The tension, so thick I can feel it pressing down on me. I hang there, suspended in the metal rings, a puppet with no strings. My eyes are open, I'm sure of it, but I can't see.
I'm slipping again... no... hold... hold onto something, anything...
Contempt.
The word crawls back into my thoughts, and I cling to it. The only thing that's still real.
I'm not sure when the voices stop, but they do. There's silence now, save for the humming of the machines. The excruciator. It's always there, lurking, waiting for Sullivan's next move, buzzing, whispering in my ears. It's alive, I know it is. Perhaps I'm simply delusional but I can hear it, chuckling to itself, smiling, laughing, a twisted machine spirit performing a twisted service.
I try to breathe, but it's shallow, every inhale a sharp stab in my ribs. I don't know if I can keep doing this. My body feels... done. Over. A thing that's about to break apart and disappear.
"...her to my custody..."
The words drag me back, but they're hazy. Fuzzy. Sullivan is shouting again, something about chaos and rights and jurisdiction. I don't understand. Faust's voice remains calm, cutting through Sullivan's fury like ice through fire.
The Ordo Malleus. Faust. He's taking me. Away from Sullivan. Away from the Hereticus.
Is that good? I... don't know.
I think I'm fading again. My thoughts slip, sliding through the cracks. I feel the infection crawling under my skin, gnawing at the burned places where the marks used to be. It's going to kill me soon, I think. It's eating me alive, piece by piece. What does it matter who I belong to if there's nothing left of me?
The argument outside grows louder, more heated, but I'm drifting too far away to care. I'm so tired. I can't keep fighting this. Maybe it's better to just... let go.
But then, Helena's words echo in my head.
Hold.
I groan, the sound of it weak and pitiful, and my eyes burn with tears my body no longer has the moisture to produce.
I want to hold. I want to, but I can't. I can't do this anymore.
The voices blur into a single, endless noise. It rises, falls, crashes like waves. I can't tell where one ends and the other begins. The world tilts again, and I feel like I'm falling, though I know I'm still suspended, still trapped in the excruciator.
Hold...
But the word is slipping away, fading like everything else.
The smell hits me like a jolt—lavender. Sudden. Sharp. Like a hand gripping my soul and yanking me back from the edge of the abyss.
I was gone. I was ready to let go, to slip into the darkness. To die.
But now this scent, this impossible scent, drags me from the void. The air fills with it, rich and floral, cutting through the filth and rot that's caked onto my skin. It's Valeria's smell. Her hair. Her cleansing agent.
No, I think. It can't be real.
But it is. The scent surrounds me, pulling me from the nothingness. My throat tightens, my chest heaves, and I realize I've taken a breath. I'm still here. I'm still alive.
Why?
Then I hear it. Soft. A voice, singing, drifting through the dark.
"Emperor, shelter me under thy wings,
From the wicked, the wretched, from impure things.
Preserve my soul in thy burning light,
Banish the darkness, preserve through the night."
It's her voice. Valeria.
No. It can't be.
But the song continues, wrapping around me like warmth, like something familiar, something from before all of this. Before the excruciator, before the pain, before the chaos marks, before Lucious. It's calling me back. I want to reach out for it, but I can't move.
"Terror may strike, the heretic fall,
But the Emperor's might consumes them all.
Purge me of doubt, purge me of fear,
Purge me of every stain brought near."
My vision is still darkenss. I can't see. My body feels weightless, like I'm floating. But I'm not. I'm being lifted, freed from the metal rings that held me for so long. I should feel pain—I know I should—but all I can feel is that smell, that voice. My throat burns as I try to swallow, try to say something, but my voice is trapped somewhere deep inside me.
Her voice keeps singing.
"By thy will, I shall stand,
Emperor, hold me in thy hand.
Though the darkness seeks to devour,
Preserve me, Emperor, in this hour."
I'm slipping. The world fades again, the scent of lavender growing faint. I can't tell if it's real anymore. I'm not sure if any of this is real. The darkness pulls at me, but her voice—Valeria's voice—keeps bringing me back, even as my mind drifts in and out.
I can feel her hands now. Soft. They move gently, undoing the restraints, but the pain that rushes back as my limbs are freed is unbearable. I want to scream, but there's no strength left. It's a flood, tearing through me, but the voice... the voice is there. It's louder now, clearer, like she's closer.
"Emperor, preserver of body and soul,
Banish the shadow, make me whole.
Purge me of all that would tear me away,
From the light of thy face, from the path of thy way."
I feel something soft beneath me now. A stretcher, I think. I don't know how I know, but it's floating. A gentle hum vibrates through my skin. The movement of it stirs the air around me. Lavender. Always lavender.
"Preserve, O Emperor, thy humble child,
In thy burning gaze, fierce and wild.
Purge the taint, let none remain,
Until only thy light doth sustain."
I think I'm crying. Or maybe it's just sweat. I can't tell anymore. I can't hear anything but the song. The blackness keeps tugging at me, pulling me down, but Valeria's voice—her song—it's keeping me here, in this moment. Even as the pain grows worse, as the infection gnaws at my flesh, as my body screams for an end... her voice holds me.
I slip again.
The song fades. The lavender fades. Everything fades. I think this is the end. It has to be. My eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, there's nothing but the comforting pull of oblivion.
Then...
"Hold!"
Helena's voice again. Her order.
I want to.
I try to.
But I can't.
It's slipping away. Everything's slipping. I'm falling again, into that deep, endless dark.
But then... I feel something.
Just a whisper of sensation.
Barely there.
In my left hand, the one that still feels like mine, the non-augmetic one.
A warmth.
A pressure.
Another hand.
A familiar hand, calloused in the center from hours with scalpel and bone-saw but soft as silk around the edges.
I'm not holding onto anything anymore.
Someone else is holding onto me.
Hold...
The hum of air, thick and rushing, fills my ears like I'm inside a great, roaring beast. There's movement—steady, rhythmic—but it's not mine. I can feel it through my body, through the soft surface beneath me, but it's not me.
I'm breathing. I can tell that much, but it's not my doing. My lungs are moving, inflating, deflating, steady and smooth, like I've forgotten how and someone else is doing it for me. Something is in my mouth, pushing down my throat. Something cold and metallic attached to my arm—my good arm, not the augmetic one.
I should feel panic. I should be terrified. But I'm not. I'm... too tired. Too far gone.
The lavender scent is still there, faint now but real enough.
I'm alive. Somehow.
And then I hear her voice.
Valeria.
It's not a song anymore. It's words. Clear. Sharp. Too sharp.
"…almost total renal failure. The prolonged suspension has resulted in extensive tissue damage—muscle atrophy, venous stasis, and peripheral nerve damage. Her nervous system has been overstimulated to the point of near-total shutdown." Valeria's voice is clinical now, detached, the words clipped with that focus she always has when she's assessing something. Me, this time. "She's been through seven days of direct electrical hyperstimulation. The excruciator's voltage has ravaged her entire system. Every nerve, every synapse. It's a miracle she hasn't gone into full cardiac arrest."
I'm not a miracle. I'm just... here.
There's a pause, and then she continues, her tone dropping, softer now, almost apologetic. "Psychic pain was channeled directly into her mind. Her brain's pain centers have been bombarded, continually, without relief. There's no way to know how much cognitive damage has been done, or if any of it can be repaired. She hasn't had real sleep in almost a week."
Sleep. I almost laugh. What is sleep?
"She's severely dehydrated. We've started IV fluids, but she's lost too much too quickly. The burns..." Valeria's voice catches. She stops. I can almost see her expression tighten in frustration. "The burns are... festering. The chaos marks were carved deep into her flesh. They've gone untreated for too long. The infection is everywhere. Emperor's mercy, it's spreading through her blood. We've got holy rehydrants, blessed antibiotics, and a small army of antiseptics pumping into her even now... but her body..." Another pause. "Her body's fighting a war on too many fronts."
I feel something drip down my cheek. Tears? Sweat? I don't know anymore.
Helena's voice, cold as iron. "Will she survive?"
Valeria hesitates. I can feel her doubt. It sinks into the air like poison.
"Sister Helena," she starts, her voice suddenly quiet, quivering even, "even if she survives the infection, the burns, the dehydration, there's still the fact she was suspended by her arms and legs for a week, without rest. The ligaments in her shoulders and hips are likely torn, the muscles strained to breaking point, atrophied. Her body is covered in filth, feces, and grime... she hasn't had proper hygiene in all that time. Her immune system is..." She trails off.
Another silence. Then Valeria speaks again, quieter this time, almost a whisper. "Her fever is so high; I'm amazed she's conscious at all. Malnutrition, severe electrolyte imbalance, and hypovolemia. Her body's barely holding on. And it's not just the physical. It's the mental strain. The pain... the trauma of it all. If we start treating her aggressively, if we try to reverse the damage... the shock to her system will kill her."
Another pause. Then Valeria says the words I knew were coming, words that slide into my bones like ice.
"Even now, she could die at any moment."
So, this is it, I think. This is what death feels like. A quiet, inevitable thing. A slow painful unraveling.
There's a long silence between them. It's heavy, oppressive, like a weight pressing down on my chest. I can hear the hum of our transport, the steady rhythm of air forced into my lungs, the subtle beep of machines keeping me tethered to life.
Valeria's voice returns, steady but resigned. "It's up to her now. We can stabilize her with the resignatio comatotis ritual, treat the physical injuries while her body experiences pseudo sleep, but she has to want to survive, to come back. If she gives up... there's nothing we can do. She won't make it. There'll be nothing there to bring back, to wake up."
Helena speaks, sharp and demanding, angry. "So if she wants to die, she'll die. But if she wants to live, she'll live? That's your professional medical opinion?"
Valeria sighs heavily. "No, Sister Helena. If Aurora simply wants to live, she'll still die. But if she wants to live more than anything else, if all her faith, all her will, all her stubbornness is bent on living—if every facet of her soul chooses to cling to her mortal flesh against all thoughts of relief, of rest, of mercy... then her odds are probably fifty-fifty, and even then there's no telling how much of her will come back."
A curse.
Helena curses.
I've never heard her curse before. Not ever.
Then, her voice, closer than ever before, a low growl that sinks into my ear. "Aruora, if you even think of giving up on me," she says, every word laced with venom, "if you take the coward's way out, I swear…" there's the faintest pause, a tremble, not of anger, or rage, not of pity or compassion, but of regret, regret for what she's decides to say next… "I swear by the Emperor I'll pray the saint tells your mother you were a faithless failure of a child."
The words burn, cutting deeper into whatever's left of me that Lucious' blade ever could. My mother. Failure. I can't fail. Not now. Not after everything.
I desperately want to respond, want to tell her I'm still here, still fighting, still holding, but I can't. The world is slipping again, the edges blurring, the darkness pulling at me, not the darkness of death, but the sludgy void of chemical sleep.
Chapter 3: Awakening
New
Chapter 3: Awakening
I open my eyes to darkness.
For a moment, I wonder if I'm still trapped in the endless torment of Sullivan's Excruciator, the shadows pressing in on all sides. My heart races, a panicked beat echoing in my ears. But then I realize—this darkness is different. It's calm, still, not the chaotic abyss I remember.
I blink, and the faintest glimmer of light traces the edges of the ceiling above me. My eyes adjust slowly, pulling shapes from the gloom. I'm lying on a cot, the thin fabric pressing uncomfortably against my back. The air is cool, carrying a sterile scent that fills my nose—antiseptic, with a hint of something metallic.
I try to sit up, but my body protests. A deep ache settles in my bones, and my muscles feel like lead. My left arm—the augmetic—whirs softly as I move it, the servos responding with their usual efficiency. But it feels heavier than before, like it's trying to drag me back down. I lift it slowly, watching the fingers flex and curl with perfect precision. The metal gleams faintly in the dim light.
But the rest of me... the rest of me feels wrong.
I glance down at myself, the thin shift I'm wearing barely covering the pale expanse of my skin. Shadows accentuate the sharp angles of my ribs and hips. My left arm, once strong from endless chores and training, looks frail. I run my fingers over it—chromatic digits over my real arm—and feel the lack of substance, the way the skin hangs slightly, the bones prominent beneath.
Panic flutters in my chest once more. What happened to me?
I swing my legs over the side of the cot, feet touching the cold floor. The chill shoots up through me, and I shiver. I attempt to stand, but my knees buckle, and I grab the edge of the cot to keep from falling. The augmetic arm doesn't help; it only adds imbalance, pulling me sharply to one side.
"Emperor..." I whisper, my voice hoarse and unfamiliar. It scratches at my throat, dry and unused.
How long have I been here?
I take a cautious step forward, legs trembling with the effort. Each movement feels alien, as if my body is no longer mine. I catch sight of something on my skin—a dark line jagged across my palm. Holding my hand up, I trace the scar with a metal fingertip. The skin is rough and uneven, a stark contrast to the surrounding flesh.
Memories crash into me.
The burning pipe. Pressing it against my palm, the searing pain. The need to purge the mark—the twisted rune carved there by Lucious. The Excruciator, Sullivan! I close my eyes, the phantom pain flaring anew. My forehead throbs in sympathy, and I reach up, fingers finding another scar, raw and raised.
I move to the small sink in the corner, gripping the edges for support. A tarnished mirror hangs above it, and I catch my reflection—gaunt cheeks, hollow eyes shadowed with exhaustion. My hair hangs limp and uneven around my face.
I stare at myself, taking in the network of scars etched into my emaciated skin. One on my shoulder, another along my forehead. Each one a reminder of that night, of the darkness that tried to consume me.
But I'm alive.
Somehow.
I turn on the tap, the pipes groaning before a thin stream of water sputters out. Cupping my hands, I splash my face, the cold biting into my skin. It wakes me up a little more, clears some of the fog from my mind.
Looking around the room, I take in my surroundings. It's a cell—there's no mistaking that. The walls are bare metal, rivets lining the seams. No windows, only a heavy door set flush with the wall. A table bolted to the floor stands in the center, a single chair tucked neatly beneath it. Beside the sink and the cot, there's a small toilet in the opposite corner, no partition for privacy.
On the table lies a book. Even from here, I can read the title embossed on the cover: The Rule of the Sororitas: Order of the Sanctified Shield. Next to it, a blank notebook and three pens are arranged with meticulous precision.
Why am I here?
I push away from the sink, making my way unsteadily to the table. Each step is deliberate, my muscles protesting but obeying. I pull out the chair and sink into it, the metal cold against my legs. Reaching out, I run my fingers over the cover of the book. The raised lettering is smooth, the pages crisp and unblemished.
I open it, the spine cracking softly. The familiar words greet me, passages I've heard recited countless times by Sister Helena, now in physical form. Teachings of faith, duty, and obedience. I flip through the pages, the scent of fresh paper mingling with the sterile air.
Why leave this here for me?
I glance at the notebook. Its pages are blank, the paper thick and inviting. The pens are simple, utilitarian. I pick one up, feeling its weight in my hand. For a moment, I consider writing something—anything—but words escape me.
Setting the pen down, I lean back, eyes drifting up to the ceiling. Questions swirl in my mind. How did I get here? The last thing I remember is Valeria's voice, her song soothing me as darkness closed in. I recall the scent of lavender, the soft touch of her hand.
I was dying.
Was that a dream?
I press a hand to my chest, feeling the steady thump of my heart. It's real. I'm real. But everything else feels uncertain.
Time. How much time has passed?
I look at my hands again, noting the thinness of my wrists, the way the veins stand out beneath the skin. My nails are clean but brittle, edges rough. My gaze travels down my body, noting the way the shift hangs loosely, the fabric barely touching me.
It must have been weeks. Maybe months.
But why? Why keep me alive? Why heal me?
A chill runs through me at the thought that perhaps they didn't heal me at all—that this is some afterlife, a penance for my sins. But the ache in my muscles, the cold seeping into my bones—it's too tangible to be anything but real.
I reach up to touch the scar on my forehead again, fingers tracing the uneven line. Beneath it, I can almost feel a faint pulsing, like the echo of the mark that was once there.
A shudder passes through me.
Am I still tainted?
The thought creeps in, unwelcome and insistent.
What if the corruption never left? What if it burrowed deeper, hiding beneath the charred surface? I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms.
"Contempt," I whisper, the word a fragile shield against the encroaching fear. Sister Helena's lesson echoes in my mind—contempt for the heretic, the mutant, the daemon.
But what if the heretic is me?
I shake my head, trying to dispel the notion. No. I fought it. I burned the marks away. I endured the pain, the interrogation. I held on.
Didn't I?
I push back from the table, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. The sudden noise startles me, and I freeze, listening. Silence presses in, thick and unbroken. No hum of the excruciator, no shouting voices. Just the sound of my own breathing, ragged and uneven.
I stand, moving towards the door. There's no handle, no visible means of opening it from this side. I press my ear against the cold metal, straining to hear anything beyond.
Silence, followed by nothing.
Stepping back, I study the seams, looking for any weakness. My augmetic arm might be strong enough to force it open, but in my current state, I doubt I have the strength to even try. Frustration wells up, and I slam my metal fist against the door. The clang echoes in the small room, fading into the silence.
"Is anyone there?" I call out, my voice cracking. "Hello?"
Silence.
I feel a pang of desperation. Am I truly alone here?
Turning away, I let my gaze sweep over the room once more. There's a small vent near the ceiling, barely large enough to fit my hand through. I drag the chair beneath it, climbing up to peer inside. Darkness stretches beyond, the air faintly cooler as it brushes against my face.
"Hello?" I whisper into the void.
No response.
Climbing down, I slump onto the cot, pulling my knees to my chest. The fabric of the shift offers little warmth, and I rub my arms to ward off the chill, glad of the minute heat generated by the augmetic's power plant. My stomach growls, a sharp reminder of how empty it is.
When was the last time I ate?
As if in answer, a faint hiss sounds from the corner. I look up to see a small panel sliding open near the floor. A tray is pushed through, laden with simple fare—a bowl of thin porridge, a piece of hard bread, a cup of water, and, seemingly out of place, an unopened tube of protein paste.
I stare at it, a mix of relief and suspicion coursing through me. Pushing myself up, I approach cautiously. The panel snaps shut as I reach it, the seam almost invisible against the wall.
Picking up the tray, I carry it to the table. The porridge is lukewarm, the bread stale, the protein paste utterly bland, but I don't care. I eat ravenously, the food sitting heavy in my stomach. The water is cool, soothing my parched throat.
As I eat, I consider my situation. Someone is watching. Providing for me. But they remain unseen, unheard.
Why the isolation?
I recall stories whispered among the novices—tales of penitents locked away to contemplate their sins, or initiates tested in solitude to prove their devotion. Is this a trial? A punishment? Or something worse… permanent…
I glance at the book again. The Rule of the Sororitas. Perhaps they expect me to study, to reflect, learn?
Setting the empty tray aside, I open the book once more. The pages blur before me, the words swimming. I try to focus, forcing myself to read aloud.
"In the God-Emperor's name, we serve. Through faith and fire, we cleanse the heretic and the unclean. Discipline is our shield; righteousness our blade."
The unfamiliar passages bring a measure of comfort. I read on, losing myself in the doctrines and hymns, the beauty of litany and verse. Time slips by, unmarked.
Eventually, fatigue pulls at me. I close the book, placing it neatly back on the table. The cot beckons, and I lie down, staring up at the featureless ceiling.
Sleep doesn't come easily. My mind churns with unanswered questions, fears lurking at the edges of my thoughts.
What if they never let me out?
I turn onto my side, curling into a ball. The scars on my body throb faintly, reminders of wounds and tortures that should have killed me. I run a finger over the one on my shoulder, feeling the raised skin. Beneath it, a phantom itch, as if something still lingers.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the sensation away.
"Contempt," I murmur. "Contempt…"
I repeat the word until my thoughts blur and darkness finally takes me.
***************************************************
I'm jolted awake by a soft sound—a faint click. Sitting up, I rub my eyes, trying to orient myself. The room remains the same, dim and unchanging. I don't know how long I've slept.
The tray is gone. I didn't hear anyone enter.
Swinging my legs over the side of the cot, I stand, testing my strength. My muscles protest slightly less this time, a minor improvement, probably the food. I walk the perimeter of the room, counting my steps. Twenty paces long, Ten paces wide.
No windows. No clocks. No way to measure time.
Back at the table, I pick up the notebook. Flipping it open, I find the pages blank, pristine. I tap the pen against the paper, contemplating.
Perhaps I can keep track of the days. Mark the passages of time, record my thoughts. Perhaps that's what they're waiting for, to see what I write, to see what I do, a test, and with it, the hope that I could pass. Should I write? Do I dare reveal my own thoughts and commit them to paper? What sort of man is Faust, my assumed jailer? Did he leave these for me, or did Sister Helena have a hand in this?
My head begins to ache with the questions.
I begin to write, the pen scratching softly.
"Day One? I don't know how long I've been here. I woke up weak, scarred, but alive. The room is a cell—plain, cold. I am alone."
I pause, the words feeling inadequate.
"Why am I here?"
I stare at the question, hoping for an answer that doesn't come.
Setting the pen down, I rest my head in my hands. The silence presses in, heavy and oppressive.
I need to stay focused. To remain strong. No. To become strong again.
I stare down at my atrophied muscles. The base of strength is there, but worn away by disuse, perhaps by malnutrition?
The question rises in my mind again. How long?
I huff a breath out through my nose. It doesn't matter. If I live through this ordeal I will come out the other side fit to fight and serve Sister Helena. If I am to be isolated, with no one, then I will study these holy words, I will maintain this body of flesh which is the Emperor's tool. I will memorize. I will exercise. I will train. I will not give in to fear or loneliness. I will hold onto contempt, even if it becomes contempt for myself.
Yes.
"Sister Helena believes in me, she must, or else why save me from Sullivan, why heal me?" I write, feeling better as I commit the words to paper. "I will hold onto that hope, no matter how long I'm here."
Pushing aside the notebook, I stand and begin a series of simple exercises—stretches, bends, anything to regain some strength. My body moves sluggishly, but I persist, counting each repetition.
As I work, I take frequent breaks as exhausted limbs burn and threaten to give out completely. I begin to read aloud passages from the book, letting the unfamiliar words find purchase in my mind.
"Faith is the soul's anchor amidst the storm. Discipline tempers the spirit against corruption."
This is a holy book. This is the book by which Sister Helena acts and finds her authority. These are the Emperor's words spoken through the saint and those who came after her. I will read them, I will embody them, I will prove that I am not a heretic!
Sweat beads on my forehead, and my limbs tremble with effort. After only minutes I collapse back onto the chair, breathless but satisfied.
Reaching for the pens again, I sketch the Aquila, on the back of my hand, over the scar. The lines are shaky, but it brings me comfort.
Food arrives. I sleep and wake. Time passes, unmeasured. I read, write, memorize, exercise, sketch the aquila on my flesh. The routine becomes my anchor.
But in the quiet moments, when there's nothing to distract me, the doubts creep back in.
Am I tainted? Will they ever trust me again?
I press my hand over the scar on my palm, feeling the steady beat of my pulse beneath. The mark is gone, but the memory remains.
Perhaps this isolation is a mercy—a way to protect others from me.
Or perhaps it's a test.
I resolve to face it with strength, to prove my faith.
No matter how long it takes.
Journal Entry – Day 14 (I think)
I don't know if it's really been fourteen days, but I've been marking time by meals and sleeps, and that's what I've counted. The days blur together here. The room never changes—always the same dim light, the same cold walls, the same silence.
Every night, just before I feel sleep pulling at me, there's a hiss from the vents. A sweet smell fills the air, and I can't help but breathe it in. Next thing I know, I wake up, and everything's been tidied. The sheets are fresh, the food tray is gone, and any marks I've made on the walls are wiped clean. It's like I'm stuck in a loop, living the same day over and over.
My body feels strange. Weak. My legs wobble when I try to stand, and my arms tremble with the slightest effort. The worst is my left arm—the augmetic. It used to feel like a part of me, strong and sure. Now it drags at my shoulder, heavy and unbalanced. I have to cradle it with my right hand sometimes, just to keep from tipping over.
I tried walking laps around the room today. Twenty steps long, Ten steps wide. I managed three laps before my knees gave out and I had to sit down. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst. It's frustrating. I remember running through the corridors of the Schola, dodging older students, always moving. Now, just pacing this tiny space leaves me exhausted.
They don't give me much to eat. Porridge, a piece of hard bread, water, and the blessed protein paste. It's the same every day. My stomach growls all the time. I dream of thick sandwiches and sweet cakes, of the simple meals Valeria used to sneak me when I was a menial. I need more food, for substance, to fill up what I've lost.
I've been reading The Rule of the Sororitas. It's the only book they left me, besides this notebook. The pages are crisp, the ink dark. It feels new, untouched, like it's waiting for me to fill it with meaning.
There's a passage I keep coming back to:
"A Sister must purge herself of all personal desires, for in shedding the self, she becomes a vessel for the Emperor's will. Let not individual want nor fear deter you, for sacrifice is the path to purity. Put to death the self. Serve the Emperor. To die for the Emperor is to be sought over indulgence."
I think about that a lot. About what it means to let go of wants and fears. I still feel fear—it's a knot in my stomach that never goes away. Fear of being alone here forever, fear that I'm tainted, that I'll never see the sky again. I know I need to be stronger, to have faith, but it's hard when the silence is so loud.
Another part that struck me:
"Discipline is the fire that forges the faithful. Through unwavering devotion and adherence to the holy traditions, a Sister strengthens not only her body but her soul against the insidious whispers of heresy."
I try to be disciplined. I wake up and recite one of the morning prayers. I read the words aloud, letting them fill the emptiness. I practice battle-sign, my fingers moving through the motions even when my hands shake. But sometimes, the whispers creep in—the doubts, the questions. I push them away, repeating, "Contempt."
I miss hearing other voices. Even Sister Helena's stern corrections or Valeria's gentle humming. Here, there's nothing but my own thoughts echoing back at me.
At night, before the gas comes, I kneel beside the cot and pray:
"Emperor, I thank You for keeping me alive, for giving me another day to prove my faith. I know I am weak, but through You, I can find strength. Please forgive me for running away, for failing to stop Lucious. I didn't understand then, but I want to make it right. Cleanse me of any taint, and let me serve You as a true daughter of the Imperium.
Watch over Sister Helena and Valeria, wherever they are. Grant them Your protection and guidance. If it is Your will, let me see them again.
I place myself in Your hands, oh Master of Mankind. Your will be done."
When I finish, I feel a little lighter, like maybe He hears me. Maybe this is a test—a chance to show that I can be faithful even in darkness. I'll keep trying. I'll keep reading, keep praying, keep moving, even if it's just a few steps at a time.
I won't give up.
I know you're reading this, whoever you are.
I won't give up!
Journal Entry – Day 45 (Probably)
I haven't written anything for a long time. Maybe two weeks? I'm not sure anymore. The days blend together here, like paint swirling until all the colors turn to gray.
I'm sorry, notebook. I just... didn't have the strength. It was like a heavy blanket was smothering me, making it hard to breathe, to move, to even think. I felt so alone, and the silence was so loud it hurt my ears.
But today, something changed.
I was flipping through The Rule of the Sororitas, not really reading, just letting the pages turn under my fingers. Then I found the "Morning Rite." I don't know how I missed it before.
There's a Litany that goes:
"O Emperor, strip me of my burdens, Empty me of selfish desire. Purge from me the wants of the flesh, That I may be filled with Your wrath against unholiness, Your love for all humanity, Your zeal for purity, And Your radiant glory. Let me be a vessel, hollow and true, So only Your light shines within me."
As I read it aloud, my voice shaky and small in this empty room, I felt tears on my cheeks. I don't even remember starting to cry. The words felt like they were peeling away the layers I've been hiding under, exposing all the messy, ugly parts of me.
I've been so caught up in my own sadness, my own wants. I want to get out of here. I want to know what's happening. I want someone to talk to me. But maybe that's selfish. Maybe I'm clinging to my own desires instead of trusting the Emperor's plan.
Then there's a Reading from Canoness Jessamine Hallas:
"Faith is the unbreakable shield upon which all heresy shatters. To question one's faith is to hold a shield riddled with cracks, inviting the enemy's blade. Let your faith be absolute, without doubt or hesitation, for in unwavering belief lies the strength to vanquish darkness. The moment you allow uncertainty to creep in, you have already stepped onto the path of corruption."
Her words scare me. What if my doubts mean I'm already corrupt? I've always had questions swirling in my head, like little gnats that won't go away. Even when I believe with all my heart that the Emperor is watching over me, there's a tiny voice whispering, asking things I shouldn't be asking.
Why am I here? Why did the Light Woman bring me here? What am I supposed to be? What if I'm tainted… and don't even know it?
Valeria never seemed to struggle like this. She was always so sure, her eyes bright with faith. And Sister Helena... she moves with such purpose, like she and the Emperor are one and the same. I've always admired them, wanted to be like them. But no matter how hard I try, I can't silence the questions.
Does that make me weak? Does it make me... a heretic?
The Collect at the end was a prayer:
"O Emperor, grant me the purity of blind faith, That Your light may be all I see. Let every question find silence, Not through answers, but through unwavering focus on You. Shield me from doubt, for in doubt lies the seed of heresy. Fill me completely, that there is no room for anything but Your will. Your light is enough. Your light is everything. Emperor be praised."
I whispered the words, my hands clasped so tight my knuckles turned white. I wanted to mean them. I wanted the doubts to just vanish, to feel that warm certainty that Valeria and Sister Helena seem to have.
But even as I prayed, the questions were still there, lurking in the corners of my mind.
What if faith isn't about being blind? What if the Emperor wants us to seek, to understand? If His light is so strong, shouldn't it shine even brighter when we ask questions, not dim? How strong can a shield be if it can't withstand even a simple question?
Oh, Emperor! Did I just accuse a saint of having weak faith!? Am I wrong to think this way? I must be! But…
Nothing makes sense anymore…
I feel like there's something broken inside me, something that can't be fixed. Maybe Lucious saw it. Maybe that's why he did what he did. Maybe he knew I was weak, that I was already tainted with doubt.
But I don't want to be like that. I want to be strong. I want to have faith that doesn't waver, that doesn't shake every time I'm alone in the dark.
I tried to change my thoughts. I focused on my exercises. My body is getting stronger I've been running laps around the room—at first, I could barely do a few without collapsing. Now, I've reached a thousand laps! It sounds like a lot, but in this small space, it's not as impressive as it seems. Still, it's progress. My augmetic arm moves smoothly again, not dragging me down like before. I've memorized the Fifty Litanies of Contempt. When I recite them, I feel a spark of strength.
"Contempt for the heretic, who twists the Emperor's truth.
Contempt for the mutant, a mockery of His perfect form.
Contempt for the xeno, who seeks to corrupt His realm.
Contempt is my shield; righteousness is my blade."
The list goes on, but then a whisper in my mind asks, "What if I'm the heretic?"
I shake my head hard when that happens, until the thoughts scatter like startled birds. I don't want to think that way. I can't. I won't…
I hope they'll let me out soon. Maybe if I show that I'm faithful, that I'm strong, they'll see I'm not tainted. That I can serve. I just… I just want to serve, faithfully, like my mother. I don't care about where or how. I'm sorry Helena, Valeria, but it's the truth; I just want the opportunity, any kind of service. I suppose… even death…
"Emperor, please hear me. I'm trying so hard to be the daughter You want me to be. I'm scared that there's something wrong with me, that my questions mean I'm not worthy. Please, help me silence these doubts. Fill me with Your light so there's no room for them.
I'm sorry for thinking things I shouldn't. For questioning when I should be trusting. Forgive me if I've failed You.
Please watch over Sister Helena and Valeria. Keep them safe. I wish I could see them again. Maybe they'd know what to do.
Thank You for giving me strength each day. I'll keep trying. I won't give up.
Your will be done."
For those reading this… I…
Nevermind…
Journal Entry – Day??? I don't know anymore
So, they didn't feed me yesterday.
That's new.
Maybe they're upset I haven't been writing? If that's the case, here you go—hope you're happy.
Honestly, I haven't felt like journaling. I've been busy. Training takes up most of my time now. I just have this feeling that they're going to let me out soon. Don't ask me how I know; I just... feel it. Like an itch you can't scratch.
Maybe the lack of food is punishment for the dents I've been putting in the door. It's not like I'm trying to break out. Hitting the door just makes more sense than punching the walls—I don't want to accidentally bust a pipe and flood this place or get zapped by some hidden conduit. If they're bothered by it, they could at least give me a proper training dummy. Or a punching bag. Is that too much to ask?
But I guess talking to me is out of the question.
Anyway, since it's been a while, here's a recap.
I've built up some nice callouses on my right hand—the knuckles, the palm, even the edge. Same with my feet. Hitting that door has its benefits. I've worked out a routine: strikes, blocks, footwork. I can work through the forty palms of wrath and the ten basic forms more rapidly than I ever could before, I can even mix them… I wish I had something new to learn, but Sister Helena always did say it's the basics that count.
I can run twenty-five thousand laps now before I start feeling tired. In this tiny room, that's got to add up to... well, a lot. Probably more than I ever ran back at the Schola. My augmetic arm feels perfectly balanced again, like it's truly part of me now.
Oh, and about this shift they keep giving me—it's too small. I've grown, I think. It's tight across the shoulders and rides up when I move. It itches like crazy when I sweat, which is all the time now. If anyone's listening, a bigger size would be nice. Or at least something that doesn't scratch. And maybe another tube or two of protein paste wouldn't hurt. My muscles are back, and they need feeding.
My hair's a filthy mess, too. Keeps getting in my eyes. If you won't give me a hairband, maybe just shave it off next time I'm out cold and you bathe me? Otherwise, I'll keep tearing strips off the bedsheets to tie it back.
I've read The Rule of the Sororitas: Order of the Sanctified Shield cover to cover a dozen times now. I think I get why I'm here, and why they left me the book.
There's a canticle by Canoness Jessamine Hallas that stands out:
Canticle 187: A Call to Vigilance
"Idleness is the garden where heresy takes root.
A soul at rest invites corruption's pursuit.
The faithful must toil, from dawn until night,
Lest shadows consume the Emperor's light.
Evil is evil, in grand deeds or small,
A seed in the heart leads to the fall.
The heretic's nature is stained to the core,
No mask or pretense can hide it anymore.
They walk among us with smiles and lies,
But corruption leaks through their clever disguise.
In words and in deeds, their true selves betray,
For darkness cannot long suffer delay.
The faithful stand vigilant, eyes open wide,
For signs of the tainted that cannot hide.
In prayer and in labor, we sharpen our sight,
To uncover the heretic's blight.
No thought left unguarded, no task left undone,
For the war against evil is never won.
It's a battle eternal, both outward and in,
To cleanse our souls and keep us from sin.
Beware the idle who linger and pause,
For they are the ones who forget His cause.
The heretic falters, in duty and prayer,
Revealing the taint that they secretly bear.
So work without ceasing, keep your spirit pure,
In service and faith, you shall endure.
The Emperor's gaze pierces flesh and bone,
He knows His faithful; He calls them His own.
Let not your hands idle, nor your mind stray,
For heresy breeds in the effortless way.
Stand firm in your purpose, let your heart be aflame,
And the heretic's schemes shall wither in shame."
Sixteen verses hammering home the idea that heresy can't help but show itself. That no matter how hard someone tries to hide it, their true nature will slip through.
So, putting two and two together, I figure this whole setup is a test. Stick me in a box, watch me, see if I reveal myself as a heretic.
What did they expect me to do? Scratch unholy symbols into the walls? Start babbling blasphemy? Maybe smear filth everywhere and laugh maniacally?
Or was it more subtle? Were they reading my journal, hoping I'd spill dark secrets or confess impure thoughts? Waiting to see if I'd neglect my prayers, wallow in self-pity, or let my training slide?
Well, if that's the game, then they've had their fun.
To whoever's out there watching—you're cold-hearted, you know that? But I guess being cold-hearted bastards is part of the job description. Probably why Sister Helena's so good at it.
...
I think I'm done with this. You can keep me locked up forever, starve me, whatever. I'm not playing along anymore. Journaling, pondering what you might think of me—it's distracting. I've got better things to do. Training. Studying the sacred texts. Strengthening my faith. Remembering to be your little pet project is distracting me.
If you're so indecisive that you can't figure out what to do with me by now, that's on you. Seems like a waste of the Emperor's resources to keep this up. Maybe you're the ones failing Him, ever think of that?
So go ahead. Keep wasting time. I'll be here, doing what I need to do.
"Emperor, grant me perseverance to endure this trial. Give wisdom to those who hold me here, that they might see clearly. Watch over Sister Helena and Valeria; I hope they haven't suffered because of me. Your will be done.
In His Light."
I open my eyes to darkness.
For a moment, I wonder if I'm still trapped in the endless torment of Sullivan's Excruciator, the shadows pressing in on all sides. My heart races, a panicked beat echoing in my ears. But then I realize—this darkness is different. It's calm, still, not the chaotic abyss I remember.
I blink, and the faintest glimmer of light traces the edges of the ceiling above me. My eyes adjust slowly, pulling shapes from the gloom. I'm lying on a cot, the thin fabric pressing uncomfortably against my back. The air is cool, carrying a sterile scent that fills my nose—antiseptic, with a hint of something metallic.
I try to sit up, but my body protests. A deep ache settles in my bones, and my muscles feel like lead. My left arm—the augmetic—whirs softly as I move it, the servos responding with their usual efficiency. But it feels heavier than before, like it's trying to drag me back down. I lift it slowly, watching the fingers flex and curl with perfect precision. The metal gleams faintly in the dim light.
But the rest of me... the rest of me feels wrong.
I glance down at myself, the thin shift I'm wearing barely covering the pale expanse of my skin. Shadows accentuate the sharp angles of my ribs and hips. My left arm, once strong from endless chores and training, looks frail. I run my fingers over it—chromatic digits over my real arm—and feel the lack of substance, the way the skin hangs slightly, the bones prominent beneath.
Panic flutters in my chest once more. What happened to me?
I swing my legs over the side of the cot, feet touching the cold floor. The chill shoots up through me, and I shiver. I attempt to stand, but my knees buckle, and I grab the edge of the cot to keep from falling. The augmetic arm doesn't help; it only adds imbalance, pulling me sharply to one side.
"Emperor..." I whisper, my voice hoarse and unfamiliar. It scratches at my throat, dry and unused.
How long have I been here?
I take a cautious step forward, legs trembling with the effort. Each movement feels alien, as if my body is no longer mine. I catch sight of something on my skin—a dark line jagged across my palm. Holding my hand up, I trace the scar with a metal fingertip. The skin is rough and uneven, a stark contrast to the surrounding flesh.
Memories crash into me.
The burning pipe. Pressing it against my palm, the searing pain. The need to purge the mark—the twisted rune carved there by Lucious. The Excruciator, Sullivan! I close my eyes, the phantom pain flaring anew. My forehead throbs in sympathy, and I reach up, fingers finding another scar, raw and raised.
I move to the small sink in the corner, gripping the edges for support. A tarnished mirror hangs above it, and I catch my reflection—gaunt cheeks, hollow eyes shadowed with exhaustion. My hair hangs limp and uneven around my face.
I stare at myself, taking in the network of scars etched into my emaciated skin. One on my shoulder, another along my forehead. Each one a reminder of that night, of the darkness that tried to consume me.
But I'm alive.
Somehow.
I turn on the tap, the pipes groaning before a thin stream of water sputters out. Cupping my hands, I splash my face, the cold biting into my skin. It wakes me up a little more, clears some of the fog from my mind.
Looking around the room, I take in my surroundings. It's a cell—there's no mistaking that. The walls are bare metal, rivets lining the seams. No windows, only a heavy door set flush with the wall. A table bolted to the floor stands in the center, a single chair tucked neatly beneath it. Beside the sink and the cot, there's a small toilet in the opposite corner, no partition for privacy.
On the table lies a book. Even from here, I can read the title embossed on the cover: The Rule of the Sororitas: Order of the Sanctified Shield. Next to it, a blank notebook and three pens are arranged with meticulous precision.
Why am I here?
I push away from the sink, making my way unsteadily to the table. Each step is deliberate, my muscles protesting but obeying. I pull out the chair and sink into it, the metal cold against my legs. Reaching out, I run my fingers over the cover of the book. The raised lettering is smooth, the pages crisp and unblemished.
I open it, the spine cracking softly. The familiar words greet me, passages I've heard recited countless times by Sister Helena, now in physical form. Teachings of faith, duty, and obedience. I flip through the pages, the scent of fresh paper mingling with the sterile air.
Why leave this here for me?
I glance at the notebook. Its pages are blank, the paper thick and inviting. The pens are simple, utilitarian. I pick one up, feeling its weight in my hand. For a moment, I consider writing something—anything—but words escape me.
Setting the pen down, I lean back, eyes drifting up to the ceiling. Questions swirl in my mind. How did I get here? The last thing I remember is Valeria's voice, her song soothing me as darkness closed in. I recall the scent of lavender, the soft touch of her hand.
I was dying.
Was that a dream?
I press a hand to my chest, feeling the steady thump of my heart. It's real. I'm real. But everything else feels uncertain.
Time. How much time has passed?
I look at my hands again, noting the thinness of my wrists, the way the veins stand out beneath the skin. My nails are clean but brittle, edges rough. My gaze travels down my body, noting the way the shift hangs loosely, the fabric barely touching me.
It must have been weeks. Maybe months.
But why? Why keep me alive? Why heal me?
A chill runs through me at the thought that perhaps they didn't heal me at all—that this is some afterlife, a penance for my sins. But the ache in my muscles, the cold seeping into my bones—it's too tangible to be anything but real.
I reach up to touch the scar on my forehead again, fingers tracing the uneven line. Beneath it, I can almost feel a faint pulsing, like the echo of the mark that was once there.
A shudder passes through me.
Am I still tainted?
The thought creeps in, unwelcome and insistent.
What if the corruption never left? What if it burrowed deeper, hiding beneath the charred surface? I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms.
"Contempt," I whisper, the word a fragile shield against the encroaching fear. Sister Helena's lesson echoes in my mind—contempt for the heretic, the mutant, the daemon.
But what if the heretic is me?
I shake my head, trying to dispel the notion. No. I fought it. I burned the marks away. I endured the pain, the interrogation. I held on.
Didn't I?
I push back from the table, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. The sudden noise startles me, and I freeze, listening. Silence presses in, thick and unbroken. No hum of the excruciator, no shouting voices. Just the sound of my own breathing, ragged and uneven.
I stand, moving towards the door. There's no handle, no visible means of opening it from this side. I press my ear against the cold metal, straining to hear anything beyond.
Silence, followed by nothing.
Stepping back, I study the seams, looking for any weakness. My augmetic arm might be strong enough to force it open, but in my current state, I doubt I have the strength to even try. Frustration wells up, and I slam my metal fist against the door. The clang echoes in the small room, fading into the silence.
"Is anyone there?" I call out, my voice cracking. "Hello?"
Silence.
I feel a pang of desperation. Am I truly alone here?
Turning away, I let my gaze sweep over the room once more. There's a small vent near the ceiling, barely large enough to fit my hand through. I drag the chair beneath it, climbing up to peer inside. Darkness stretches beyond, the air faintly cooler as it brushes against my face.
"Hello?" I whisper into the void.
No response.
Climbing down, I slump onto the cot, pulling my knees to my chest. The fabric of the shift offers little warmth, and I rub my arms to ward off the chill, glad of the minute heat generated by the augmetic's power plant. My stomach growls, a sharp reminder of how empty it is.
When was the last time I ate?
As if in answer, a faint hiss sounds from the corner. I look up to see a small panel sliding open near the floor. A tray is pushed through, laden with simple fare—a bowl of thin porridge, a piece of hard bread, a cup of water, and, seemingly out of place, an unopened tube of protein paste.
I stare at it, a mix of relief and suspicion coursing through me. Pushing myself up, I approach cautiously. The panel snaps shut as I reach it, the seam almost invisible against the wall.
Picking up the tray, I carry it to the table. The porridge is lukewarm, the bread stale, the protein paste utterly bland, but I don't care. I eat ravenously, the food sitting heavy in my stomach. The water is cool, soothing my parched throat.
As I eat, I consider my situation. Someone is watching. Providing for me. But they remain unseen, unheard.
Why the isolation?
I recall stories whispered among the novices—tales of penitents locked away to contemplate their sins, or initiates tested in solitude to prove their devotion. Is this a trial? A punishment? Or something worse… permanent…
I glance at the book again. The Rule of the Sororitas. Perhaps they expect me to study, to reflect, learn?
Setting the empty tray aside, I open the book once more. The pages blur before me, the words swimming. I try to focus, forcing myself to read aloud.
"In the God-Emperor's name, we serve. Through faith and fire, we cleanse the heretic and the unclean. Discipline is our shield; righteousness our blade."
The unfamiliar passages bring a measure of comfort. I read on, losing myself in the doctrines and hymns, the beauty of litany and verse. Time slips by, unmarked.
Eventually, fatigue pulls at me. I close the book, placing it neatly back on the table. The cot beckons, and I lie down, staring up at the featureless ceiling.
Sleep doesn't come easily. My mind churns with unanswered questions, fears lurking at the edges of my thoughts.
What if they never let me out?
I turn onto my side, curling into a ball. The scars on my body throb faintly, reminders of wounds and tortures that should have killed me. I run a finger over the one on my shoulder, feeling the raised skin. Beneath it, a phantom itch, as if something still lingers.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the sensation away.
"Contempt," I murmur. "Contempt…"
I repeat the word until my thoughts blur and darkness finally takes me.
***************************************************
I'm jolted awake by a soft sound—a faint click. Sitting up, I rub my eyes, trying to orient myself. The room remains the same, dim and unchanging. I don't know how long I've slept.
The tray is gone. I didn't hear anyone enter.
Swinging my legs over the side of the cot, I stand, testing my strength. My muscles protest slightly less this time, a minor improvement, probably the food. I walk the perimeter of the room, counting my steps. Twenty paces long, Ten paces wide.
No windows. No clocks. No way to measure time.
Back at the table, I pick up the notebook. Flipping it open, I find the pages blank, pristine. I tap the pen against the paper, contemplating.
Perhaps I can keep track of the days. Mark the passages of time, record my thoughts. Perhaps that's what they're waiting for, to see what I write, to see what I do, a test, and with it, the hope that I could pass. Should I write? Do I dare reveal my own thoughts and commit them to paper? What sort of man is Faust, my assumed jailer? Did he leave these for me, or did Sister Helena have a hand in this?
My head begins to ache with the questions.
I begin to write, the pen scratching softly.
"Day One? I don't know how long I've been here. I woke up weak, scarred, but alive. The room is a cell—plain, cold. I am alone."
I pause, the words feeling inadequate.
"Why am I here?"
I stare at the question, hoping for an answer that doesn't come.
Setting the pen down, I rest my head in my hands. The silence presses in, heavy and oppressive.
I need to stay focused. To remain strong. No. To become strong again.
I stare down at my atrophied muscles. The base of strength is there, but worn away by disuse, perhaps by malnutrition?
The question rises in my mind again. How long?
I huff a breath out through my nose. It doesn't matter. If I live through this ordeal I will come out the other side fit to fight and serve Sister Helena. If I am to be isolated, with no one, then I will study these holy words, I will maintain this body of flesh which is the Emperor's tool. I will memorize. I will exercise. I will train. I will not give in to fear or loneliness. I will hold onto contempt, even if it becomes contempt for myself.
Yes.
"Sister Helena believes in me, she must, or else why save me from Sullivan, why heal me?" I write, feeling better as I commit the words to paper. "I will hold onto that hope, no matter how long I'm here."
Pushing aside the notebook, I stand and begin a series of simple exercises—stretches, bends, anything to regain some strength. My body moves sluggishly, but I persist, counting each repetition.
As I work, I take frequent breaks as exhausted limbs burn and threaten to give out completely. I begin to read aloud passages from the book, letting the unfamiliar words find purchase in my mind.
"Faith is the soul's anchor amidst the storm. Discipline tempers the spirit against corruption."
This is a holy book. This is the book by which Sister Helena acts and finds her authority. These are the Emperor's words spoken through the saint and those who came after her. I will read them, I will embody them, I will prove that I am not a heretic!
Sweat beads on my forehead, and my limbs tremble with effort. After only minutes I collapse back onto the chair, breathless but satisfied.
Reaching for the pens again, I sketch the Aquila, on the back of my hand, over the scar. The lines are shaky, but it brings me comfort.
Food arrives. I sleep and wake. Time passes, unmeasured. I read, write, memorize, exercise, sketch the aquila on my flesh. The routine becomes my anchor.
But in the quiet moments, when there's nothing to distract me, the doubts creep back in.
Am I tainted? Will they ever trust me again?
I press my hand over the scar on my palm, feeling the steady beat of my pulse beneath. The mark is gone, but the memory remains.
Perhaps this isolation is a mercy—a way to protect others from me.
Or perhaps it's a test.
I resolve to face it with strength, to prove my faith.
No matter how long it takes.
Journal Entry – Day 14 (I think)
I don't know if it's really been fourteen days, but I've been marking time by meals and sleeps, and that's what I've counted. The days blur together here. The room never changes—always the same dim light, the same cold walls, the same silence.
Every night, just before I feel sleep pulling at me, there's a hiss from the vents. A sweet smell fills the air, and I can't help but breathe it in. Next thing I know, I wake up, and everything's been tidied. The sheets are fresh, the food tray is gone, and any marks I've made on the walls are wiped clean. It's like I'm stuck in a loop, living the same day over and over.
My body feels strange. Weak. My legs wobble when I try to stand, and my arms tremble with the slightest effort. The worst is my left arm—the augmetic. It used to feel like a part of me, strong and sure. Now it drags at my shoulder, heavy and unbalanced. I have to cradle it with my right hand sometimes, just to keep from tipping over.
I tried walking laps around the room today. Twenty steps long, Ten steps wide. I managed three laps before my knees gave out and I had to sit down. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst. It's frustrating. I remember running through the corridors of the Schola, dodging older students, always moving. Now, just pacing this tiny space leaves me exhausted.
They don't give me much to eat. Porridge, a piece of hard bread, water, and the blessed protein paste. It's the same every day. My stomach growls all the time. I dream of thick sandwiches and sweet cakes, of the simple meals Valeria used to sneak me when I was a menial. I need more food, for substance, to fill up what I've lost.
I've been reading The Rule of the Sororitas. It's the only book they left me, besides this notebook. The pages are crisp, the ink dark. It feels new, untouched, like it's waiting for me to fill it with meaning.
There's a passage I keep coming back to:
"A Sister must purge herself of all personal desires, for in shedding the self, she becomes a vessel for the Emperor's will. Let not individual want nor fear deter you, for sacrifice is the path to purity. Put to death the self. Serve the Emperor. To die for the Emperor is to be sought over indulgence."
I think about that a lot. About what it means to let go of wants and fears. I still feel fear—it's a knot in my stomach that never goes away. Fear of being alone here forever, fear that I'm tainted, that I'll never see the sky again. I know I need to be stronger, to have faith, but it's hard when the silence is so loud.
Another part that struck me:
"Discipline is the fire that forges the faithful. Through unwavering devotion and adherence to the holy traditions, a Sister strengthens not only her body but her soul against the insidious whispers of heresy."
I try to be disciplined. I wake up and recite one of the morning prayers. I read the words aloud, letting them fill the emptiness. I practice battle-sign, my fingers moving through the motions even when my hands shake. But sometimes, the whispers creep in—the doubts, the questions. I push them away, repeating, "Contempt."
I miss hearing other voices. Even Sister Helena's stern corrections or Valeria's gentle humming. Here, there's nothing but my own thoughts echoing back at me.
At night, before the gas comes, I kneel beside the cot and pray:
"Emperor, I thank You for keeping me alive, for giving me another day to prove my faith. I know I am weak, but through You, I can find strength. Please forgive me for running away, for failing to stop Lucious. I didn't understand then, but I want to make it right. Cleanse me of any taint, and let me serve You as a true daughter of the Imperium.
Watch over Sister Helena and Valeria, wherever they are. Grant them Your protection and guidance. If it is Your will, let me see them again.
I place myself in Your hands, oh Master of Mankind. Your will be done."
When I finish, I feel a little lighter, like maybe He hears me. Maybe this is a test—a chance to show that I can be faithful even in darkness. I'll keep trying. I'll keep reading, keep praying, keep moving, even if it's just a few steps at a time.
I won't give up.
I know you're reading this, whoever you are.
I won't give up!
Journal Entry – Day 45 (Probably)
I haven't written anything for a long time. Maybe two weeks? I'm not sure anymore. The days blend together here, like paint swirling until all the colors turn to gray.
I'm sorry, notebook. I just... didn't have the strength. It was like a heavy blanket was smothering me, making it hard to breathe, to move, to even think. I felt so alone, and the silence was so loud it hurt my ears.
But today, something changed.
I was flipping through The Rule of the Sororitas, not really reading, just letting the pages turn under my fingers. Then I found the "Morning Rite." I don't know how I missed it before.
There's a Litany that goes:
"O Emperor, strip me of my burdens, Empty me of selfish desire. Purge from me the wants of the flesh, That I may be filled with Your wrath against unholiness, Your love for all humanity, Your zeal for purity, And Your radiant glory. Let me be a vessel, hollow and true, So only Your light shines within me."
As I read it aloud, my voice shaky and small in this empty room, I felt tears on my cheeks. I don't even remember starting to cry. The words felt like they were peeling away the layers I've been hiding under, exposing all the messy, ugly parts of me.
I've been so caught up in my own sadness, my own wants. I want to get out of here. I want to know what's happening. I want someone to talk to me. But maybe that's selfish. Maybe I'm clinging to my own desires instead of trusting the Emperor's plan.
Then there's a Reading from Canoness Jessamine Hallas:
"Faith is the unbreakable shield upon which all heresy shatters. To question one's faith is to hold a shield riddled with cracks, inviting the enemy's blade. Let your faith be absolute, without doubt or hesitation, for in unwavering belief lies the strength to vanquish darkness. The moment you allow uncertainty to creep in, you have already stepped onto the path of corruption."
Her words scare me. What if my doubts mean I'm already corrupt? I've always had questions swirling in my head, like little gnats that won't go away. Even when I believe with all my heart that the Emperor is watching over me, there's a tiny voice whispering, asking things I shouldn't be asking.
Why am I here? Why did the Light Woman bring me here? What am I supposed to be? What if I'm tainted… and don't even know it?
Valeria never seemed to struggle like this. She was always so sure, her eyes bright with faith. And Sister Helena... she moves with such purpose, like she and the Emperor are one and the same. I've always admired them, wanted to be like them. But no matter how hard I try, I can't silence the questions.
Does that make me weak? Does it make me... a heretic?
The Collect at the end was a prayer:
"O Emperor, grant me the purity of blind faith, That Your light may be all I see. Let every question find silence, Not through answers, but through unwavering focus on You. Shield me from doubt, for in doubt lies the seed of heresy. Fill me completely, that there is no room for anything but Your will. Your light is enough. Your light is everything. Emperor be praised."
I whispered the words, my hands clasped so tight my knuckles turned white. I wanted to mean them. I wanted the doubts to just vanish, to feel that warm certainty that Valeria and Sister Helena seem to have.
But even as I prayed, the questions were still there, lurking in the corners of my mind.
What if faith isn't about being blind? What if the Emperor wants us to seek, to understand? If His light is so strong, shouldn't it shine even brighter when we ask questions, not dim? How strong can a shield be if it can't withstand even a simple question?
Oh, Emperor! Did I just accuse a saint of having weak faith!? Am I wrong to think this way? I must be! But…
Nothing makes sense anymore…
I feel like there's something broken inside me, something that can't be fixed. Maybe Lucious saw it. Maybe that's why he did what he did. Maybe he knew I was weak, that I was already tainted with doubt.
But I don't want to be like that. I want to be strong. I want to have faith that doesn't waver, that doesn't shake every time I'm alone in the dark.
I tried to change my thoughts. I focused on my exercises. My body is getting stronger I've been running laps around the room—at first, I could barely do a few without collapsing. Now, I've reached a thousand laps! It sounds like a lot, but in this small space, it's not as impressive as it seems. Still, it's progress. My augmetic arm moves smoothly again, not dragging me down like before. I've memorized the Fifty Litanies of Contempt. When I recite them, I feel a spark of strength.
"Contempt for the heretic, who twists the Emperor's truth.
Contempt for the mutant, a mockery of His perfect form.
Contempt for the xeno, who seeks to corrupt His realm.
Contempt is my shield; righteousness is my blade."
The list goes on, but then a whisper in my mind asks, "What if I'm the heretic?"
I shake my head hard when that happens, until the thoughts scatter like startled birds. I don't want to think that way. I can't. I won't…
I hope they'll let me out soon. Maybe if I show that I'm faithful, that I'm strong, they'll see I'm not tainted. That I can serve. I just… I just want to serve, faithfully, like my mother. I don't care about where or how. I'm sorry Helena, Valeria, but it's the truth; I just want the opportunity, any kind of service. I suppose… even death…
"Emperor, please hear me. I'm trying so hard to be the daughter You want me to be. I'm scared that there's something wrong with me, that my questions mean I'm not worthy. Please, help me silence these doubts. Fill me with Your light so there's no room for them.
I'm sorry for thinking things I shouldn't. For questioning when I should be trusting. Forgive me if I've failed You.
Please watch over Sister Helena and Valeria. Keep them safe. I wish I could see them again. Maybe they'd know what to do.
Thank You for giving me strength each day. I'll keep trying. I won't give up.
Your will be done."
For those reading this… I…
Nevermind…
Journal Entry – Day??? I don't know anymore
So, they didn't feed me yesterday.
That's new.
Maybe they're upset I haven't been writing? If that's the case, here you go—hope you're happy.
Honestly, I haven't felt like journaling. I've been busy. Training takes up most of my time now. I just have this feeling that they're going to let me out soon. Don't ask me how I know; I just... feel it. Like an itch you can't scratch.
Maybe the lack of food is punishment for the dents I've been putting in the door. It's not like I'm trying to break out. Hitting the door just makes more sense than punching the walls—I don't want to accidentally bust a pipe and flood this place or get zapped by some hidden conduit. If they're bothered by it, they could at least give me a proper training dummy. Or a punching bag. Is that too much to ask?
But I guess talking to me is out of the question.
Anyway, since it's been a while, here's a recap.
I've built up some nice callouses on my right hand—the knuckles, the palm, even the edge. Same with my feet. Hitting that door has its benefits. I've worked out a routine: strikes, blocks, footwork. I can work through the forty palms of wrath and the ten basic forms more rapidly than I ever could before, I can even mix them… I wish I had something new to learn, but Sister Helena always did say it's the basics that count.
I can run twenty-five thousand laps now before I start feeling tired. In this tiny room, that's got to add up to... well, a lot. Probably more than I ever ran back at the Schola. My augmetic arm feels perfectly balanced again, like it's truly part of me now.
Oh, and about this shift they keep giving me—it's too small. I've grown, I think. It's tight across the shoulders and rides up when I move. It itches like crazy when I sweat, which is all the time now. If anyone's listening, a bigger size would be nice. Or at least something that doesn't scratch. And maybe another tube or two of protein paste wouldn't hurt. My muscles are back, and they need feeding.
My hair's a filthy mess, too. Keeps getting in my eyes. If you won't give me a hairband, maybe just shave it off next time I'm out cold and you bathe me? Otherwise, I'll keep tearing strips off the bedsheets to tie it back.
I've read The Rule of the Sororitas: Order of the Sanctified Shield cover to cover a dozen times now. I think I get why I'm here, and why they left me the book.
There's a canticle by Canoness Jessamine Hallas that stands out:
Canticle 187: A Call to Vigilance
"Idleness is the garden where heresy takes root.
A soul at rest invites corruption's pursuit.
The faithful must toil, from dawn until night,
Lest shadows consume the Emperor's light.
Evil is evil, in grand deeds or small,
A seed in the heart leads to the fall.
The heretic's nature is stained to the core,
No mask or pretense can hide it anymore.
They walk among us with smiles and lies,
But corruption leaks through their clever disguise.
In words and in deeds, their true selves betray,
For darkness cannot long suffer delay.
The faithful stand vigilant, eyes open wide,
For signs of the tainted that cannot hide.
In prayer and in labor, we sharpen our sight,
To uncover the heretic's blight.
No thought left unguarded, no task left undone,
For the war against evil is never won.
It's a battle eternal, both outward and in,
To cleanse our souls and keep us from sin.
Beware the idle who linger and pause,
For they are the ones who forget His cause.
The heretic falters, in duty and prayer,
Revealing the taint that they secretly bear.
So work without ceasing, keep your spirit pure,
In service and faith, you shall endure.
The Emperor's gaze pierces flesh and bone,
He knows His faithful; He calls them His own.
Let not your hands idle, nor your mind stray,
For heresy breeds in the effortless way.
Stand firm in your purpose, let your heart be aflame,
And the heretic's schemes shall wither in shame."
Sixteen verses hammering home the idea that heresy can't help but show itself. That no matter how hard someone tries to hide it, their true nature will slip through.
So, putting two and two together, I figure this whole setup is a test. Stick me in a box, watch me, see if I reveal myself as a heretic.
What did they expect me to do? Scratch unholy symbols into the walls? Start babbling blasphemy? Maybe smear filth everywhere and laugh maniacally?
Or was it more subtle? Were they reading my journal, hoping I'd spill dark secrets or confess impure thoughts? Waiting to see if I'd neglect my prayers, wallow in self-pity, or let my training slide?
Well, if that's the game, then they've had their fun.
To whoever's out there watching—you're cold-hearted, you know that? But I guess being cold-hearted bastards is part of the job description. Probably why Sister Helena's so good at it.
...
I think I'm done with this. You can keep me locked up forever, starve me, whatever. I'm not playing along anymore. Journaling, pondering what you might think of me—it's distracting. I've got better things to do. Training. Studying the sacred texts. Strengthening my faith. Remembering to be your little pet project is distracting me.
If you're so indecisive that you can't figure out what to do with me by now, that's on you. Seems like a waste of the Emperor's resources to keep this up. Maybe you're the ones failing Him, ever think of that?
So go ahead. Keep wasting time. I'll be here, doing what I need to do.
"Emperor, grant me perseverance to endure this trial. Give wisdom to those who hold me here, that they might see clearly. Watch over Sister Helena and Valeria; I hope they haven't suffered because of me. Your will be done.
In His Light."
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Chapter 4: Plans, Plots, and Faith, Abbess Gloriana's POV
New
Chapter 4: Plans, Plots, and Faith, Abbess Gloriana's POV
The first light of the artificial dawn seeps through the stained-glass windows of my chambers, casting fragmented hues of crimson and gold across the polished marble floor. I open my eyes to the familiar mosaic of Saint Jessamine Hallas gazing down upon me from the ceiling—a daily reminder of the legacy I am sworn to uphold.
The lingering ache in my hip greets me as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. A small penance, I suppose, for the years of service and the weight of the mantle I bear. The soft rustle of my robes accompanies me as I move toward the prayer alcove, each step measured, deliberate. The scent of incense from last night's vigil still hangs in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of aged parchment and sanctified oils.
Kneeling before the gilded effigy of the Emperor, I begin my morning devotions. The litany flows from my lips with practiced ease, yet each word is laden with earnest supplication.
"Almighty Emperor, guide my thoughts, steel my resolve, and grant me the wisdom to shepherd Your flock through these trying times."
As I recite the sacred texts, my mind cannot help but wander to the turmoil besieging the schola. The recent warp incursion has left a stain not easily cleansed, both on our halls and our reputation. Whispers of doubt have begun to permeate the upper echelons of the Ecclesiarchy, questioning our ability to safeguard the very principles we are entrusted to instill.
And at the heart of this maelstrom is Aurora.
The girl has been a curious case from the moment she appeared in Chapel 74—a starving waif claiming divine guidance by a figure she calls the "Light Woman." I took it as a sign—a test of our faith and an opportunity to mold a soul touched by the Emperor's grace. Assigning Sister Helena as her mentor seemed prudent at the time; Helena's fervor and martial prowess could temper Aurora's raw potential.
Yet, here we stand. Aurora's reckless flight from the safety of the camp led her straight into the clutches of heresy. Branded with the marks of Chaos, she has brought suspicion and scorn upon us all. Perhaps I was naïve to see providence where there was only chance.
"Emperor, illuminate the path I must tread," I whisper, pressing my forehead against clasped hands. The cold bite of the aquila pendant between my fingers anchors me.
Rising slowly, I make my way to the antechamber where Sister Tabitha has laid out my vestments for the day. The ceremonial robes are heavy with intricate embroidery—each stitch a verse from the Holy Scriptures, each thread a vow taken. As Tabitha assists me, her eyes avoid mine, a silent acknowledgment of the gravity of today's meeting.
"Thank you, child," I say softly. She bows and exits without a word.
The mirror reflects a visage both austere and worn. Lines etched by decades of duty crisscross my face, but my eyes remain sharp, resolute. The three black bands on my sleeve denote my final juvenat treatments—a stark reminder that my time is waning. The thought kindles a flicker of irritation. The Council's hushed deliberations about my successor are premature. I am not yet a relic to be archived!
Adjusting the mantle on my shoulder, I contemplate the unfolding game before me. Sister Helena—brilliant, headstrong Helena—believes she moves unseen, that her schemes remain veiled from my sight. Her plan to elevate Aurora to a full Sister and then immediately declare her Repentia borders on madness. It is a reckless gambit, an affront to tradition that threatens to undermine the sanctity of our Order.
She underestimates me.
The letter from High Dialogus Erin Explendia rests atop my desk, its contents laying bare Helena's machinations. Erin, ever dutiful, felt compelled to inform me of this... plot? Plan? It reeks of desperation or perhaps… passion. Helena has leveraged the debts of five ranking Sisters and a Dialogus, Erin herself, to circumvent established protocol. Technically, she has not broken any rules, but the spirit of her actions is a blatant challenge to our Order's traditions.
Does she not grasp the precarious position we are in?
The schola teeters under scrutiny; the authorities' gazes are unforgiving. With the warp incursion still fresh and whispers of internal failings spreading, we can ill afford another scandal. Executing Aurora would be a mercy—a swift end to a potential threat and a demonstration of our unwavering commitment to purity. Commitment that we now, more than ever, need to demonstrate openly.
Then there is Interrogator Faust. A man of cold logic and unflinching calculations, who believes his intentions opaque. Yet the letter from Inquisitor Angstrom arrived this morning, detailing Faust's findings and his inclination toward Aurora's execution.
He underestimates the breadth of my connections within the Ordo Malleus and thinks his opinions are merely his own.
His recommendation aligns with my own thoughts, yet I cannot shake a sense of unease. His kind sees the world in probabilities, devoid of the spiritual nuances that guide us.
They both think me unaware, that I am an old relic lost in the dogma of yesteryears.
But I see the battlefield clearly, every piece in play. Helena, wielding favors and life debts like weapons, seeks to force my hand with legalities and technicalities. Faust, with his cold arithmetic, assumes to carry out his intent without challenge.
I will play coy, let them reveal their hands fully.
The letters are ammunition, should I need them. For now, I will observe and steer this discourse toward the outcome that best serves the Emperor's will—or at least, my interpretation of it.
"Emperor, grant me wisdom," I whisper aloud, a subtle smile touching my lips as blood quickens in my veins, anticipating the upcoming battle. The game is afoot, and I am far from an unwitting participant.
I move toward the grand doors leading to the audience chamber, my cane tapping lightly against the marble. The doors swing open effortlessly, revealing the expanse of the hall beyond. Sunlight—or rather, its simulated equivalent—pours in through towering windows of stained glass, each pane depicting pivotal moments from our Order's illustrious history.
The room is a testament to the glory of the Ecclesiarchy. Ornate pillars line the sides, carved with passages from the Rule of the Sororitas. Tapestries hang between them, illustrating the deeds of past Abbesses who have shaped our legacy. At the far end stands the judgment seat—a formidable throne of gold and onyx, inlaid with relics said to have belonged to Saint Jessamine herself.
As I approach the throne, my gaze lingers on a particular tapestry depicting the saint's martyrdom. Her serene expression amidst the chaos of battle is a poignant reminder of the virtues we aspire to embody: faith, sacrifice, obedience.
"Obedience," I mutter, the word tasting bitter. How far Helena seems to have strayed from this principle. Her defiance is becoming a thorn that needs to be addressed. Youngsters, always champing at the bit, always pushing back against the chains of tradition. Little do they know. Little do they understand. It is the chain of tradition that binds us to the sure ground as all we know teeters on the edge of heresy and collapse.
"She is young," I admit, "a mere sixty years has she had to see the Imperium and most of that only through the visor of her helmet, only seeing what the machine spirit targets and tallies through crimson lenses." The Imperium is more vast, more complex than any battlefield. Perhaps all of this time recovering here is the best thing that could have happened to her… and yet, has she learned wisdom? Have I instilled nothing that has penetrated her armor of self-righteous pragmatism?
We shall see.
I seat myself, the weight of the throne pressing against me as much as I press into it. The cool metal is both comforting and imposing. From this vantage point, I can see the entire chamber—a metaphor, perhaps, for the oversight expected of my station.
A discreet cough draws my attention. Sister Tabitha stands at the doorway.
"Revered Mother, Sister Helena and Interrogator Faust have arrived and await your summons," she informs me.
"Very well. Send them in," I reply, my voice echoing slightly in the vast space.
She bows and retreats, leaving me alone once more.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. This meeting will require tact and firmness. I need to steer Helena back onto the path of His righteousness and ensure that Faust's pragmatic approach does not overshadow the spiritual considerations at stake.
I find myself mentally reciting a hymn of protection. It makes me smile, yes, this is my battlefield now and woe to any who think me a toothless old grox.
As the doors open, I observe them both. Faust enters with measured steps, his eyes calculating even in their neutrality. His presence is austere, almost skeletal, as if he is a manifestation of the Emperor's judgment wrapped in a thin sheet of skin and nothing more.
Helena follows, her posture erect, eyes forward. There is a fire in her gaze—a stubborn determination that both impresses and vexes me. She has removed her ceremonial gauntlets, a gesture of respect perhaps, revealing the augmetic arms that are a testament to her own sacrifices. Her stride is purposeful, as if to war, and yet, even without her power armor, when is it not?
"Interrogator Faust, Sister Helena," I greet them, my tone formal. "Thank you for attending on such short notice."
They bow in unison, responding with the appropriate honorifics.
"Please, be seated," I gesture to the chairs set before the raised dais of the throne.
As they settle, I allow a moment of silence to envelop us, the weight of the chamber amplifying the gravity of the situation.
"We are here to discuss the matter of Aurora," I begin, folding my hands in my lap. "A matter that bears significant consequences for us all."
Helena meets my gaze directly, unflinching. Faust inclines his head slightly, indicating his readiness to proceed.
"Before we delve into recommendations, I would hear your assessments," I continue. "Interrogator, you may begin."
Faust adjusts his collar with a precise tug, a subtle gesture that seems more about alignment than comfort. His eyes meet mine briefly before he begins, voice steady and devoid of inflection.
"Revered Mother, Sister Helena," he nods to each of us in turn. "I have spent the last ninety days conducting a comprehensive evaluation of the subject known as Aurora."
He produces a dataslate from the folds of his robe, its surface flickering to life with scrolling text and arcane symbols. "During her isolation, she was provided with an unredacted copy of the Rule of the Sororitas: Order of the Sanctified Shield edition. My intention was to observe her reactions to specific passages—names, doctrines, and litanies that typically elicit a measurable response in those touched by the Warp."
I watch him carefully. His every word is measured, calculated. There's a cold efficiency to him that I find both reassuring and disquieting.
"Notably," he continues, "Aurora exhibited no such reactions. Positive or negative. She approached the text analytically, as one might study a treatise on higher mathematics. The subject additionally displayed no observable reaction to certain names or titles which, even to write out one letter at a time would cause most scribes to take extended holiday and spend most of it with incessant migraines and ill palate. While this is unusual, it neither confirms nor refutes potential taint as either an incredible strength of faith or a passing familiarity with such abominations as mentioned could account for lack of observable reaction."
He pauses, allowing that to settle. I sense Helena before me, a coiled spring of barely restrained tension.
"Her actions, however," Faust resumes, "have shown a consistent pattern of distrust toward authority figures. She displays a proclivity to rely on her own experiences and perceptions over established doctrine. While this may be indicative of youthful defiance, in Aurora's case, it is pronounced enough to warrant concern."
He taps the dataslate, bringing up a specific entry. "In her third journal entry, she openly questions the teachings of Canoness Jessamine Hallas regarding the value of blind faith."
He begins to read:
" 'What if faith isn't about being blind? What if the Emperor wants us to seek, to understand? If His light is so strong, shouldn't it shine even brighter when we ask questions, not dim?' "
The words hang in the air, echoing softly against the chamber's vaulted ceiling. I feel a flicker of something—disappointment? Perhaps. But also a pang of empathy and understanding.
"Such statements," Faust says, "illustrate a dangerous inclination toward independent thought in matters where absolute obedience is paramount."
Helena shifts slightly, but remains silent.
"Furthermore," he continues, his gaze steady, "given the ongoing investigation into the warp incursion and the attacks on the schola, her presence poses a significant risk."
He scrolls through his dataslate, bringing up detailed reports. "As you are aware, Revered Mother, several incidents occurred concurrently with the warp breach. The hanging of Senior Administrator Katoa in the administrative wing—an event staged to resemble suicide but clearly orchestrated to sow confusion. The improvised explosive device detonated in the Libra Primus, resulting in the loss of irreplaceable sacred texts. And the catastrophic fire that consumed a significant portion of the local PDF barracks, crippling our immediate military response."
He looks up, meeting my gaze. "These events were not isolated. My analysis indicates they were meticulously planned distractions, designed to divert attention from the true objective: the warp incursion in the underhive, precisely where Sister Helena was engaged in combat."
I nod slowly, the weight of his words settling upon me. The loss of the texts from the Libra Primus is a wound that will scar our institution for generations.
"Through cross-referencing timing, resource allocation, and enemy movements," Faust continues, "it becomes evident that these distractions were intended to delay or prevent reinforcement of our forces at the freight elevator. It was only through calculated assessment and, admittedly, a measure of intuition that I premptively dispatched my team to support Sister Helena, thus averting a greater catastrophe."
He pauses briefly. "I must commend the schola, particularly the ecclesiarchal quarters under your purview. Our investigations have revealed nothing but exemplary order and discipline among the initiates and staff within the Adepta Sororitas' domain. There is no evidence of internal corruption or complicity in these events."
"That is reassuring," I say softly, a measure of pride welling within me despite the gravity of the situation.
"However," he presses on, "Aurora's continued presence here could jeopardize this stability. Should she remain, my calculations indicate a probability exceeding fifty percent that she may become susceptible to the temptations of Chaos, especially given her tendencies toward questioning established doctrines."
He allows a measured pause, letting the gravity of his words settle before continuing. "Revered Mother," he begins with a formal nod, "it is out of profound respect for your centuries of exemplary service and your pivotal role in Aurora's admission to the schola that I, that the Ordo Malleus," he corrects himself, though I suspect he does so only to highlight the gravity of the situation. A man like Faust makes no idle mistakes in word choice, "brings this matter to you at all."
His eyes meet mine, steady and unblinking. "As you are aware, Aurora is presently under the jurisdiction of the Ordo Malleus. The authority vested in me grants final say over her disposition—be it execution, continued custody, or release. While the Inquisition operates independently, I believe in extending courtesies where they are due."
He glances briefly at his dataslate before returning his gaze to me. "You were instrumental in admitting Aurora, despite her not meeting the standard entrance criteria. Her arrival here, guided—as she claims—by a 'Light Woman,' is statistically improbable given the data we possess. Such an occurrence, while extraordinary, is more plausibly attributed to gaps in our information rather than divine intervention."
He pauses, allowing the implication to linger. "In these uncertain times, unexplained anomalies demand scrutiny. Aurora's unexplained presence, coupled with her recent actions, elevates the risk she poses—not just to herself but to the schola and, by extension, the imperium."
"In light of these factors," he continues, his tone unwavering, "I intend to proceed with her execution. This course of action is the most prudent means to prevent any potential taint from manifesting and to ensure the purity of the schola remains unblemished. Unless you have a formal objection—which, as you are aware, is a courtesy extended due to your esteemed position—I will enact this decision promptly."
He inclines his head slightly, a gesture that is both respectful and final. The room seems to constrict around us, the air heavy with unspoken tensions. I feel the weight of his words pressing upon me—a mixture of deference and assertion that leaves little room for compromise. Execution—a final solution, one that aligns with my initial inclination. Yet, hearing it spoken so plainly stirs a conflict within me as does his casual dismissal of divine action, though it is expected of a man such as Faust.
"Interrogator Faust," I say slowly, my voice measured, "your candidness is greatly appreciated as is your thoroughness in this matter. However, I must ask—do your calculations account for the possibility of redemption? Of guidance steering a wayward soul back onto the Emperor's path? The intervention of the Emperor through his saints in ways we are neither made privy to or have any say in?"
He blinks, considering. "Redemption is statistically rare in cases exhibiting her behavioral patterns. The potential risks outweigh the benefits. As to the divine, I meant no respect in what I stated—"
"None taken," I assure him.
He nods and continues, "but statistics, numbers, probabilities, these can be harnessed, these can be controlled, used, acted upon. I dare not say the miraculous does not occur, only that what appears miraculous to us must, if given all possible information, be utterly mundane in the eyes of the Emperor."
"Statistics," I muse aloud. "Numbers and probabilities. But we deal in faith, here, interrogator, in the immeasurable spirit of humanity."
Silence settles over us like a shroud.
Helena takes a breath, her eyes resolute. I can see behind them the whole of the coming battle. She'll begin with a charge directly into the heart of the issue, Faust, and the Ordo Malleus. She'll pin them as overstepping, playing on the tradition that we execute or rehabilitate our own, while at the same time planning to throw tradition into the proverbial incinerator when she reveals her own plan to save Aurora. She'll leverage her passing acquaintance with Inquisitor Angstrom, Faust's' boss to downplay his authority and call into question his jurisdiction. She will appeal to the Saint and Aurora's miraculous arrival and use the knife of reason Faust just handed her to denounce his statement against the miraculous as hypocrisy…
I give her a cold stare as she opens her mouth, no, Helena, you won't be the first one to strike a blow in this battle. I will beat you into the ground and leave you with one, single chance, to redeem yourself and leave the battlefield with honor… God-Emperor protect you if you don't take it!
"Revered Mother, if I may—"
I cut her off sharply. "No, Sister Helena, you may not!"
Her eyes widen in surprise, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. Faust's gaze shifts between us, but he remains silent.
"I am well aware of your intentions," I continue, my voice cold as the marble walls surrounding us. "Did you truly believe I would remain oblivious to your machinations? That I would not notice your clandestine efforts to circumvent protocol and tradition?"
"Revered Mother, I—" she begins, but I raise a hand to silence her.
"Do not interrupt me, child," I snap. "You have taken it upon yourself to exploit life debts, to gather signatures from five Canonesses and a Sister Dialogus, all to force through your reckless plan without proper authorization. Such audacity is not only disrespectful to the traditions of our order and a personal attack on my own authority but also dangerously irresponsible. Your blind flailing in this attempt demonstrates a total lack of awareness to the current threats to our order, to this schola, threats you would feed and allow to fester by your ignorant acions."
She blinks, the initial surprise giving way to a tightness around her eyes. "My intent was to—"
"Your intent?" I interject. "Your intent was to undermine the very foundations of our Order for the sake of a single girl—a girl who has shown herself to be a liability, a potential threat to the schola and the Imperium itself."
"Revered Mother, Aurora is my tithe," she insists, a note of frustration creeping into her voice. "Her life is mine to—."
"Your tithe?" I echo, my tone laced with disdain. "You wield that term as if it grants you absolute authority. But with that responsibility comes the obligation to act in the best interests of the Order, not your personal crusade. Not to mention what it says about you, Sister, that a tithe of yours is under the executioner's blade of the Ordo Malleus!?"
Her jaw tightens, a flush rising in her cheeks. "I believe saving her is in the best interest—"
"You believe?" I interrupt harshly. "Your belief does not supersede centuries of doctrine and tradition. You presume to know better than the collective wisdom of our Order, to place your judgment above all others."
She clenches her fists at her sides, her mechanical fingers whirring softly. "I am acting out of faith, Revered Mother."
"Faith?" I scoff. "Or arrogance? You dare to defy protocol, to manipulate sacred bonds, all in pursuit of a misguided notion of redemption. Do you not see how your actions could be perceived? How they could be twisted by those eager to find fault within our ranks?"
Her eyes flash with a mix of anger and hurt. "I only seek to prevent further loss."
"Further loss?" I fix her with a penetrating stare. "Tell me, Sister Helena, who bore the consequences of your last deviation from protocol? Who paid the price for your inability to follow tradition?"
She hesitates, confusion mingling with apprehension. "I don't understand."
"Three Constantia," I state sharply. "Three loyal sisters lost in the underhive because of a spur-of-the-moment decision on your part to ignore the tactical necessity of an orderly retreat, the traditional method of not getting slaughtered by an oncoming mob, and instead embrace the suicidal notion of a heroic last stand. Your sisters' blood on your hands and your hands alone, Helena."
A shadow crosses her face, the color draining from her cheeks. "Revered Mother, I fought alongside them. I did everything in my power to save them!"
"Did you?" I press, my voice rising. "Or were they casualties of your recklessness? Your penchant for disregarding doctrine and acting on impulse?" The accusation is false. I've read the reports. Helena acquitted herself well, heroically even. Her actions and those of her constantia were what turned the tide and saved potentially countless lives. But that's not the point, and not the message she needs to hear right now.
These are the words that will be thrown in her face when the board of inquiry finishes with me and she stands before judgement. These are the interpretations that her plan to save Aurora will lend credence to! How can she not see that!?
Her eyes glisten with a mix of sorrow and mounting fury. "That is unjust," Helena declares, her voice strained. "They fell in battle against overwhelming odds! I led them with honor."
"Honor?" I snap, my tone cutting like a blade. "What honor is there in leading sisters to their deaths because of your inability to adhere to the most basic battlefield doctrines? Your actions have consequences, Helena—consequences that extend beyond your personal ego!"
Something fractures within her composure. In a flash, she surges forward, ascending the steps to the judgment seat like a hotshot lasbolt. She slams her augmetic fists onto the onyx armrests beside me, the impact reverberating through the chamber like a tolling bell. The stone doesn't yield, nor do her metal hands.
"How dare you! You weren't there! You don't know! How dare you use the deaths of my sisters against me!" she shouts, her face inches from mine, eyes blazing with a tempest of emotion.
I remain seated, my expression unaltered, meeting her glare with unflinching calm. "Rebecca. Challa. Haley," I say softly, each name a deliberate invocation.
Her breath catches, and for a heartbeat, the fury in her eyes wavers. With a guttural cry, she rips off her robe, the fabric tearing as she hurls it onto my lap. Beneath, her battle-worn armor is absent, revealing a lithe form marked by scars and ink. On her thigh, the names—Challa, Rebecca, Haley—are tattooed in elegant script, each letter entwined with tiny living thorns embedded in the flesh. Crimson beads of blood seep from the wounds, a perpetual penance etched into her very being.
"No one mourns them more than I!" she cries, her voice raw. "No one! Not even you have the right to speak their names against me!"
The air in the chamber thickens, tension coiling like a serpent ready to strike. From the corner of my eye, I see Faust move with practiced swiftness, his sidearm drawn and aimed with unerring precision at the side of Helena's head. His gaze is steady, finger poised on the trigger.
I raise a hand slowly, a silent command for restraint. He hesitates, then lowers the weapon slightly, though his posture remains alert.
"Helena, come back to yourself," I say quietly, my voice carrying the weight of authority tempered with a touch of compassion.
She blinks, the storm in her eyes flickering as realization dawns. Her gaze shifts to Faust, then back to me. The enormity of her actions settles upon her shoulders, and she steps back, trembling.
"I..." she stammers, her anger giving way to a flood of anguish. Tears well in her eyes, tracing silent paths down her cheeks. Her mouth opens and shuts in a silent sob. "I didn't mean... I just can't bear to lose another."
I stand slowly, picking up her discarded robe and laying it gently over her shoulders. Reaching out, I place a gentle hand on her forehead. The gesture seems almost foreign, a stark contrast to the harshness of our prior exchange.
"Helena," I murmur, "we all carry burdens that threaten to break us. But we must not let them drive us to destruction."
She bows her head, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. "I don't want to lose Aurora too," she whispers, her tears falling freely. "Not after everything, not when I could save her."
I nod slowly. "Your pain is real, and your devotion to your tithe, to your sisters, is admirable. What I have said I have said to arouse your passions, to pierce your heart and see what it is that you bleed. But the path you choose now must be guided by wisdom, not merely passion."
She looks up at me, eyes red and raw with pain, searching my own with her gaze. "What would you have me do?"
I offer a faint smile. "Trust."
Behind us, Faust holsters his weapon, the tension in his stance easing. He watches silently, perhaps recognizing that this moment transcends protocol.
"Revered Mother," Helena says, her voice steadier now, though I can feel the tremble in her shoulders. "I am sorry for my outburst. My actions were disrespectful and unworthy."
I squeeze her shoulder gently. "Yes, they were. But acknowledging our faults is the first step toward redemption. We all falter, but it is how we rise that defines us."
She nods, wiping away the tears with the back of her hand. The blood from the thorns mingles with the moisture in the air, leaving faint crimson streaks across her exposed skin beneath the tear of her robe.
I release her shoulder and gesture for her to step back. "Compose yourself, Sister," I say softly. "Let us speak as servants of the Emperor should."
Helena nods, a flicker of shame crossing her features. She descends the steps of the dais, returning to her place before me. Her head bows low, and slowly, she sinks to her knees, the fabric of her robe pooling around her like spilled ink.
I take a deep breath, allowing the silence to settle. The weight of the chamber seems to press down upon us, the distant hum of the schola's mechanisms the only sound.
"Helena," I begin, my tone measured and calm. "Your passion is undeniable, and your dedication to those you hold dear is admirable. But passion without wisdom is a blade without a hilt—dangerous to all, including the one who wields it."
She keeps her gaze fixed on the polished marble floor, her hands clasped tightly before her.
"You must understand that our Order thrives on discipline, on adherence to traditions that have guided us for millennia. These protocols are not mere formalities; they are the bedrock upon which our unity and strength are built."
"I understand, Revered Mother," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
"Do you?" I ask gently. "Your actions suggest otherwise. By circumventing proper channels, you not only jeopardize your own standing but cast shadows upon the integrity of us all. In times as precarious as these, we cannot afford even the slightest hint of discord. These words of mine, weapons you feel thrust into your heart, are not mine and my voice will not be the last to use them against you. Better they be used by a friend in just chastisement than by an official in mere punativity."
She exhales shakily. "I see that now."
"Good," I continue. "Consider the scrutiny we are under. The eyes of the Ecclesiarchy, the Ordo Malleus, and countless others are upon us, watching for any sign of weakness. Your plan, though born of noble intent, could be misconstrued as insubordination or, worse, complicity in the very heresies we strive to eradicate."
Her shoulders slump further, the reality of my words sinking in.
"I only wanted to save her," she murmurs.
"I know," I reply softly. "But sometimes, the hardest lesson is accepting that not all can be saved. We must place our trust in the Emperor's will, even when it leads us down paths of sorrow."
A tear escapes her closed eyes, tracing a path down her cheek. "Yes, Revered Mother."
I study her for a moment, the fierce warrior now humbled and contrite. This is the balance I had hoped to see—the fire of conviction tempered by the steel of discipline.
"Rise, Sister Helena," I instruct.
She hesitates before pushing herself to her feet, her gaze still lowered.
"Look at me," I say.
She raises her eyes, meeting mine with a mixture of resignation and lingering hope.
"You are a valuable member of our Order," I tell her. "Your courage and skills are assets we cannot afford to lose. But you must learn to channel your strengths within the boundaries that govern us."
"I will strive to do so," she promises.
"I believe you will," I say with a slight nod. "As for Aurora, the matter is resolved."
Her face pales, and I see the realization settle in. Her eyes glisten anew, but she remains silent, accepting what she believes is my decision.
I let the silence linger for a moment, then turn my attention back to Interrogator Faust. His expression is inscrutable, but I sense a hint of curiosity behind his measured gaze.
"Interrogator," I begin thoughtfully, "perhaps there is another path we might consider—one that addresses your concerns while honoring, if not the spirit, then at least the written letter of our sacred traditions."
Faust raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "I am open to alternatives, Revered Mother, provided they mitigate the risks we've discussed."
I nod slowly. "Indeed. Sister Helena's proposal, though unorthodox, is not without merit. The elevation of Aurora to Sisterhood followed by her immediate declaration as a Repentia is, in fact, permissible within our laws and traditions—as they are written, if not as they are practiced."
Helena's head snaps up, disbelief and a flicker of hope mingling in her eyes. She remains silent, perhaps fearing that any interruption might shatter this unexpected turn.
"By proceeding in this manner," I continue, "we effectively remove Aurora from the schola, thus eliminating the immediate risk of her presence here during your investigation. At the same time, we offer her life to the Emperor's judgment—entrusting her fate to His will, whether through divine intervention or the inexorable workings of chance."
Faust considers this, his analytical mind undoubtedly weighing probabilities and potential outcomes. "You propose to exile her as Repentia, then?"
"Precisely," I affirm. "Under three conditions. First, Sister Helena herself must conduct the Repentia ceremony. She will speak the sacred words and perform the rites, fully acknowledging the gravity of this act. She will renounce Aurora as her tithe and be the first to turn her back as we all must."
Helena nods solemnly, her lip quivers ever so slightly but her eyes remain steadfast, fixed on me.
"Second," I continue, "Aurora's isolation must be absolute. She will have no contact with the schola or any of its members. No support, no resources beyond what she carries with her. Her journey will be hers alone."
"Acceptable," Faust replies. "And the third condition?"
I meet his gaze steadily. "You must officially declare Aurora deceased. For all intents and purposes, she will be considered dead—a truth, in a manner of speaking, as one who is declared Repentia dies to her former life and to our Order. This will satisfy any administrative or legal concerns within the schola and the Inquisition."
Faust rocks back on his heels slightly, digesting the proposal. "An elegant solution. It removes her from any records that might draw scrutiny and aligns with both our objectives."
"Do you find these terms agreeable?" I inquire.
A smile graces Faust's lips, the first full expression I've seen from the man, and I don't find it a pleasant experience. "This course of action minimizes risk and satisfies the requirements of my mandate. I have a strong notion which probability supports that you've already secured the indulgence of my master, though, if I am correct, you supported my assessment and judgement when first we began this dance?"
I do not reply to the assumptions but merely offer, "you will make an excellent Inquisitor one day, Faust."
He nods, as if this is a readily apparent fact. Arrogance? Or merely calculation? "I look forward to reading all the details."
"Excellent," I say softly. "Then we are in agreement."
Helena's eyes shimmer with a mixture of relief and gratitude. She seems almost hesitant to speak, as if fearing the moment might dissolve.
I turn to her, allowing a small, almost mischievous smile to touch my lips. "Sister Helena, I trust you already have a penance in mind for Aurora—one that, given your remarkable aptitude for reinterpreting our sacred traditions, does not involve handing her an eviscerator she can hardly lift and sending her to perish on some forsaken battlefield?"
A hint of a blush colors her cheeks. "Yes, Revered Mother. I have a penance that adheres to the letter of the Rule of the Sororitas and offers a path for her redemption."
"Very well," I acknowledge. "You will proceed with the necessary preparations. Ensure that all protocols are meticulously followed. This may be unorthodox, but its execution must be beyond reproach."
"I will," she promises, her voice steady but edged with emotion. "Thank you, Revered Mother."
"Do not thank me," I reply gently. "Thank the Emperor for His guidance."
Faust rises from his seat. "With your blessing I take my leave. I will update my records and inform my superiors of this resolution."
"Be blessed in His name and go," I say. "And, Interrogator, I appreciate your willingness to find a mutually acceptable solution."
He offers a slight bow. "Our goals align more often than not it would seem. I now see why my master esteems you so highly, Revered Mother. You are not an opponent I would seek to cross lightly."
"Indeed," I agree. "May the Emperor illuminate your path."
He exits the chamber, his footsteps echoing down the grand hall. Once I am certain that Faust has left the premises—I hear the distant echo of the outer doors closing—I turn back to Helena. "There is something I must say," I begin softly.
She looks at me quizzically. "Yes, Revered Mother?"
"I owe you an apology, my Sister," I admit. "For using the holy sacrifice of our fallen Constantia against you earlier. Rebecca, Challa, Haley—their names should never be wielded as weapons against you."
She blinks in surprise, pain flashing over her features which she hides with a quick bow of her head. "You did what you felt was necessary."
"I did," I acknowledge. "But that does not lessen the sting, nor was it entirely fair. My words were a tonic to cure you but in the mouths of others you may find them to be a poison. They were, are, false, not representative of how I view you or your actions. But, I needed to reach you, to break through the armor you've so carefully constructed around your heart."
She remains silent, her gaze fixed on the floor.
"Helena," I continue gently, "you are a warrior of unparalleled skill, no one can question your record, your deeds. But you have become so acclimated to battle, so oriented toward conflict, that you've forgotten how to be vulnerable, how to share your burdens. Faith is not an individual endeavor; it thrives within the community, nourished by our shared experiences and support."
She lifts her eyes to meet mine. "I... I've always believed that bearing my struggles alone was a form of strength."
"In a commander, alone, without a peer to stand shoulder to shoulder with and only the more fragile faith of her subordinates to inspire, perhaps it could be. But this, here, is not that. Strength is most powerfully found in unity," I counter. "In the past seven years, not once have you come to me for confession or counsel. You have been transcribing your confessions, sending them to your former commander, keeping yourself isolated from those who stand ready to support you in the here and now."
She sighs softly. "Old habits die hard, I suppose."
"I understand how hard it must be to lay aside your traditions," I say with only the slightest hint of sarcastic humor. "But isolation breeds misunderstanding and clouds judgment. It was necessary for me to push you in such a raw and painful way because you refuse to open up and share your soul otherwise."
A flicker of realization crosses her face. "You wanted me to see beyond my own perspective."
"And I wanted to see your own perspective laid bare," I affirm. "You needed to recognize that faith is sustained by the collective, by trusting and leaning on others. Your willingness to humble yourself, to submit to the needs of the whole above your own passions, showed me that you are capable of this growth."
She nods slowly, absorbing my words.
"Because of that," I continue, "and only because of that, I am willing to consider your plan—unorthodox and audacious as it may be. I am choosing to trust in your faith, just as I hope you will learn to trust in mine. Just as we both must trust in Aurora's."
"Thank you, Revered Mother," she whispers. "I will strive to be worthy of that trust."
"I believe you will," I reply gently. "Now, let us speak of Aurora's penance. She cannot seek redemption through combat; it wouldn't fit the nature of her transgressions. She stands at the precipice of a path that could lead to darkness, but she hasn't crossed that threshold yet. Her absolution should be a crucible that tests her faith—a penance that requires more than just a stubborn heart and shrewd mind to overcome, more than just probabilities and quantitatives that Faust can measure and predict success by. Faith, the divine, the miraculous, nothing short will suffice."
She tells me.
I fold my hands thoughtfully. "You seek to test not only Aurora but also the presence and intent of Saint Jessamine herself."
"Yes," Helena admits. "It is a question that weighs heavily upon us. If the Saint guided Aurora to us, why has she faltered so? Why does she lack any outward sign of divine favor? This penance may reveal the answers we seek."
I feel a subtle unease stir within me. "There is a fine line, Sister, between testing one's faith and testing the divine. To set such a task could be seen as presumptuous, even impious towards the saint."
Helena gazes up at the stained-glass depiction of Saint Jessamine's martyrdom, the vibrant colors casting ethereal patterns across her face. A wry smile touches her lips. "Revered Mother, if Jessamine cannot handle a bit of lip from two old women seeking clarity, then perhaps she is not the formidable saint we believe her to be."
I can't help but chuckle softly at her audacity. "Careful, Helena. Such words tread dangerously close to censure, if not heresy."
She meets my eyes, sincerity evident. "I mean no disrespect. But our faith must be robust enough to withstand scrutiny, must it not? To question is not to doubt but to seek deeper understanding."
"Your words? or those of your tithe?" I question.
"If the words are true, does it matter? Must we not be careful, if Aurora is a divine instrument must we not be willing and prepared to be the ones learning from her, and through her, from the saint herself?"
I consider her perspective, the tension easing. "Perhaps there is wisdom in that. Very well. We will proceed as planned, but with the utmost reverence. Let us not forget the sanctity of the forces we are seeking to engage."
"Agreed," she responds earnestly. "I will ensure that every step is undertaken with the deepest respect and piety."
"See that you do," I affirm. "And keep me informed of her progress—discreetly, of course."
"Of course, Revered Mother."
A comfortable silence settles between us. For the first time in a long while, I feel a genuine connection with Helena—a mutual understanding forged through honesty and shared purpose.
"Now, we both have much to attend to. Go in faith, Sister Helena."
She bows deeply. "By your leave."
As she exits the chamber, I return my gaze to the mosaic of Saint Jessamine above. The artificial dawn casts a radiant glow upon her visage, the interplay of light and shadow lending an almost living quality to the artwork.
"Emperor," I whisper, "we place our trust in Your infinite wisdom. Guide our actions, flawed though they may be, toward the fulfillment of Your grand design."
A sense of calm washes over me, the weight of uncertainty lifting just enough to breathe freely. Perhaps this unorthodox path is precisely what is needed—a catalyst for growth, understanding, and, ultimately, faith.
"Let us see what the future holds," I murmur, before turning to attend to the myriad duties awaiting my attention.
The first light of the artificial dawn seeps through the stained-glass windows of my chambers, casting fragmented hues of crimson and gold across the polished marble floor. I open my eyes to the familiar mosaic of Saint Jessamine Hallas gazing down upon me from the ceiling—a daily reminder of the legacy I am sworn to uphold.
The lingering ache in my hip greets me as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. A small penance, I suppose, for the years of service and the weight of the mantle I bear. The soft rustle of my robes accompanies me as I move toward the prayer alcove, each step measured, deliberate. The scent of incense from last night's vigil still hangs in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of aged parchment and sanctified oils.
Kneeling before the gilded effigy of the Emperor, I begin my morning devotions. The litany flows from my lips with practiced ease, yet each word is laden with earnest supplication.
"Almighty Emperor, guide my thoughts, steel my resolve, and grant me the wisdom to shepherd Your flock through these trying times."
As I recite the sacred texts, my mind cannot help but wander to the turmoil besieging the schola. The recent warp incursion has left a stain not easily cleansed, both on our halls and our reputation. Whispers of doubt have begun to permeate the upper echelons of the Ecclesiarchy, questioning our ability to safeguard the very principles we are entrusted to instill.
And at the heart of this maelstrom is Aurora.
The girl has been a curious case from the moment she appeared in Chapel 74—a starving waif claiming divine guidance by a figure she calls the "Light Woman." I took it as a sign—a test of our faith and an opportunity to mold a soul touched by the Emperor's grace. Assigning Sister Helena as her mentor seemed prudent at the time; Helena's fervor and martial prowess could temper Aurora's raw potential.
Yet, here we stand. Aurora's reckless flight from the safety of the camp led her straight into the clutches of heresy. Branded with the marks of Chaos, she has brought suspicion and scorn upon us all. Perhaps I was naïve to see providence where there was only chance.
"Emperor, illuminate the path I must tread," I whisper, pressing my forehead against clasped hands. The cold bite of the aquila pendant between my fingers anchors me.
Rising slowly, I make my way to the antechamber where Sister Tabitha has laid out my vestments for the day. The ceremonial robes are heavy with intricate embroidery—each stitch a verse from the Holy Scriptures, each thread a vow taken. As Tabitha assists me, her eyes avoid mine, a silent acknowledgment of the gravity of today's meeting.
"Thank you, child," I say softly. She bows and exits without a word.
The mirror reflects a visage both austere and worn. Lines etched by decades of duty crisscross my face, but my eyes remain sharp, resolute. The three black bands on my sleeve denote my final juvenat treatments—a stark reminder that my time is waning. The thought kindles a flicker of irritation. The Council's hushed deliberations about my successor are premature. I am not yet a relic to be archived!
Adjusting the mantle on my shoulder, I contemplate the unfolding game before me. Sister Helena—brilliant, headstrong Helena—believes she moves unseen, that her schemes remain veiled from my sight. Her plan to elevate Aurora to a full Sister and then immediately declare her Repentia borders on madness. It is a reckless gambit, an affront to tradition that threatens to undermine the sanctity of our Order.
She underestimates me.
The letter from High Dialogus Erin Explendia rests atop my desk, its contents laying bare Helena's machinations. Erin, ever dutiful, felt compelled to inform me of this... plot? Plan? It reeks of desperation or perhaps… passion. Helena has leveraged the debts of five ranking Sisters and a Dialogus, Erin herself, to circumvent established protocol. Technically, she has not broken any rules, but the spirit of her actions is a blatant challenge to our Order's traditions.
Does she not grasp the precarious position we are in?
The schola teeters under scrutiny; the authorities' gazes are unforgiving. With the warp incursion still fresh and whispers of internal failings spreading, we can ill afford another scandal. Executing Aurora would be a mercy—a swift end to a potential threat and a demonstration of our unwavering commitment to purity. Commitment that we now, more than ever, need to demonstrate openly.
Then there is Interrogator Faust. A man of cold logic and unflinching calculations, who believes his intentions opaque. Yet the letter from Inquisitor Angstrom arrived this morning, detailing Faust's findings and his inclination toward Aurora's execution.
He underestimates the breadth of my connections within the Ordo Malleus and thinks his opinions are merely his own.
His recommendation aligns with my own thoughts, yet I cannot shake a sense of unease. His kind sees the world in probabilities, devoid of the spiritual nuances that guide us.
They both think me unaware, that I am an old relic lost in the dogma of yesteryears.
But I see the battlefield clearly, every piece in play. Helena, wielding favors and life debts like weapons, seeks to force my hand with legalities and technicalities. Faust, with his cold arithmetic, assumes to carry out his intent without challenge.
I will play coy, let them reveal their hands fully.
The letters are ammunition, should I need them. For now, I will observe and steer this discourse toward the outcome that best serves the Emperor's will—or at least, my interpretation of it.
"Emperor, grant me wisdom," I whisper aloud, a subtle smile touching my lips as blood quickens in my veins, anticipating the upcoming battle. The game is afoot, and I am far from an unwitting participant.
I move toward the grand doors leading to the audience chamber, my cane tapping lightly against the marble. The doors swing open effortlessly, revealing the expanse of the hall beyond. Sunlight—or rather, its simulated equivalent—pours in through towering windows of stained glass, each pane depicting pivotal moments from our Order's illustrious history.
The room is a testament to the glory of the Ecclesiarchy. Ornate pillars line the sides, carved with passages from the Rule of the Sororitas. Tapestries hang between them, illustrating the deeds of past Abbesses who have shaped our legacy. At the far end stands the judgment seat—a formidable throne of gold and onyx, inlaid with relics said to have belonged to Saint Jessamine herself.
As I approach the throne, my gaze lingers on a particular tapestry depicting the saint's martyrdom. Her serene expression amidst the chaos of battle is a poignant reminder of the virtues we aspire to embody: faith, sacrifice, obedience.
"Obedience," I mutter, the word tasting bitter. How far Helena seems to have strayed from this principle. Her defiance is becoming a thorn that needs to be addressed. Youngsters, always champing at the bit, always pushing back against the chains of tradition. Little do they know. Little do they understand. It is the chain of tradition that binds us to the sure ground as all we know teeters on the edge of heresy and collapse.
"She is young," I admit, "a mere sixty years has she had to see the Imperium and most of that only through the visor of her helmet, only seeing what the machine spirit targets and tallies through crimson lenses." The Imperium is more vast, more complex than any battlefield. Perhaps all of this time recovering here is the best thing that could have happened to her… and yet, has she learned wisdom? Have I instilled nothing that has penetrated her armor of self-righteous pragmatism?
We shall see.
I seat myself, the weight of the throne pressing against me as much as I press into it. The cool metal is both comforting and imposing. From this vantage point, I can see the entire chamber—a metaphor, perhaps, for the oversight expected of my station.
A discreet cough draws my attention. Sister Tabitha stands at the doorway.
"Revered Mother, Sister Helena and Interrogator Faust have arrived and await your summons," she informs me.
"Very well. Send them in," I reply, my voice echoing slightly in the vast space.
She bows and retreats, leaving me alone once more.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. This meeting will require tact and firmness. I need to steer Helena back onto the path of His righteousness and ensure that Faust's pragmatic approach does not overshadow the spiritual considerations at stake.
I find myself mentally reciting a hymn of protection. It makes me smile, yes, this is my battlefield now and woe to any who think me a toothless old grox.
As the doors open, I observe them both. Faust enters with measured steps, his eyes calculating even in their neutrality. His presence is austere, almost skeletal, as if he is a manifestation of the Emperor's judgment wrapped in a thin sheet of skin and nothing more.
Helena follows, her posture erect, eyes forward. There is a fire in her gaze—a stubborn determination that both impresses and vexes me. She has removed her ceremonial gauntlets, a gesture of respect perhaps, revealing the augmetic arms that are a testament to her own sacrifices. Her stride is purposeful, as if to war, and yet, even without her power armor, when is it not?
"Interrogator Faust, Sister Helena," I greet them, my tone formal. "Thank you for attending on such short notice."
They bow in unison, responding with the appropriate honorifics.
"Please, be seated," I gesture to the chairs set before the raised dais of the throne.
As they settle, I allow a moment of silence to envelop us, the weight of the chamber amplifying the gravity of the situation.
"We are here to discuss the matter of Aurora," I begin, folding my hands in my lap. "A matter that bears significant consequences for us all."
Helena meets my gaze directly, unflinching. Faust inclines his head slightly, indicating his readiness to proceed.
"Before we delve into recommendations, I would hear your assessments," I continue. "Interrogator, you may begin."
Faust adjusts his collar with a precise tug, a subtle gesture that seems more about alignment than comfort. His eyes meet mine briefly before he begins, voice steady and devoid of inflection.
"Revered Mother, Sister Helena," he nods to each of us in turn. "I have spent the last ninety days conducting a comprehensive evaluation of the subject known as Aurora."
He produces a dataslate from the folds of his robe, its surface flickering to life with scrolling text and arcane symbols. "During her isolation, she was provided with an unredacted copy of the Rule of the Sororitas: Order of the Sanctified Shield edition. My intention was to observe her reactions to specific passages—names, doctrines, and litanies that typically elicit a measurable response in those touched by the Warp."
I watch him carefully. His every word is measured, calculated. There's a cold efficiency to him that I find both reassuring and disquieting.
"Notably," he continues, "Aurora exhibited no such reactions. Positive or negative. She approached the text analytically, as one might study a treatise on higher mathematics. The subject additionally displayed no observable reaction to certain names or titles which, even to write out one letter at a time would cause most scribes to take extended holiday and spend most of it with incessant migraines and ill palate. While this is unusual, it neither confirms nor refutes potential taint as either an incredible strength of faith or a passing familiarity with such abominations as mentioned could account for lack of observable reaction."
He pauses, allowing that to settle. I sense Helena before me, a coiled spring of barely restrained tension.
"Her actions, however," Faust resumes, "have shown a consistent pattern of distrust toward authority figures. She displays a proclivity to rely on her own experiences and perceptions over established doctrine. While this may be indicative of youthful defiance, in Aurora's case, it is pronounced enough to warrant concern."
He taps the dataslate, bringing up a specific entry. "In her third journal entry, she openly questions the teachings of Canoness Jessamine Hallas regarding the value of blind faith."
He begins to read:
" 'What if faith isn't about being blind? What if the Emperor wants us to seek, to understand? If His light is so strong, shouldn't it shine even brighter when we ask questions, not dim?' "
The words hang in the air, echoing softly against the chamber's vaulted ceiling. I feel a flicker of something—disappointment? Perhaps. But also a pang of empathy and understanding.
"Such statements," Faust says, "illustrate a dangerous inclination toward independent thought in matters where absolute obedience is paramount."
Helena shifts slightly, but remains silent.
"Furthermore," he continues, his gaze steady, "given the ongoing investigation into the warp incursion and the attacks on the schola, her presence poses a significant risk."
He scrolls through his dataslate, bringing up detailed reports. "As you are aware, Revered Mother, several incidents occurred concurrently with the warp breach. The hanging of Senior Administrator Katoa in the administrative wing—an event staged to resemble suicide but clearly orchestrated to sow confusion. The improvised explosive device detonated in the Libra Primus, resulting in the loss of irreplaceable sacred texts. And the catastrophic fire that consumed a significant portion of the local PDF barracks, crippling our immediate military response."
He looks up, meeting my gaze. "These events were not isolated. My analysis indicates they were meticulously planned distractions, designed to divert attention from the true objective: the warp incursion in the underhive, precisely where Sister Helena was engaged in combat."
I nod slowly, the weight of his words settling upon me. The loss of the texts from the Libra Primus is a wound that will scar our institution for generations.
"Through cross-referencing timing, resource allocation, and enemy movements," Faust continues, "it becomes evident that these distractions were intended to delay or prevent reinforcement of our forces at the freight elevator. It was only through calculated assessment and, admittedly, a measure of intuition that I premptively dispatched my team to support Sister Helena, thus averting a greater catastrophe."
He pauses briefly. "I must commend the schola, particularly the ecclesiarchal quarters under your purview. Our investigations have revealed nothing but exemplary order and discipline among the initiates and staff within the Adepta Sororitas' domain. There is no evidence of internal corruption or complicity in these events."
"That is reassuring," I say softly, a measure of pride welling within me despite the gravity of the situation.
"However," he presses on, "Aurora's continued presence here could jeopardize this stability. Should she remain, my calculations indicate a probability exceeding fifty percent that she may become susceptible to the temptations of Chaos, especially given her tendencies toward questioning established doctrines."
He allows a measured pause, letting the gravity of his words settle before continuing. "Revered Mother," he begins with a formal nod, "it is out of profound respect for your centuries of exemplary service and your pivotal role in Aurora's admission to the schola that I, that the Ordo Malleus," he corrects himself, though I suspect he does so only to highlight the gravity of the situation. A man like Faust makes no idle mistakes in word choice, "brings this matter to you at all."
His eyes meet mine, steady and unblinking. "As you are aware, Aurora is presently under the jurisdiction of the Ordo Malleus. The authority vested in me grants final say over her disposition—be it execution, continued custody, or release. While the Inquisition operates independently, I believe in extending courtesies where they are due."
He glances briefly at his dataslate before returning his gaze to me. "You were instrumental in admitting Aurora, despite her not meeting the standard entrance criteria. Her arrival here, guided—as she claims—by a 'Light Woman,' is statistically improbable given the data we possess. Such an occurrence, while extraordinary, is more plausibly attributed to gaps in our information rather than divine intervention."
He pauses, allowing the implication to linger. "In these uncertain times, unexplained anomalies demand scrutiny. Aurora's unexplained presence, coupled with her recent actions, elevates the risk she poses—not just to herself but to the schola and, by extension, the imperium."
"In light of these factors," he continues, his tone unwavering, "I intend to proceed with her execution. This course of action is the most prudent means to prevent any potential taint from manifesting and to ensure the purity of the schola remains unblemished. Unless you have a formal objection—which, as you are aware, is a courtesy extended due to your esteemed position—I will enact this decision promptly."
He inclines his head slightly, a gesture that is both respectful and final. The room seems to constrict around us, the air heavy with unspoken tensions. I feel the weight of his words pressing upon me—a mixture of deference and assertion that leaves little room for compromise. Execution—a final solution, one that aligns with my initial inclination. Yet, hearing it spoken so plainly stirs a conflict within me as does his casual dismissal of divine action, though it is expected of a man such as Faust.
"Interrogator Faust," I say slowly, my voice measured, "your candidness is greatly appreciated as is your thoroughness in this matter. However, I must ask—do your calculations account for the possibility of redemption? Of guidance steering a wayward soul back onto the Emperor's path? The intervention of the Emperor through his saints in ways we are neither made privy to or have any say in?"
He blinks, considering. "Redemption is statistically rare in cases exhibiting her behavioral patterns. The potential risks outweigh the benefits. As to the divine, I meant no respect in what I stated—"
"None taken," I assure him.
He nods and continues, "but statistics, numbers, probabilities, these can be harnessed, these can be controlled, used, acted upon. I dare not say the miraculous does not occur, only that what appears miraculous to us must, if given all possible information, be utterly mundane in the eyes of the Emperor."
"Statistics," I muse aloud. "Numbers and probabilities. But we deal in faith, here, interrogator, in the immeasurable spirit of humanity."
Silence settles over us like a shroud.
Helena takes a breath, her eyes resolute. I can see behind them the whole of the coming battle. She'll begin with a charge directly into the heart of the issue, Faust, and the Ordo Malleus. She'll pin them as overstepping, playing on the tradition that we execute or rehabilitate our own, while at the same time planning to throw tradition into the proverbial incinerator when she reveals her own plan to save Aurora. She'll leverage her passing acquaintance with Inquisitor Angstrom, Faust's' boss to downplay his authority and call into question his jurisdiction. She will appeal to the Saint and Aurora's miraculous arrival and use the knife of reason Faust just handed her to denounce his statement against the miraculous as hypocrisy…
I give her a cold stare as she opens her mouth, no, Helena, you won't be the first one to strike a blow in this battle. I will beat you into the ground and leave you with one, single chance, to redeem yourself and leave the battlefield with honor… God-Emperor protect you if you don't take it!
"Revered Mother, if I may—"
I cut her off sharply. "No, Sister Helena, you may not!"
Her eyes widen in surprise, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. Faust's gaze shifts between us, but he remains silent.
"I am well aware of your intentions," I continue, my voice cold as the marble walls surrounding us. "Did you truly believe I would remain oblivious to your machinations? That I would not notice your clandestine efforts to circumvent protocol and tradition?"
"Revered Mother, I—" she begins, but I raise a hand to silence her.
"Do not interrupt me, child," I snap. "You have taken it upon yourself to exploit life debts, to gather signatures from five Canonesses and a Sister Dialogus, all to force through your reckless plan without proper authorization. Such audacity is not only disrespectful to the traditions of our order and a personal attack on my own authority but also dangerously irresponsible. Your blind flailing in this attempt demonstrates a total lack of awareness to the current threats to our order, to this schola, threats you would feed and allow to fester by your ignorant acions."
She blinks, the initial surprise giving way to a tightness around her eyes. "My intent was to—"
"Your intent?" I interject. "Your intent was to undermine the very foundations of our Order for the sake of a single girl—a girl who has shown herself to be a liability, a potential threat to the schola and the Imperium itself."
"Revered Mother, Aurora is my tithe," she insists, a note of frustration creeping into her voice. "Her life is mine to—."
"Your tithe?" I echo, my tone laced with disdain. "You wield that term as if it grants you absolute authority. But with that responsibility comes the obligation to act in the best interests of the Order, not your personal crusade. Not to mention what it says about you, Sister, that a tithe of yours is under the executioner's blade of the Ordo Malleus!?"
Her jaw tightens, a flush rising in her cheeks. "I believe saving her is in the best interest—"
"You believe?" I interrupt harshly. "Your belief does not supersede centuries of doctrine and tradition. You presume to know better than the collective wisdom of our Order, to place your judgment above all others."
She clenches her fists at her sides, her mechanical fingers whirring softly. "I am acting out of faith, Revered Mother."
"Faith?" I scoff. "Or arrogance? You dare to defy protocol, to manipulate sacred bonds, all in pursuit of a misguided notion of redemption. Do you not see how your actions could be perceived? How they could be twisted by those eager to find fault within our ranks?"
Her eyes flash with a mix of anger and hurt. "I only seek to prevent further loss."
"Further loss?" I fix her with a penetrating stare. "Tell me, Sister Helena, who bore the consequences of your last deviation from protocol? Who paid the price for your inability to follow tradition?"
She hesitates, confusion mingling with apprehension. "I don't understand."
"Three Constantia," I state sharply. "Three loyal sisters lost in the underhive because of a spur-of-the-moment decision on your part to ignore the tactical necessity of an orderly retreat, the traditional method of not getting slaughtered by an oncoming mob, and instead embrace the suicidal notion of a heroic last stand. Your sisters' blood on your hands and your hands alone, Helena."
A shadow crosses her face, the color draining from her cheeks. "Revered Mother, I fought alongside them. I did everything in my power to save them!"
"Did you?" I press, my voice rising. "Or were they casualties of your recklessness? Your penchant for disregarding doctrine and acting on impulse?" The accusation is false. I've read the reports. Helena acquitted herself well, heroically even. Her actions and those of her constantia were what turned the tide and saved potentially countless lives. But that's not the point, and not the message she needs to hear right now.
These are the words that will be thrown in her face when the board of inquiry finishes with me and she stands before judgement. These are the interpretations that her plan to save Aurora will lend credence to! How can she not see that!?
Her eyes glisten with a mix of sorrow and mounting fury. "That is unjust," Helena declares, her voice strained. "They fell in battle against overwhelming odds! I led them with honor."
"Honor?" I snap, my tone cutting like a blade. "What honor is there in leading sisters to their deaths because of your inability to adhere to the most basic battlefield doctrines? Your actions have consequences, Helena—consequences that extend beyond your personal ego!"
Something fractures within her composure. In a flash, she surges forward, ascending the steps to the judgment seat like a hotshot lasbolt. She slams her augmetic fists onto the onyx armrests beside me, the impact reverberating through the chamber like a tolling bell. The stone doesn't yield, nor do her metal hands.
"How dare you! You weren't there! You don't know! How dare you use the deaths of my sisters against me!" she shouts, her face inches from mine, eyes blazing with a tempest of emotion.
I remain seated, my expression unaltered, meeting her glare with unflinching calm. "Rebecca. Challa. Haley," I say softly, each name a deliberate invocation.
Her breath catches, and for a heartbeat, the fury in her eyes wavers. With a guttural cry, she rips off her robe, the fabric tearing as she hurls it onto my lap. Beneath, her battle-worn armor is absent, revealing a lithe form marked by scars and ink. On her thigh, the names—Challa, Rebecca, Haley—are tattooed in elegant script, each letter entwined with tiny living thorns embedded in the flesh. Crimson beads of blood seep from the wounds, a perpetual penance etched into her very being.
"No one mourns them more than I!" she cries, her voice raw. "No one! Not even you have the right to speak their names against me!"
The air in the chamber thickens, tension coiling like a serpent ready to strike. From the corner of my eye, I see Faust move with practiced swiftness, his sidearm drawn and aimed with unerring precision at the side of Helena's head. His gaze is steady, finger poised on the trigger.
I raise a hand slowly, a silent command for restraint. He hesitates, then lowers the weapon slightly, though his posture remains alert.
"Helena, come back to yourself," I say quietly, my voice carrying the weight of authority tempered with a touch of compassion.
She blinks, the storm in her eyes flickering as realization dawns. Her gaze shifts to Faust, then back to me. The enormity of her actions settles upon her shoulders, and she steps back, trembling.
"I..." she stammers, her anger giving way to a flood of anguish. Tears well in her eyes, tracing silent paths down her cheeks. Her mouth opens and shuts in a silent sob. "I didn't mean... I just can't bear to lose another."
I stand slowly, picking up her discarded robe and laying it gently over her shoulders. Reaching out, I place a gentle hand on her forehead. The gesture seems almost foreign, a stark contrast to the harshness of our prior exchange.
"Helena," I murmur, "we all carry burdens that threaten to break us. But we must not let them drive us to destruction."
She bows her head, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. "I don't want to lose Aurora too," she whispers, her tears falling freely. "Not after everything, not when I could save her."
I nod slowly. "Your pain is real, and your devotion to your tithe, to your sisters, is admirable. What I have said I have said to arouse your passions, to pierce your heart and see what it is that you bleed. But the path you choose now must be guided by wisdom, not merely passion."
She looks up at me, eyes red and raw with pain, searching my own with her gaze. "What would you have me do?"
I offer a faint smile. "Trust."
Behind us, Faust holsters his weapon, the tension in his stance easing. He watches silently, perhaps recognizing that this moment transcends protocol.
"Revered Mother," Helena says, her voice steadier now, though I can feel the tremble in her shoulders. "I am sorry for my outburst. My actions were disrespectful and unworthy."
I squeeze her shoulder gently. "Yes, they were. But acknowledging our faults is the first step toward redemption. We all falter, but it is how we rise that defines us."
She nods, wiping away the tears with the back of her hand. The blood from the thorns mingles with the moisture in the air, leaving faint crimson streaks across her exposed skin beneath the tear of her robe.
I release her shoulder and gesture for her to step back. "Compose yourself, Sister," I say softly. "Let us speak as servants of the Emperor should."
Helena nods, a flicker of shame crossing her features. She descends the steps of the dais, returning to her place before me. Her head bows low, and slowly, she sinks to her knees, the fabric of her robe pooling around her like spilled ink.
I take a deep breath, allowing the silence to settle. The weight of the chamber seems to press down upon us, the distant hum of the schola's mechanisms the only sound.
"Helena," I begin, my tone measured and calm. "Your passion is undeniable, and your dedication to those you hold dear is admirable. But passion without wisdom is a blade without a hilt—dangerous to all, including the one who wields it."
She keeps her gaze fixed on the polished marble floor, her hands clasped tightly before her.
"You must understand that our Order thrives on discipline, on adherence to traditions that have guided us for millennia. These protocols are not mere formalities; they are the bedrock upon which our unity and strength are built."
"I understand, Revered Mother," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
"Do you?" I ask gently. "Your actions suggest otherwise. By circumventing proper channels, you not only jeopardize your own standing but cast shadows upon the integrity of us all. In times as precarious as these, we cannot afford even the slightest hint of discord. These words of mine, weapons you feel thrust into your heart, are not mine and my voice will not be the last to use them against you. Better they be used by a friend in just chastisement than by an official in mere punativity."
She exhales shakily. "I see that now."
"Good," I continue. "Consider the scrutiny we are under. The eyes of the Ecclesiarchy, the Ordo Malleus, and countless others are upon us, watching for any sign of weakness. Your plan, though born of noble intent, could be misconstrued as insubordination or, worse, complicity in the very heresies we strive to eradicate."
Her shoulders slump further, the reality of my words sinking in.
"I only wanted to save her," she murmurs.
"I know," I reply softly. "But sometimes, the hardest lesson is accepting that not all can be saved. We must place our trust in the Emperor's will, even when it leads us down paths of sorrow."
A tear escapes her closed eyes, tracing a path down her cheek. "Yes, Revered Mother."
I study her for a moment, the fierce warrior now humbled and contrite. This is the balance I had hoped to see—the fire of conviction tempered by the steel of discipline.
"Rise, Sister Helena," I instruct.
She hesitates before pushing herself to her feet, her gaze still lowered.
"Look at me," I say.
She raises her eyes, meeting mine with a mixture of resignation and lingering hope.
"You are a valuable member of our Order," I tell her. "Your courage and skills are assets we cannot afford to lose. But you must learn to channel your strengths within the boundaries that govern us."
"I will strive to do so," she promises.
"I believe you will," I say with a slight nod. "As for Aurora, the matter is resolved."
Her face pales, and I see the realization settle in. Her eyes glisten anew, but she remains silent, accepting what she believes is my decision.
I let the silence linger for a moment, then turn my attention back to Interrogator Faust. His expression is inscrutable, but I sense a hint of curiosity behind his measured gaze.
"Interrogator," I begin thoughtfully, "perhaps there is another path we might consider—one that addresses your concerns while honoring, if not the spirit, then at least the written letter of our sacred traditions."
Faust raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "I am open to alternatives, Revered Mother, provided they mitigate the risks we've discussed."
I nod slowly. "Indeed. Sister Helena's proposal, though unorthodox, is not without merit. The elevation of Aurora to Sisterhood followed by her immediate declaration as a Repentia is, in fact, permissible within our laws and traditions—as they are written, if not as they are practiced."
Helena's head snaps up, disbelief and a flicker of hope mingling in her eyes. She remains silent, perhaps fearing that any interruption might shatter this unexpected turn.
"By proceeding in this manner," I continue, "we effectively remove Aurora from the schola, thus eliminating the immediate risk of her presence here during your investigation. At the same time, we offer her life to the Emperor's judgment—entrusting her fate to His will, whether through divine intervention or the inexorable workings of chance."
Faust considers this, his analytical mind undoubtedly weighing probabilities and potential outcomes. "You propose to exile her as Repentia, then?"
"Precisely," I affirm. "Under three conditions. First, Sister Helena herself must conduct the Repentia ceremony. She will speak the sacred words and perform the rites, fully acknowledging the gravity of this act. She will renounce Aurora as her tithe and be the first to turn her back as we all must."
Helena nods solemnly, her lip quivers ever so slightly but her eyes remain steadfast, fixed on me.
"Second," I continue, "Aurora's isolation must be absolute. She will have no contact with the schola or any of its members. No support, no resources beyond what she carries with her. Her journey will be hers alone."
"Acceptable," Faust replies. "And the third condition?"
I meet his gaze steadily. "You must officially declare Aurora deceased. For all intents and purposes, she will be considered dead—a truth, in a manner of speaking, as one who is declared Repentia dies to her former life and to our Order. This will satisfy any administrative or legal concerns within the schola and the Inquisition."
Faust rocks back on his heels slightly, digesting the proposal. "An elegant solution. It removes her from any records that might draw scrutiny and aligns with both our objectives."
"Do you find these terms agreeable?" I inquire.
A smile graces Faust's lips, the first full expression I've seen from the man, and I don't find it a pleasant experience. "This course of action minimizes risk and satisfies the requirements of my mandate. I have a strong notion which probability supports that you've already secured the indulgence of my master, though, if I am correct, you supported my assessment and judgement when first we began this dance?"
I do not reply to the assumptions but merely offer, "you will make an excellent Inquisitor one day, Faust."
He nods, as if this is a readily apparent fact. Arrogance? Or merely calculation? "I look forward to reading all the details."
"Excellent," I say softly. "Then we are in agreement."
Helena's eyes shimmer with a mixture of relief and gratitude. She seems almost hesitant to speak, as if fearing the moment might dissolve.
I turn to her, allowing a small, almost mischievous smile to touch my lips. "Sister Helena, I trust you already have a penance in mind for Aurora—one that, given your remarkable aptitude for reinterpreting our sacred traditions, does not involve handing her an eviscerator she can hardly lift and sending her to perish on some forsaken battlefield?"
A hint of a blush colors her cheeks. "Yes, Revered Mother. I have a penance that adheres to the letter of the Rule of the Sororitas and offers a path for her redemption."
"Very well," I acknowledge. "You will proceed with the necessary preparations. Ensure that all protocols are meticulously followed. This may be unorthodox, but its execution must be beyond reproach."
"I will," she promises, her voice steady but edged with emotion. "Thank you, Revered Mother."
"Do not thank me," I reply gently. "Thank the Emperor for His guidance."
Faust rises from his seat. "With your blessing I take my leave. I will update my records and inform my superiors of this resolution."
"Be blessed in His name and go," I say. "And, Interrogator, I appreciate your willingness to find a mutually acceptable solution."
He offers a slight bow. "Our goals align more often than not it would seem. I now see why my master esteems you so highly, Revered Mother. You are not an opponent I would seek to cross lightly."
"Indeed," I agree. "May the Emperor illuminate your path."
He exits the chamber, his footsteps echoing down the grand hall. Once I am certain that Faust has left the premises—I hear the distant echo of the outer doors closing—I turn back to Helena. "There is something I must say," I begin softly.
She looks at me quizzically. "Yes, Revered Mother?"
"I owe you an apology, my Sister," I admit. "For using the holy sacrifice of our fallen Constantia against you earlier. Rebecca, Challa, Haley—their names should never be wielded as weapons against you."
She blinks in surprise, pain flashing over her features which she hides with a quick bow of her head. "You did what you felt was necessary."
"I did," I acknowledge. "But that does not lessen the sting, nor was it entirely fair. My words were a tonic to cure you but in the mouths of others you may find them to be a poison. They were, are, false, not representative of how I view you or your actions. But, I needed to reach you, to break through the armor you've so carefully constructed around your heart."
She remains silent, her gaze fixed on the floor.
"Helena," I continue gently, "you are a warrior of unparalleled skill, no one can question your record, your deeds. But you have become so acclimated to battle, so oriented toward conflict, that you've forgotten how to be vulnerable, how to share your burdens. Faith is not an individual endeavor; it thrives within the community, nourished by our shared experiences and support."
She lifts her eyes to meet mine. "I... I've always believed that bearing my struggles alone was a form of strength."
"In a commander, alone, without a peer to stand shoulder to shoulder with and only the more fragile faith of her subordinates to inspire, perhaps it could be. But this, here, is not that. Strength is most powerfully found in unity," I counter. "In the past seven years, not once have you come to me for confession or counsel. You have been transcribing your confessions, sending them to your former commander, keeping yourself isolated from those who stand ready to support you in the here and now."
She sighs softly. "Old habits die hard, I suppose."
"I understand how hard it must be to lay aside your traditions," I say with only the slightest hint of sarcastic humor. "But isolation breeds misunderstanding and clouds judgment. It was necessary for me to push you in such a raw and painful way because you refuse to open up and share your soul otherwise."
A flicker of realization crosses her face. "You wanted me to see beyond my own perspective."
"And I wanted to see your own perspective laid bare," I affirm. "You needed to recognize that faith is sustained by the collective, by trusting and leaning on others. Your willingness to humble yourself, to submit to the needs of the whole above your own passions, showed me that you are capable of this growth."
She nods slowly, absorbing my words.
"Because of that," I continue, "and only because of that, I am willing to consider your plan—unorthodox and audacious as it may be. I am choosing to trust in your faith, just as I hope you will learn to trust in mine. Just as we both must trust in Aurora's."
"Thank you, Revered Mother," she whispers. "I will strive to be worthy of that trust."
"I believe you will," I reply gently. "Now, let us speak of Aurora's penance. She cannot seek redemption through combat; it wouldn't fit the nature of her transgressions. She stands at the precipice of a path that could lead to darkness, but she hasn't crossed that threshold yet. Her absolution should be a crucible that tests her faith—a penance that requires more than just a stubborn heart and shrewd mind to overcome, more than just probabilities and quantitatives that Faust can measure and predict success by. Faith, the divine, the miraculous, nothing short will suffice."
She tells me.
I fold my hands thoughtfully. "You seek to test not only Aurora but also the presence and intent of Saint Jessamine herself."
"Yes," Helena admits. "It is a question that weighs heavily upon us. If the Saint guided Aurora to us, why has she faltered so? Why does she lack any outward sign of divine favor? This penance may reveal the answers we seek."
I feel a subtle unease stir within me. "There is a fine line, Sister, between testing one's faith and testing the divine. To set such a task could be seen as presumptuous, even impious towards the saint."
Helena gazes up at the stained-glass depiction of Saint Jessamine's martyrdom, the vibrant colors casting ethereal patterns across her face. A wry smile touches her lips. "Revered Mother, if Jessamine cannot handle a bit of lip from two old women seeking clarity, then perhaps she is not the formidable saint we believe her to be."
I can't help but chuckle softly at her audacity. "Careful, Helena. Such words tread dangerously close to censure, if not heresy."
She meets my eyes, sincerity evident. "I mean no disrespect. But our faith must be robust enough to withstand scrutiny, must it not? To question is not to doubt but to seek deeper understanding."
"Your words? or those of your tithe?" I question.
"If the words are true, does it matter? Must we not be careful, if Aurora is a divine instrument must we not be willing and prepared to be the ones learning from her, and through her, from the saint herself?"
I consider her perspective, the tension easing. "Perhaps there is wisdom in that. Very well. We will proceed as planned, but with the utmost reverence. Let us not forget the sanctity of the forces we are seeking to engage."
"Agreed," she responds earnestly. "I will ensure that every step is undertaken with the deepest respect and piety."
"See that you do," I affirm. "And keep me informed of her progress—discreetly, of course."
"Of course, Revered Mother."
A comfortable silence settles between us. For the first time in a long while, I feel a genuine connection with Helena—a mutual understanding forged through honesty and shared purpose.
"Now, we both have much to attend to. Go in faith, Sister Helena."
She bows deeply. "By your leave."
As she exits the chamber, I return my gaze to the mosaic of Saint Jessamine above. The artificial dawn casts a radiant glow upon her visage, the interplay of light and shadow lending an almost living quality to the artwork.
"Emperor," I whisper, "we place our trust in Your infinite wisdom. Guide our actions, flawed though they may be, toward the fulfillment of Your grand design."
A sense of calm washes over me, the weight of uncertainty lifting just enough to breathe freely. Perhaps this unorthodox path is precisely what is needed—a catalyst for growth, understanding, and, ultimately, faith.
"Let us see what the future holds," I murmur, before turning to attend to the myriad duties awaiting my attention.
Thank you kindly, hope you enjoy it, feel free to comment, feedback is a gift
[tis the season]
Chapter 5: She, Heretic (Valeria's POV)
New
Chapter 5: She, Heretic (Valeria's POV)
The data-terminal hums beneath my fingertips, its glow casting pale light over the scrolling text. The infirmary buzzes around me—medicae personnel moving with purpose, the soft beeps of auspex monitors, whispered prayers. My eyes skim over the latest bulletins, propaganda thinly veiled as news. Reports of the ongoing investigation flood the feeds, a relentless tide of warnings and condemnations.
"Executed Heretics Connected to Underhive Insurrection."
The headline snags my attention like a thorn. I hesitate, a knot tightening in my stomach. I tap the link. Names cascade down the screen—strangers, faceless labels of betrayal. Then, a name that stops my heart.
Aurora Daughter of None: Executed for heresy
Her image materializes—a grainy pict capture, but unmistakably her. My breath catches. The world narrows to that single point, the letters blurring as tears well in my eyes.
No! This can't be.
A cold tremor runs through me. My hands grip the edge of the terminal, knuckles whitening. The noise of the infirmary fades, a distant echo. Blood pounds in my ears.
"Valeria?" Sister Elara's voice pierces the haze. "Are you unwell?"
I turn to her, blinking rapidly. Her face swims into focus—concern etched in her eyes.
"I'm... I'm fine," I stammer, forcing the words out. "Just... need some air."
She studies me, doubt shadowing her expression. "Perhaps you should rest."
I nod absently, already stepping away. The walls feel too close, the air too thin. I push through the infirmary doors into the corridor, the cold stone floor grounding me with each step.
Aurora. Executed. Heretic.
The words swirl in my mind, clashing violently with everything I know of her. It's a mistake. It has to be. But the image, the official bulletin—it feels like a blade twisting in my chest.
Sister Helena. She must have known! She would have told me. Wouldn't she?
A surge of betrayal tightens my throat. After everything, to find out like this? I need answers.
I reach a data-terminal mounted on the wall, fingers trembling as I input Helena's locator code. The screen flickers, then displays her current position: the Garden of Heroes.
I turn on my heel, pace quickening as I navigate the maze of corridors. The schola feels different now, the familiar paths distorted by grief and anger. Voices murmur in distant rooms, laughter rings out from a group of novices, oblivious to the storm inside me.
I emerge into the open air, the vast expanse of the Garden stretching before me. The scent hits me first—a heady blend of blossoms and damp earth, rich and overwhelming. The sky above is a wash of grey, clouds hanging low like a shroud.
I step onto the path, my boots crunching over finely crushed gravel. Exotic flowers line the way, their vibrant hues muted in the diffused light. Roses the size of my fist, petals velvety and dark as blood. Lilies with delicate tendrils that sway gently, as if whispering secrets.
The air is thick with humidity, a faint mist clinging to the carefully trimmed hedges shaped into imperial iconography—the aquila, the hammer of the Adeptus Ministorum, the sigil of the Sororitas. Golden statues loom overhead, saints and heroes cast in perfect detail, their eyes gazing skyward in eternal supplication.
Water trickles from ornate fountains, the sound a soft counterpoint to the distant hymns playing from concealed vox-speakers. The melodies twist around me, hollow and mournful.
I barely register the beauty around me, my focus drawn tight like a wire. The garden feels oppressive, the opulence a stark contrast to the turmoil roiling within.
There, ahead—a solitary figure kneels before a towering plinth of obsidian. Sister Helena. She places four wreaths of lilies at its base, her movements precise, almost reverent. The names of the fallen are etched into the stone, a litany of sacrifice.
I approach, each step heavy. The air seems to thicken, my breaths shallow.
"Sister Helena," I call out, my voice sounding foreign to my ears.
She rises smoothly, turning to face me. Her gaze meets mine—steady, unreadable.
"Valeria," she acknowledges. "What brings you here?"
I search her face for any hint of emotion, some flicker of shared grief or regret. There's nothing.
"I just saw the bulletin," I say, the acusation tumbling out. "Aurora's name is listed among the executed heretics. Is it true?"
A silence stretches between us, taut as a drawn bowstring. She inclines her head slightly.
"It is."
A cold wave washes over me. I feel unsteady, as if the ground beneath me has shifted.
"Why didn't you tell me!?" I demand, anger sharpening my tone. "You knew how much she meant to me! You brought me with when we saved her from that… room…" even now memory of Aurora's body, hanging from those hoops of metal and mesh brings the taste of bile to my throat. "How could you let me find out like this?"
Her expression remains impassive. "It was not my place to inform you. The Inquisition has handled it, it is done."
"Not your place?" I echo, incredulous. "You were her mentor! After everything we've been through, you owed me at least that."
She narrows her eyes slightly. "Mind your tone, Novitiate."
I take a step closer, heat rising in my cheeks. "No. I won't be silent. Aurora was my friend—my best friend. She wasn't a heretic. You know that."
"Do I?" she replies coolly. "The judgment has been passed. We all must accept it."
"I won't!" I snap. "She was devoted, faithful. There's been a mistake."
Her gaze hardens and her voice lowers a fraction. "The Inquisition does not make mistakes, suggesting otherwise is extremely inadvisable."
"Then they're lying," I retort, the words charging out before I can stop them.
A flicker of something—disapproval, perhaps anger—passes over her features. "You tread dangerous ground, child."
"Maybe I don't care," I shoot back. "How can you stand there, so detached? Don't you feel anything?"
She straightens, her posture rigid. With two long strides she's right on front of me, staring down with ice in her eyes. "And what, precisely, should I feel for the death of a heretic?"
I hesitate, realizing that everything I'm feeling right in this moment is against, categorically unaligned, with the faith and oaths I've sworn. But all of that is only true if Aurora truly is, was… a heretic, and I can't just accept that!
In my mind I see that scrap of parchment, the poem, those words that just came up from inside me. Words burned away but still resonant inside me like a tide. Now I'll never be able to confide them, not even to Aurora herself…
"I do feel." Helena continues coldly, "contempt." The word hits me harder than a slap to the face, "any other emotion is irrelevant. Duty is all that matters."
"Is that what you tell yourself?" I challenge. "To sleep at night?"
Her jaw tightens. "This conversation serves no purpose. You will cease this line of questioning."
"Or what?" I ask bitterly. "Will you brand me a heretic too? Execute me without so much as a trial?"
"Enough," she snaps, a rare crack in her composure. "You will control yourself, Valeria. You will not dwell on this. You will not have this conversation with anyone else, doing so will only bring you harm."
I stare at her, a mix of hurt and disbelief twisting inside me. "How can you be so cold?"
She takes a measured breath. "I am advising you for your own good. Forget about Aurora. Focus on your duties."
"Forget her?" I whisper, the words like ash in my mouth. "How can I?"
"You will, because you must," she insists. "Associating with a known heretic is dangerous and your association with Aurora is well documented. Feeling remorse, pity, compassion, loss, mourning a condemned heretic?" She pauses for effect, "Do you want to die, Valeria? Do you want to be labeled as part of the rot that the inquisition is excising from our sacred institution? Is that what you believe Aurora would want you to do? Die along with her, for no reason?"
I feel tears prick at my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. "She wasn't a heretic," I say firmly. "And deep down, you know it."
She says nothing, her silence more damning than any response.
"Fine," I mutter, stepping back. "If you won't help me, I'll find answers elsewhere."
"Be mindful of what I've said, Valeria. What I've said has been said as a friend, not as a member of this faculty," she warns. "Curiosity will lead you to ruin."
I turn away, a bitter laugh escaping me. "Perhaps ruin is better than emptiness."
I lurch away, the distance between us growing with each step. The garden's splendor blurs around me, colors smearing into a haze. The scent of flowers turns cloying, the hymns discordant.
My footsteps quicken, almost breaking into a run as I escape the oppressive beauty of the Garden of Heroes. The schola's halls swallow me once more, the familiar architecture offering no comfort.
Faces blur past—novices, sisters, servitors—all moving with purpose, their lives untouched by the void opening within me. I wander without direction, the ache in my chest growing heavier.
Why? Why does it hurt so much?
It's not just how much I… felt for her, not how much I admired her resolve, her ability to stand before a storm, her courage to ask questions that terrified me… it's because I know, I know she wasn't a—
The thought hits me.
Of course she wasn't a heretic!
Of course she never turned her back on the Emperor's light. She would die first, would have died, should have died on at least two occasions first her fall and then beneath the hand of Explicator Sullivan and his barbaric machine. Both times she survived and clung to her faith.
So that's it then, it wasn't her.
God Emperor… It was the marks. I feel my throat go dry just at the thought of them. Sister Helena never told me what they were, but I've heard of the symbols and language of the arch enemy, and I overheard a lot while tending to her for those first two days they let me help stabilize her at the Ordo Malleus complex.
The thought doesn't bring me much comfort, Aurora is still dead. But she wasn't a heretic, she was just marked. Perhaps she truly had eventually succumbed either to the marks themselves or the infection they inflicted. Perhaps listing her as a heretic was just the most convenient way to dispose of her, the evidence, any questions that seeing her body entombed or burned would engender.
But if that's so…
My legs carry me to the gates of the Mechanicus enclave before my mind can catch up. The towering adamantium doors loom ahead, emblazoned with the cog-toothed skull of the Adeptus Mechanicus. The air here is colder, laced with the metallic tang of sacred oils and the ozone bite of charged circuits. Doubt flickers within me, but I press on.
I need answers.
A sensor array scans me—a sweep of crimson light across my features. A chime sounds, and the gates grind open with a hiss of pistons, revealing the austere corridors beyond.
Inside, the world transforms. Gone are the soaring arches and stained glass of the schola. Here, steel and logic prevail. Walls of polished metal house conduits pulsing with dim luminance, inscribed with binaric script and the liturgies of the Omnissiah. The hum of machinery vibrates underfoot, a mechanical heartbeat.
Red-robed tech-priests glide through the passageways, their movements precise, inhuman. Mechadendrites coil and uncoil like metallic serpents, tending to tasks beyond my understanding. Their faces are hidden behind cowls and augmetic masks, eyes glowing with data readouts. They pay me no heed.
I navigate the labyrinthine corridors, the route to Magos Harspes's sanctum etched into my memory from years of visits. The ambient sounds—the clicks, the whirs, the distant hiss of steam—dampen the turmoil within me.
At the door to his chamber, I pause. A knot tightens in my stomach. Am I overstepping? But I need to know.
I press the access rune. A moment passes before a servo-skull detaches from above, descending to eye level. Its optical lens focuses on me, emitting a soft red glow.
"Novitiate Valeria," the vox-emitter crackles with the synthesized voice of Magos Harspes. "State your purpose."
"Magos, I seek audience," I say, striving to steady my voice.
A brief pause. "Access granted."
The door slides open silently. I step into the dim expanse of his sanctum. The air is cooler here, laced with incense and the tang of machine oil. Cogitator banks line the walls, screens flickering with streams of data in binaric code.
Magos Harspes stands at a central console, his back to me. He is a towering figure—a fusion of metal and the barest remnants of flesh. Mechadendrites sprout from his spine, tipped with tools and sensors, moving with a life of their own.
"Magos," I begin, stepping forward. My footsteps echo softly on the metal floor. "I... I have inquiries regarding Aurora."
One of his mechadendrites halts mid-motion. He turns slightly, enough for me to glimpse the side of his face—augmetic implants where human features once were, leaving only a single organic eye, cold and distant.
"Proceed," he intones.
I swallow hard, carefully switching my tone and word choice to match, as best I'm able, the stringent care with which the Magos chooses his words. "I observed the recent dispatch. Aurora has been declared a heretic and executed."
He is silent. The ambient hum fills the space between us.
"I was hoping..." My voice wavers. "I hoped you might have recovered her augmetic limb. It was of your craftsmanship. If I could have a fragment, even a component, it would mean much to me."
He regards me for a moment, expression inscrutable. "The augmetic in question is not available."
Confusion cuts through my grief. "Not available? But surely, with her... demise, it would have been returned to you."
"The limb has not been relinquished into my custody," he states.
"So… they destroyed it!?" For a moment I feel a revulsion nearly equivalent to learning of Aurora's loss. The destruction of—
"The destruction of such a unique and holy implement would not have been undertaken without my personal input, such input has not been sought." The Magos continues, as usual, his ability to continue my line of reasoning borders on mind-reading.
I step closer. "So, if it wasn't destroyed, where is it? Do you know its location?"
He adjusts a cogitator node with meticulous precision. "Its current coordinates are beyond this facility."
"Beyond?" My brow furrows. "Is it still within the possession of the Inquisition?"
He remains silent.
I blink, attempting to parse his words. He's being deliberately vague. Why? The Magos chooses his words with precision. Always.
"Then where... is it?" I ask cautiously.
He continues his work, mechadendrites moving in fluid motions. "I am not authorized to discuss matters pertaining to Inquisitorial operations."
A cold frustration grips me. "So, you can't tell me anything about Aurora?"
He pauses, the faint whir of servos the only sound. "I cannot comment on the status of the individual designated Aurora. I am not authorized to discuss matters pertaining to Inquisitorial operations."
Defeat washes over me. "I understand," I whisper, though I don't. He's shutting me out, just like Sister Helena.
Silence stretches between us. Then, he turns his head slightly, his organic eye fixing on me.
"However," he says slowly, "should you possess inquiries regarding the augmetic limb itself, I am permitted to discuss its specifications and operational parameters for purposes of continuing medical education."
I look up, meeting his gaze. There's a subtle emphasis in his tone, with a member of the mechanicum of his rank, any inflection in tone is the basic human equivalent of jumping up and down and shouting... But why— a flicker of realization sparks. He's offering me a path to continue my inquiry under very specific conditions.
I stare at him for a moment in disbelief.
"Yes," I say carefully. "I would like to understand the limb further from a medical, functional standpoint."
He inclines his head. "Proceed with your query."
I gather my thoughts, choosing my words more carefully than I can ever remember. "Given that the limb was custom-crafted for A— for a specific user, it would require regular maintenance, maintenance unable to be performed by the user, especially after exposure to… to unanticipated and potentially damaging stimulus. Have any recent diagnostics been performed?"
"Affirmative," he replies. "Comprehensive diagnostics were conducted ninety three point two standard days prior."
Hope stirs within me, three months ago! "And the results?"
"Augmetic Limb Serial Theta-47-Zeta was fully restored. Resistance to aggressive, intrusive electrical stimulation exceeded operational expectations. Theta-47-Zeta functions within optimal parameters. Additional redundant pseudo-neural pathways were further implemented during scheduled maintenance seven point two days prior." he states.
I press on, heart pounding, mind racing. "For the limb be functioning, it must interface with a compatible neural network. Bio-mechanical interfaces must be fully operational. Neural linkage must remain intact. Is that correct?"
"Correct. The limb's neuro-link is calibrated exclusively to a singular user's cerebral patterns. This calibration can only be remediated through a total re-build of the limb from base pattern match unique to each individual mind."
"So," I say slowly, unable to keep the tremble out of my voice, "if the limb is operational and interfacing correctly, that would indicate that Aurora's neural patterns are... active."
He does not respond immediately. "I cannot comment on the status of the individual designated Aurora. I am not authorized to discuss matters pertaining to Inquisitorial operations. Addendum, your medical reasoning concerning function is logically sound."
A surge of realization washes over me. He's telling me she's alive, without violating his restrictions. I swallow, a chill running down my spine. He may see it that way, but the inquisition surely wouldn't…
"Magos," I whisper, wiping my eyes on the hem of my robe, "is it possible that Aurora is still... functioning?"
He turns fully toward me, his augmetic eye whirring softly as it focuses. "I cannot provide data on that subject."
"But the limb's status suggests..." I trail off, taking a deep breath. I try to slow my heart and focus, working to understanding the boundaries he's confined by.
He resumes adjusting components on his console. "Data indicates continued operation of the limb's systems."
"Why would they declare her executed if she's not dead?" I whisper to myself, my mind racing in a dozen directions as I collapse onto a bench.
He continues his work, responding as though the question had been asked of him. "Information dissemination by an effective organization unerringly serves purposes aligned with efficient completion of an organization's strategic objectives."
I consider his words. The Inquisition deals in shadows and secrets. Could they have falsified her death for some greater plan?
"Is there any method to verify the limb's operational status independent of direct physical contact?" I inquire.
He pauses. "The limb transmits periodic machine-code bursts for maintenance and performance assessment."
"Have there been any recent transmissions?" I ask, hope rising as I get swiftly back to my feet.
"Affirmative," he states. "The most recent data packet was received twelve point five hours prior."
Twelve hours ago. She's alive. She must be.
"Magos, could I study these transmissions? For educational purposes?" I venture. There's no possibility at all that the transmission location won't be in the log. Giving it to me would be the same as telling me where it is, something he refused to do earlier…
He regards me steadily. "Access to raw data is restricted. However, I can provide you with redacted performance logs for analysis."
"Thank you," I say earnestly. He knows what I want to know. He won't tell me because he can't. I can't believe he's doing this much! Although… from his perspective… does it even occur to him that there's such a thing as the spirit of the law, a spirit which he is clearly violating? I stare into his one organic eye and find absolutely nothing given away in its depths.
"Knowledge must be utilized efficiently," he says, as though reading my thoughts again.
I shake my head briefly, "why are you helping me?"
"Hope is a positive motivating factor," he replies as if the answer were obvious, "amongst my primary directives is the efficient education of ascendants to the mechanicum and, by extension, students seeking knowledge to increase the efficiency of education through supplementary data sharing outside formal classroom structures."
"You're… tutoring me?"
"An oversimplified but adequate comparison." He turns his face back to his work, "do you have additional medical queries?"
I pause, then carefully frame my next question. "Does the limb require any adjustments or recalibrations that only you can perform?"
"Certain modifications are exclusive to my design specifications. Remote adjustments are feasible when necessary. Further, the augmetic possesses a series of modular pathways to prevent cascade failure allowing for significant operation between maintenance cycles. However, modifications to ensure proper proportional fit and balance as the user's body mass increases with maturity are only possible with direct access to the augmetic by myself."
"Then you may interact with the limb again," I say, gauging his response.
He turns again and meets my gaze. "The probability of future maintenance operations is significant."
He's smiling. I don't know how I know, but by the Emperor I know he's smiling at me. He's… proud.
My own sense of pride in the accomplishment is tempered by the fact that, if interrogator Faust were standing here during this exchange, he'd probably execute me.
"Thank you," I whisper, gratitude and relief mixing within me.
He inclines his head slightly. "Further inquiries into the limb's schematics are encouraged for your medical advancement."
"I would greatly appreciate any schematics or technical documents you can provide," I say.
"I will transfer the relevant data to a portable cogitator for your use and highlight sections of particular importance to the continued efficiency of your scholastic pursuits. You may return it at such a time as you feel it no longer serves an educational purpose." he replies.
Exiting the Mechanicus enclave, the cold air of the schola grounds bites at my cheeks. The sky has darkened, heavy with the threat of rain, mirroring the tumult within me. Hope, fragile yet persistent, flutters in my chest.
As I navigate the winding corridors back to my quarters, the familiar sights pass in a blur. Novices bustle about, their conversations a distant murmur. Candles flicker in wall sconces, casting long shadows that dance along the stone walls. My mind churns with possibilities, questions, and the silent promise that Aurora might still be out there.
Pushing open the heavy door to my chamber, I'm greeted by darkness. I step inside, the scent of parchment and incense comforting in its familiarity. Before I can reach for the lumen globe, a soft whirring sound halts me. My heart skips a beat.
A crimson glow pierces the shadows. Hovering near my desk is a servo-skull, but unlike any I've seen before. It's larger, fashioned from the skull of, perhaps an ogryn, or otherwise enhanced humanoid creature I can't readily identify. Intricate circuitry weaves across its bone surface, and dozens of mechadendrites adorned with tiny sensors and tools coil beneath it like metallic tendrils. This is no mere portable cogitator…
"Sacred Omnissiah…" I breathe, finding the lumen switch.
"Novitiate Valeria," it intones in a synthesized voice reminiscent if not a perfect copy of Magos Harspes, yet tonally distinct. "I am designation Harspes-1b. Authorization granted to relay information pertaining to Augmetic Limb Serial Theta-47-Zeta, as per educational directive. Be advised: certain data remains classified and has been redacted."
I blink, the surprise momentarily overriding my composure. "Harspes-1b," I repeat. "May I... refer to you as Bee?"
A pause, then: "Designation abbreviation acknowledged and accepted."
I manage a faint smile and make the sign of the cog. "Very well, Bee. Did Magos Harspes send you?"
"Affirmative. I am tasked with facilitating your inquiry into the specified holy augmetic device."
I pull out the chair to my desk and take a seat. "Thank you. Bee, can you provide me with the coordinates from which the last data transmission from Theta-47-Zeta originated?"
"The requested information is restricted and has been redacted," Bee replies.
I nod, having anticipated this. "Understood. Has Magos Harspes highlighted any data for my immediate review?"
"Affirmative," Bee confirms. "One area of technical operation has been marked as priority data. Priority data encompasses automated transmission protocols and pathways utilized by Augmetic Limb Theta-47-Zeta."
"Please proceed," I say.
Bee emits a soft chime before launching into what must be a direct quote. "Theta-47-Zeta transmits data bursts via encrypted machine-code pulses, utilizing omnidirectional vox, dynamic-channel frequency-hopping protocols. Upon emission, these signals interface with local, active vox-relay nodes capable of retransmission until a node capable of sufficient Mechanicus decryption is reached. The initial relay captures the data packet, which is then routed through sub-networks employing tertiary logic circuits to obfuscate origin points before reaching Magos Harspes's primary cogitator array."
The technical jargon washes over me like a torrent. While I've spent considerable time around the Mechanicus, much of their specialized language remains arcane. I catch fragments: frequencies, vox-relays, channels.
"Wait," I interject, holding up a hand. "You're saying that the data burst is first received by the local vox-relay node?"
"Correct," Bee affirms. "Proximity transmission to an active relay for repeat broadcast ensures optimal efficiency and reduces signal degradation."
A thought sparks. If I can identify the vox-relay that first received the transmission, I might narrow down Aurora's location.
"Bee," I begin carefully, "can you provide the designation of the vox-relay node that initially received the last data burst from Theta-47-Zeta?"
There is a brief hesitation, a soft whirring as Bee's optical sensors adjust. "Accessing relay logs. Cross-referencing with redaction protocols."
I hold my breath.
"Designation of initial vox-relay node is: Gilead Primus Subsector 12, Relay Station Sigma-9, Vox Relay 111-Nu."
My heart leaps. "Sigma," I repeat. "That's... that's within the lower hive, isn't it?"
"Affirmative," Bee confirms. "Relay Station Sigma-9, Sector Sigma services communications within the lower levels of Gilead Primus for use of the arbites and PDF, however volume of traffic suggests that denizens frequently access the system without proper authorization."
The lower hive. If Aurora's augmetic transmitted from there, then she must be somewhere within that realm.
But how, why?
"Thank you, Bee," I say, my mind racing. "This information is... incredibly helpful."
"Further inquiries are encouraged by Magos Harspes for comprehensive understanding," Bee replies.
I pause, considering my next move. As much as my heart is leaping in my chest I can't just venture into the lower hive without sanction, especially after recent events. But if there's a chance to find her... or even contact her…
"Bee, is there any way to enhance the signal tracing to determine a more precise location?"
"Signal triangulation is limited due to the encryption and the obfuscation protocols in place," Bee explains. "However, analysis of transmission intervals and relay patterns could potentially narrow the area."
I pause, trying to parse the words, "meaning that if additional transmissions occur, analysis could be performed to narrow the potential location of the augmetic for… say… recovery purposes." I mentally cross my fingers. "Could you perform that analysis?"
"Affirmative."
"Can you perform that analysis now, based on the last three data blurts from Theta-47-Zeta?"
"Processing request."
As Bee processes, I glance out the narrow window of my chamber. The cityscape of Gilead Primus stretches beyond, a labyrinth of spires and shadows. The weight of the decision settles upon me. Sister Helena's words come back to haunt me; curiosity will lead you to ruin.
"Analysis complete," Bee announces. "Based on available data, the probable transmission origin is confined to a sector radius of approximately 2.7 kilometers within the lower hive."
I exhale slowly. "Can you gather additional data for me if I request it, even if it's not directly related to Theta-47-Zeta?"
"Magos Harspes has authorized me to assist in your educational efforts."
Boundaries…
"Bee," I intone, making a snap decision, "are you familiar with my academic record?"
"Affirmative."
"And would it be the opinion of Magos Harspes that I am significantly ahead of my peers due to my frequent interactions with the Magos?"
"Affirmative."
"Quantify my progress and delineate the difference between myself and my peers in standard educational cycles."
The skull bobs slightly, almost as if listening to an unheard voice, "subject Valeria Progena exceeds the educational pace of adjacent subjects by two point eight eight standard cycles."
I blink several times. I had been hoping for a year, almost three meant… The Magos believed I was already qualified to undergo the trials and be named a full Sister Hospitaller. I snort, well, that's not something Chief Hospitaller Amara will allow but…
"Bee, come with me," I grab my ceremonial shroud and trigger the door. Rain ours down around me, above me lightning plays between the highest spires, "I have someone I need you to repeat that last assessment to…"
The rain is a cold curtain against my skin as I step out from the Mechanicus enclave. Harspes-1b hovers beside me, its crimson optics casting a faint glow in the dimming light. The sky above is a roiling mass of black clouds, pierced occasionally by jagged forks of lightning. The schola's spires loom like silent sentinels, their gothic arches reaching toward the turbulent heavens.
I pull my cloak tighter, the fabric heavy with moisture. My original path was to Sister Amara, but a new thought grips me—a detour that might solidify my plan. I turn toward the Libra Primus, the grand library of the schola, its vast repository of knowledge both sacred and arcane.
"Bee," I say, my voice barely audible over the distant rumble of thunder.
"Awaiting directives," the servo-skull replies, its tone devoid of inflection.
"There's something I need you to help me with before we see Sister Amara."
"Directive acknowledged."
We navigate the labyrinthine corridors, the halls eerily quiet at this hour. Candles flicker in wall sconces, casting elongated shadows that dance along the stone walls. The scent of old parchment and incense grows stronger as we approach the library's towering doors, crafted from dark wood and embossed with the Aquila.
Pushing them open, we're greeted by the vast expanse of the Libra Primus. Rows upon rows of towering shelves stretch into the shadows above, laden with tomes bound in cracked leather and scrolls sealed with wax. The silence here is profound, broken only by the faint rustling of pages and the distant footsteps of a lone scribe.
Prior to entry a servitor stops us and I'm required to towel off and leave my outer robe to meet the library's strict permittable moisture requirements. As I dry, I see entire sections of the library sealed off by temporary walls and barriers, a testament just how bad the explosion and subsequent fire ravaged the building and what great work remains to restore it.
I lead Bee to one of the alcoves equipped with data terminals. Settling into the worn wooden chair, I activate the terminal. The screen flickers to life, lines of code scrolling rapidly.
"Bee, I need you to access the library's cogitator array, recent information, past six months," I whisper, conscious of the sacredness of this place. "Search for sanctioned activities in the lower hive, sector Sigma. Exclude any operations conducted by the Mechanicus."
"Initiating system interface," Bee responds. Its mechadendrites extend, delicate tendrils interfacing with the terminal's ports. Tiny sparks of electricity dance along the connectors.
I watch as streams of data cascade across the screen, too fast for me to follow. My fingers tap anxiously on the edge of the desk.
"Accessing records of sanctioned activities in Lower Hive Sector Sigma," Bee intones. "Data retrieval in progress."
I glance around. The library remains undisturbed. No one seems to notice or care about our activities.
"Compilation complete," Bee announces. "Sanctioned activities within Sector Sigma are limited."
"List them, please," I say.
"Activities include: periodic purge operations by Planetary Defense Forces, press-ganging efforts for labor conscription, and the presence of a singular Adeptus Arbites precinct designated Sigma-1."
An Arbites precinct. My heart quickens. That could be my way in.
"Bee, provide detailed information on Arbites Precinct Sigma-1," I request.
"Processing."
The screen shifts, displaying schematics, reports, and operational logs. I lean forward, eyes widening at the wealth of information unfolding before me.
"Arbites Precinct Sigma-1," Bee begins. "Established 843 standard years prior. Standard objectives: enforcement of Imperial law, suppression of heretical activities, maintenance of order within Sector Sigma. Operational specialty: security of hive critical infrastructure."
"Go on," I urge.
"Operational directives include but are not limited to:
Protection and oversight of critical infrastructure nodes, including geothermal power substation 1172-bz and corpse starch processing facility 6-yyz.
Inspection and maintenance coordination of primary aqua-ducts responsible for water purification and distribution.
Security of vox-relay stations facilitating communication networks vital to planetary defense and governance.
Monitoring and regulation of underhive gang activity to prevent incursions into sanctioned zones.
Coordination with the Departmento Munitorum for the retrieval and conscription of able-bodied individuals for Imperial Guard recruitment drives and flesh tithes.
Execution of sanctioned raids on suspected heretical enclaves.
Oversight of waste management systems and the prevention of toxic seepage affecting upper hive inhabitants.
Implementation of quarantine protocols in response to outbreaks of disease or bio-contaminants."
I stare at the screen, absorbing the staggering amount of detail. Each point is accompanied by sub-reports, incident logs, and tactical assessments spanning hundreds of years. It's far more than I expected to access.
"Bee, how are you obtaining all this?" I ask, unable to mask my astonishment.
"Data retrieval is within authorized parameters for educational purposes," Bee replies.
Educational purposes. Is this the Magos's influence? I swallow and decide not to look a gift femur in the marrow and press on.
"Display recent operation summaries," I instruct.
"Displaying summaries of operations conducted within the last six standard months:
Operation Steel Veil
Location: Geothermal Substation, Sector Sigma
Reporting Officer: Proctor Jeremiah Grosch
Objective: Secure Geothermal Substation 3 following reports of sabotage attempts by local gang factions, ensuring uninterrupted power supply to mid-hive districts.
Summary: Intelligence indicated sabotage activities targeting Geothermal Substation 3 by underhive gangs aiming to disrupt power to mid-hive sectors. A contingent of Enforcers, under my command, was dispatched to secure the facility and eliminate any threats.
Actions Taken:
Insertion: The team deployed to the substation's main entrance, achieving complete tactical surprise.
Engagement: Upon entry, we encountered resistance from gang members armed with autoguns and improvised explosives, numbering approximately forty combatants.
Tactics: Utilizing shock mauls and suppression shields, Enforcers advanced methodically, employing disciplined volleys of shotgun fire. Smoke grenades were deployed to obscure enemy lines of sight.
Results:
Enemy Casualties: All hostile elements were neutralized. Thirty gang members eliminated; remaining hostiles fled into deeper tunnels.
Arbites Injuries: Five Enforcers sustained minor injuries due to shrapnel and blunt force impacts. All are expected to make full recoveries.
Outcome: Sabotage attempts were thwarted. The substation remained fully operational, preventing a potential power outage affecting millions of Imperial citizens.
Conclusion: Operation Steel Veil was a decisive success, demonstrating the effectiveness of the Adeptus Arbites of precinct Sigma-1 in safeguarding vital infrastructure against underhive threats. The valor and professionalism of all Enforcers involved upheld the honor of the Emperor's law.
Signed,
Proctor Jeremiah Grosch—"
My mind reels as a dozen additional operations scroll past, demonstrating the vast scope of their duties. The Arbites here aren't merely enforcers; they're the thin line holding back chaos from consuming the hive! Each operation is a testament to a relentless struggle to maintain order against all odds and the valor of the precinct sigma-1 enforcers and troopers. This is exactly the kind of in I need to get close to Aurora…
I collect my robe from the warming stone beside the libra primus entrance, the fabric now dry and warm against my fingers. The storm outside still rages, sheets of rain hammering against the stained-glass windows, lightning casting fleeting shadows across the vaulted ceilings. Bee hovers beside me, its optic sensors flickering softly.
"Bee," I say, pulling the robe over my shoulders, "we're going to see the chief hospitaller, Sister Amara."
"Directive acknowledged," Bee replies, its mechadendrites retracting with a faint whirr.
We set off through the covered walkways connecting the libra primus to the administration wing. The corridors are dimly lit, sconces casting pools of golden light that fight against the encroaching gloom. The air smells of incense and old parchment, a comforting blend that does little to calm the storm within me.
My footsteps echo against the marble floors, each step a beat in the drum of my resolve. I glance at Bee, its presence a silent reminder of the Magos's support. The data I've gathered feels like a weight in my satchel, heavy with potential.
Reaching the double doors of Sister Amara's office, I pause. The carved wood is adorned with symbols of the Adepta Sororitas and the Rod of Asclepius, a testament to the duality of our path—faith and healing intertwined.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. "Emperor guide me," I whisper, pressing the chime.
"Enter," comes the firm voice from within.
Pushing the doors open, I'm greeted by the soft glow of lumen globes reflecting off shelves lined with tomes and vials of medicinal herbs. Sister Amara stands behind her desk, her mechadendrites coiling gracefully around surgical instruments laid out for cleaning. Her gaze meets mine, sharp yet not unkind.
"Novitiate Valeria," she says, her voice measured. "To what do I owe this visit?"
I step forward, inclining my head respectfully. "Sister Amara, I seek your counsel on a matter of some importance."
Her silver eyebrow arches slightly. "Proceed."
Bee hovers beside me, and I gesture to it. "Magos Harspes has permitted me the use of Harspes-1b to aid in my studies. Bee, please relay the Magos' assessment."
"Directive received," Bee intones. "Magos Biologis Harspes assesses Novitiate Valeria's academic and practical performance to be equivalent to a candidate two point eight eight standard years ahead of her current educational cycle."
Sister Amara's gaze shifts to Bee, then back to me. "Is that so?"
"Yes, Sister," I affirm. "I've dedicated myself fully to my studies, both theological and medical. The Magos believes I am prepared for more advanced challenges."
She folds her hands atop the desk. "And do you believe you are prepared?"
"I do," I reply without hesitation.
A faint smile tugs at the corner of her lips. "Confidence is admirable, but humility is a virtue we must not forget."
I nod. "Of course, Sister. I am ever mindful of the Emperor's teachings."
"Indeed." She leans back slightly. "Understand this," she continues after her assessing eyes have passed over me several times. "I have no intention of allowing you to graduate early or attempt your trials ahead of time. The path to becoming a full Sister Hospitaller is arduous and must be walked in its entirety."
"I accept that, Sister Amara."
"However," she allows a faint smile, "I am impressed by your initiative, it is a bold thing to come to me with this assessment and I sense a great conviction behind your purpose here. The Emperor favors those who act with purpose, please, present your request."
I draw a steadying breath, this is it, this is my one chance to find Aurora without leaving the confines of my duty… God Emperor help me.... "I wish to request an assignment to Arbites Precinct Sigma-1 for a full educational cycle. The precinct operates in Sector Sigma of the lower hive, an area with frequent engagements against gang elements. I believe the practical experience in treating combat injuries and performing field surgeries would be invaluable."
Her expression becomes thoughtful. "Field assignments are typically reserved for those on the chirurgeon or medicae paths. You aspire to be a Sister Hospitaller, do you not?"
"I do, Sister Amara. But the experiences I could gain there would greatly enhance my capabilities when I eventually serve on battlefields alongside our sisters."
She regards me for a long moment, her mechadendrites stilling their movements. "Your dedication is unquestionable, Valeria. Your academic record is exemplary, and your faith is steadfast."
"Thank you, Sister."
"However," she continues, "assigning a novitiate to such a perilous location is not a decision made lightly. The lower hive is fraught with dangers beyond mere physical harm, a point very poignantly displayed in the recent violence against this very institutional body and its members."
"I understand the risks," I say earnestly. "But I am prepared to face them in service to the Emperor."
She rises from her chair, moving around the desk to stand before me. The absence of her right arm is filled by a complex array of mechadendrites, each one a marvel of the Mechanicus's art. They move with a fluid grace, tools glinting like silver fingers.
"Tell me," she says softly, "why are you so eager to return to the underhive?"
I meet her gaze. "Because our duty is to heal and to serve, wherever we are needed most. The Arbites in Precinct Sigma-1 face constant threats, and their need for medical support is great. I wish to lend my skills where they can make the most difference."
She studies me, eyes searching. "And this has nothing to do with recent events concerning your friends?"
A cold finger traces down my spine. How? How could she know!? "S-Sister?"
"Do not feign ignorance," she chides gently "I know what motivates the fire I see in you. I am aware of the bond you shared with our sisters who died in that costly retreat. You have come in here clearly masking your emotions, hurt, loss, anxiety, and a fearsome resolve."
I nod mutely, not trusting my voice to betray my relief. Not Arora, she doesn't think this is about her…
"Their losses weigh heavily on us all." One of her mechadendrites snakes down from her arm and wraps itself warmly around my wrist, a comforting gesture, but the significance is not lost on me. She is listening to my pulse, tasting my sweat, assessing my response. "I must know that you are not doing this out of some misguided sense of guilt for not being there, standing beside them. Ours is not the way of seeking martyrdom, nor will I tolerate a belief for the need to self-flagellate for circumstances beyond your control."
I lower my eyes. "The loss from that day weighs heavily on me, Chief Hospitaller," I admit honestly. "But my request is not driven by grief. It is driven by only purpose; purpose go and do more than what another year in these walls would allow me." That too is truth, though not all of it.
Silence stretches between us, filled only by the soft hum of Bee's systems. The mechadendrite retreats back into her arm.
Finally, she nods. "Your resolve is commendable. And perhaps a change of environment would serve you well."
Hope flares in my chest. "Then you will consider my request?"
"I will do more than that," she says, a hint of a smile returning. "I will grant it."
"Truly?" I breathe.
"Yes. I have an excellent working relationship with the Lord Marshal of the Arbites. He has often requested additional support, and I believe assigning you will benefit all parties."
"Thank you, Sister Amara! I am deeply grateful."
She stands and walks around the desk to place a hand on my shoulder, her grip firm. "Know this, Valeria. This assignment will test you in ways the schola cannot. You will witness the worst the hive has to offer. Those around you will need you for more than just medical support, but spiritual healing as well. Be sure that in lending that support you yourself are not borne down by the weaker faiths of those outside our order. I have faith that you will uphold the virtues of our order in every way."
"I will not falter, Sister. I swear it."
"Good." She releases me, turning back to her desk. "Prepare your belongings. You depart at dawn."
"Dawn?" I echo, the reality settling in.
"Time is of the essence," she remarks. "And with most scholastic pursuits still restricted by the ongoing investigations I see no reason to delay your departure. And Valeria?"
"Yes, Sister?"
"While you are there, remember that you represent not only the Adepta Sororitas but the entire ecclesiarchy. Conduct yourself with the dignity and honor befitting a Sister Hospitaller."
"I will, Sister Amara."
She nods. "May the Emperor's light guide you."
As I turn to leave, Bee follows silently. My heart races with a mix of exhilaration and trepidation. The path ahead is uncertain, but it's a path that leads me closer to Aurora.
Exiting the administration wing, I step into the corridor, the sounds of the schola muted around me. Bee hovers at my side, its presence a comforting constant.
"Bee," I say quietly.
"Awaiting instruction," it responds.
"Thank you for your assistance."
"Gratitude is unnecessary. Fulfillment of directive is its own reward."
A small smile touches my lips. "Even so, I appreciate it."
We walk in silence back to my quarters, the weight of the impending journey heavy yet welcome. The storm outside shows no sign of abating, but within me, a new determination burns bright.
I will find you, Aurora. Whatever it takes.
The data-terminal hums beneath my fingertips, its glow casting pale light over the scrolling text. The infirmary buzzes around me—medicae personnel moving with purpose, the soft beeps of auspex monitors, whispered prayers. My eyes skim over the latest bulletins, propaganda thinly veiled as news. Reports of the ongoing investigation flood the feeds, a relentless tide of warnings and condemnations.
"Executed Heretics Connected to Underhive Insurrection."
The headline snags my attention like a thorn. I hesitate, a knot tightening in my stomach. I tap the link. Names cascade down the screen—strangers, faceless labels of betrayal. Then, a name that stops my heart.
Aurora Daughter of None: Executed for heresy
Her image materializes—a grainy pict capture, but unmistakably her. My breath catches. The world narrows to that single point, the letters blurring as tears well in my eyes.
No! This can't be.
A cold tremor runs through me. My hands grip the edge of the terminal, knuckles whitening. The noise of the infirmary fades, a distant echo. Blood pounds in my ears.
"Valeria?" Sister Elara's voice pierces the haze. "Are you unwell?"
I turn to her, blinking rapidly. Her face swims into focus—concern etched in her eyes.
"I'm... I'm fine," I stammer, forcing the words out. "Just... need some air."
She studies me, doubt shadowing her expression. "Perhaps you should rest."
I nod absently, already stepping away. The walls feel too close, the air too thin. I push through the infirmary doors into the corridor, the cold stone floor grounding me with each step.
Aurora. Executed. Heretic.
The words swirl in my mind, clashing violently with everything I know of her. It's a mistake. It has to be. But the image, the official bulletin—it feels like a blade twisting in my chest.
Sister Helena. She must have known! She would have told me. Wouldn't she?
A surge of betrayal tightens my throat. After everything, to find out like this? I need answers.
I reach a data-terminal mounted on the wall, fingers trembling as I input Helena's locator code. The screen flickers, then displays her current position: the Garden of Heroes.
I turn on my heel, pace quickening as I navigate the maze of corridors. The schola feels different now, the familiar paths distorted by grief and anger. Voices murmur in distant rooms, laughter rings out from a group of novices, oblivious to the storm inside me.
I emerge into the open air, the vast expanse of the Garden stretching before me. The scent hits me first—a heady blend of blossoms and damp earth, rich and overwhelming. The sky above is a wash of grey, clouds hanging low like a shroud.
I step onto the path, my boots crunching over finely crushed gravel. Exotic flowers line the way, their vibrant hues muted in the diffused light. Roses the size of my fist, petals velvety and dark as blood. Lilies with delicate tendrils that sway gently, as if whispering secrets.
The air is thick with humidity, a faint mist clinging to the carefully trimmed hedges shaped into imperial iconography—the aquila, the hammer of the Adeptus Ministorum, the sigil of the Sororitas. Golden statues loom overhead, saints and heroes cast in perfect detail, their eyes gazing skyward in eternal supplication.
Water trickles from ornate fountains, the sound a soft counterpoint to the distant hymns playing from concealed vox-speakers. The melodies twist around me, hollow and mournful.
I barely register the beauty around me, my focus drawn tight like a wire. The garden feels oppressive, the opulence a stark contrast to the turmoil roiling within.
There, ahead—a solitary figure kneels before a towering plinth of obsidian. Sister Helena. She places four wreaths of lilies at its base, her movements precise, almost reverent. The names of the fallen are etched into the stone, a litany of sacrifice.
I approach, each step heavy. The air seems to thicken, my breaths shallow.
"Sister Helena," I call out, my voice sounding foreign to my ears.
She rises smoothly, turning to face me. Her gaze meets mine—steady, unreadable.
"Valeria," she acknowledges. "What brings you here?"
I search her face for any hint of emotion, some flicker of shared grief or regret. There's nothing.
"I just saw the bulletin," I say, the acusation tumbling out. "Aurora's name is listed among the executed heretics. Is it true?"
A silence stretches between us, taut as a drawn bowstring. She inclines her head slightly.
"It is."
A cold wave washes over me. I feel unsteady, as if the ground beneath me has shifted.
"Why didn't you tell me!?" I demand, anger sharpening my tone. "You knew how much she meant to me! You brought me with when we saved her from that… room…" even now memory of Aurora's body, hanging from those hoops of metal and mesh brings the taste of bile to my throat. "How could you let me find out like this?"
Her expression remains impassive. "It was not my place to inform you. The Inquisition has handled it, it is done."
"Not your place?" I echo, incredulous. "You were her mentor! After everything we've been through, you owed me at least that."
She narrows her eyes slightly. "Mind your tone, Novitiate."
I take a step closer, heat rising in my cheeks. "No. I won't be silent. Aurora was my friend—my best friend. She wasn't a heretic. You know that."
"Do I?" she replies coolly. "The judgment has been passed. We all must accept it."
"I won't!" I snap. "She was devoted, faithful. There's been a mistake."
Her gaze hardens and her voice lowers a fraction. "The Inquisition does not make mistakes, suggesting otherwise is extremely inadvisable."
"Then they're lying," I retort, the words charging out before I can stop them.
A flicker of something—disapproval, perhaps anger—passes over her features. "You tread dangerous ground, child."
"Maybe I don't care," I shoot back. "How can you stand there, so detached? Don't you feel anything?"
She straightens, her posture rigid. With two long strides she's right on front of me, staring down with ice in her eyes. "And what, precisely, should I feel for the death of a heretic?"
I hesitate, realizing that everything I'm feeling right in this moment is against, categorically unaligned, with the faith and oaths I've sworn. But all of that is only true if Aurora truly is, was… a heretic, and I can't just accept that!
In my mind I see that scrap of parchment, the poem, those words that just came up from inside me. Words burned away but still resonant inside me like a tide. Now I'll never be able to confide them, not even to Aurora herself…
"I do feel." Helena continues coldly, "contempt." The word hits me harder than a slap to the face, "any other emotion is irrelevant. Duty is all that matters."
"Is that what you tell yourself?" I challenge. "To sleep at night?"
Her jaw tightens. "This conversation serves no purpose. You will cease this line of questioning."
"Or what?" I ask bitterly. "Will you brand me a heretic too? Execute me without so much as a trial?"
"Enough," she snaps, a rare crack in her composure. "You will control yourself, Valeria. You will not dwell on this. You will not have this conversation with anyone else, doing so will only bring you harm."
I stare at her, a mix of hurt and disbelief twisting inside me. "How can you be so cold?"
She takes a measured breath. "I am advising you for your own good. Forget about Aurora. Focus on your duties."
"Forget her?" I whisper, the words like ash in my mouth. "How can I?"
"You will, because you must," she insists. "Associating with a known heretic is dangerous and your association with Aurora is well documented. Feeling remorse, pity, compassion, loss, mourning a condemned heretic?" She pauses for effect, "Do you want to die, Valeria? Do you want to be labeled as part of the rot that the inquisition is excising from our sacred institution? Is that what you believe Aurora would want you to do? Die along with her, for no reason?"
I feel tears prick at my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. "She wasn't a heretic," I say firmly. "And deep down, you know it."
She says nothing, her silence more damning than any response.
"Fine," I mutter, stepping back. "If you won't help me, I'll find answers elsewhere."
"Be mindful of what I've said, Valeria. What I've said has been said as a friend, not as a member of this faculty," she warns. "Curiosity will lead you to ruin."
I turn away, a bitter laugh escaping me. "Perhaps ruin is better than emptiness."
I lurch away, the distance between us growing with each step. The garden's splendor blurs around me, colors smearing into a haze. The scent of flowers turns cloying, the hymns discordant.
My footsteps quicken, almost breaking into a run as I escape the oppressive beauty of the Garden of Heroes. The schola's halls swallow me once more, the familiar architecture offering no comfort.
Faces blur past—novices, sisters, servitors—all moving with purpose, their lives untouched by the void opening within me. I wander without direction, the ache in my chest growing heavier.
Why? Why does it hurt so much?
It's not just how much I… felt for her, not how much I admired her resolve, her ability to stand before a storm, her courage to ask questions that terrified me… it's because I know, I know she wasn't a—
The thought hits me.
Of course she wasn't a heretic!
Of course she never turned her back on the Emperor's light. She would die first, would have died, should have died on at least two occasions first her fall and then beneath the hand of Explicator Sullivan and his barbaric machine. Both times she survived and clung to her faith.
So that's it then, it wasn't her.
God Emperor… It was the marks. I feel my throat go dry just at the thought of them. Sister Helena never told me what they were, but I've heard of the symbols and language of the arch enemy, and I overheard a lot while tending to her for those first two days they let me help stabilize her at the Ordo Malleus complex.
The thought doesn't bring me much comfort, Aurora is still dead. But she wasn't a heretic, she was just marked. Perhaps she truly had eventually succumbed either to the marks themselves or the infection they inflicted. Perhaps listing her as a heretic was just the most convenient way to dispose of her, the evidence, any questions that seeing her body entombed or burned would engender.
But if that's so…
My legs carry me to the gates of the Mechanicus enclave before my mind can catch up. The towering adamantium doors loom ahead, emblazoned with the cog-toothed skull of the Adeptus Mechanicus. The air here is colder, laced with the metallic tang of sacred oils and the ozone bite of charged circuits. Doubt flickers within me, but I press on.
I need answers.
A sensor array scans me—a sweep of crimson light across my features. A chime sounds, and the gates grind open with a hiss of pistons, revealing the austere corridors beyond.
Inside, the world transforms. Gone are the soaring arches and stained glass of the schola. Here, steel and logic prevail. Walls of polished metal house conduits pulsing with dim luminance, inscribed with binaric script and the liturgies of the Omnissiah. The hum of machinery vibrates underfoot, a mechanical heartbeat.
Red-robed tech-priests glide through the passageways, their movements precise, inhuman. Mechadendrites coil and uncoil like metallic serpents, tending to tasks beyond my understanding. Their faces are hidden behind cowls and augmetic masks, eyes glowing with data readouts. They pay me no heed.
I navigate the labyrinthine corridors, the route to Magos Harspes's sanctum etched into my memory from years of visits. The ambient sounds—the clicks, the whirs, the distant hiss of steam—dampen the turmoil within me.
At the door to his chamber, I pause. A knot tightens in my stomach. Am I overstepping? But I need to know.
I press the access rune. A moment passes before a servo-skull detaches from above, descending to eye level. Its optical lens focuses on me, emitting a soft red glow.
"Novitiate Valeria," the vox-emitter crackles with the synthesized voice of Magos Harspes. "State your purpose."
"Magos, I seek audience," I say, striving to steady my voice.
A brief pause. "Access granted."
The door slides open silently. I step into the dim expanse of his sanctum. The air is cooler here, laced with incense and the tang of machine oil. Cogitator banks line the walls, screens flickering with streams of data in binaric code.
Magos Harspes stands at a central console, his back to me. He is a towering figure—a fusion of metal and the barest remnants of flesh. Mechadendrites sprout from his spine, tipped with tools and sensors, moving with a life of their own.
"Magos," I begin, stepping forward. My footsteps echo softly on the metal floor. "I... I have inquiries regarding Aurora."
One of his mechadendrites halts mid-motion. He turns slightly, enough for me to glimpse the side of his face—augmetic implants where human features once were, leaving only a single organic eye, cold and distant.
"Proceed," he intones.
I swallow hard, carefully switching my tone and word choice to match, as best I'm able, the stringent care with which the Magos chooses his words. "I observed the recent dispatch. Aurora has been declared a heretic and executed."
He is silent. The ambient hum fills the space between us.
"I was hoping..." My voice wavers. "I hoped you might have recovered her augmetic limb. It was of your craftsmanship. If I could have a fragment, even a component, it would mean much to me."
He regards me for a moment, expression inscrutable. "The augmetic in question is not available."
Confusion cuts through my grief. "Not available? But surely, with her... demise, it would have been returned to you."
"The limb has not been relinquished into my custody," he states.
"So… they destroyed it!?" For a moment I feel a revulsion nearly equivalent to learning of Aurora's loss. The destruction of—
"The destruction of such a unique and holy implement would not have been undertaken without my personal input, such input has not been sought." The Magos continues, as usual, his ability to continue my line of reasoning borders on mind-reading.
I step closer. "So, if it wasn't destroyed, where is it? Do you know its location?"
He adjusts a cogitator node with meticulous precision. "Its current coordinates are beyond this facility."
"Beyond?" My brow furrows. "Is it still within the possession of the Inquisition?"
He remains silent.
I blink, attempting to parse his words. He's being deliberately vague. Why? The Magos chooses his words with precision. Always.
"Then where... is it?" I ask cautiously.
He continues his work, mechadendrites moving in fluid motions. "I am not authorized to discuss matters pertaining to Inquisitorial operations."
A cold frustration grips me. "So, you can't tell me anything about Aurora?"
He pauses, the faint whir of servos the only sound. "I cannot comment on the status of the individual designated Aurora. I am not authorized to discuss matters pertaining to Inquisitorial operations."
Defeat washes over me. "I understand," I whisper, though I don't. He's shutting me out, just like Sister Helena.
Silence stretches between us. Then, he turns his head slightly, his organic eye fixing on me.
"However," he says slowly, "should you possess inquiries regarding the augmetic limb itself, I am permitted to discuss its specifications and operational parameters for purposes of continuing medical education."
I look up, meeting his gaze. There's a subtle emphasis in his tone, with a member of the mechanicum of his rank, any inflection in tone is the basic human equivalent of jumping up and down and shouting... But why— a flicker of realization sparks. He's offering me a path to continue my inquiry under very specific conditions.
I stare at him for a moment in disbelief.
"Yes," I say carefully. "I would like to understand the limb further from a medical, functional standpoint."
He inclines his head. "Proceed with your query."
I gather my thoughts, choosing my words more carefully than I can ever remember. "Given that the limb was custom-crafted for A— for a specific user, it would require regular maintenance, maintenance unable to be performed by the user, especially after exposure to… to unanticipated and potentially damaging stimulus. Have any recent diagnostics been performed?"
"Affirmative," he replies. "Comprehensive diagnostics were conducted ninety three point two standard days prior."
Hope stirs within me, three months ago! "And the results?"
"Augmetic Limb Serial Theta-47-Zeta was fully restored. Resistance to aggressive, intrusive electrical stimulation exceeded operational expectations. Theta-47-Zeta functions within optimal parameters. Additional redundant pseudo-neural pathways were further implemented during scheduled maintenance seven point two days prior." he states.
I press on, heart pounding, mind racing. "For the limb be functioning, it must interface with a compatible neural network. Bio-mechanical interfaces must be fully operational. Neural linkage must remain intact. Is that correct?"
"Correct. The limb's neuro-link is calibrated exclusively to a singular user's cerebral patterns. This calibration can only be remediated through a total re-build of the limb from base pattern match unique to each individual mind."
"So," I say slowly, unable to keep the tremble out of my voice, "if the limb is operational and interfacing correctly, that would indicate that Aurora's neural patterns are... active."
He does not respond immediately. "I cannot comment on the status of the individual designated Aurora. I am not authorized to discuss matters pertaining to Inquisitorial operations. Addendum, your medical reasoning concerning function is logically sound."
A surge of realization washes over me. He's telling me she's alive, without violating his restrictions. I swallow, a chill running down my spine. He may see it that way, but the inquisition surely wouldn't…
"Magos," I whisper, wiping my eyes on the hem of my robe, "is it possible that Aurora is still... functioning?"
He turns fully toward me, his augmetic eye whirring softly as it focuses. "I cannot provide data on that subject."
"But the limb's status suggests..." I trail off, taking a deep breath. I try to slow my heart and focus, working to understanding the boundaries he's confined by.
He resumes adjusting components on his console. "Data indicates continued operation of the limb's systems."
"Why would they declare her executed if she's not dead?" I whisper to myself, my mind racing in a dozen directions as I collapse onto a bench.
He continues his work, responding as though the question had been asked of him. "Information dissemination by an effective organization unerringly serves purposes aligned with efficient completion of an organization's strategic objectives."
I consider his words. The Inquisition deals in shadows and secrets. Could they have falsified her death for some greater plan?
"Is there any method to verify the limb's operational status independent of direct physical contact?" I inquire.
He pauses. "The limb transmits periodic machine-code bursts for maintenance and performance assessment."
"Have there been any recent transmissions?" I ask, hope rising as I get swiftly back to my feet.
"Affirmative," he states. "The most recent data packet was received twelve point five hours prior."
Twelve hours ago. She's alive. She must be.
"Magos, could I study these transmissions? For educational purposes?" I venture. There's no possibility at all that the transmission location won't be in the log. Giving it to me would be the same as telling me where it is, something he refused to do earlier…
He regards me steadily. "Access to raw data is restricted. However, I can provide you with redacted performance logs for analysis."
"Thank you," I say earnestly. He knows what I want to know. He won't tell me because he can't. I can't believe he's doing this much! Although… from his perspective… does it even occur to him that there's such a thing as the spirit of the law, a spirit which he is clearly violating? I stare into his one organic eye and find absolutely nothing given away in its depths.
"Knowledge must be utilized efficiently," he says, as though reading my thoughts again.
I shake my head briefly, "why are you helping me?"
"Hope is a positive motivating factor," he replies as if the answer were obvious, "amongst my primary directives is the efficient education of ascendants to the mechanicum and, by extension, students seeking knowledge to increase the efficiency of education through supplementary data sharing outside formal classroom structures."
"You're… tutoring me?"
"An oversimplified but adequate comparison." He turns his face back to his work, "do you have additional medical queries?"
I pause, then carefully frame my next question. "Does the limb require any adjustments or recalibrations that only you can perform?"
"Certain modifications are exclusive to my design specifications. Remote adjustments are feasible when necessary. Further, the augmetic possesses a series of modular pathways to prevent cascade failure allowing for significant operation between maintenance cycles. However, modifications to ensure proper proportional fit and balance as the user's body mass increases with maturity are only possible with direct access to the augmetic by myself."
"Then you may interact with the limb again," I say, gauging his response.
He turns again and meets my gaze. "The probability of future maintenance operations is significant."
He's smiling. I don't know how I know, but by the Emperor I know he's smiling at me. He's… proud.
My own sense of pride in the accomplishment is tempered by the fact that, if interrogator Faust were standing here during this exchange, he'd probably execute me.
"Thank you," I whisper, gratitude and relief mixing within me.
He inclines his head slightly. "Further inquiries into the limb's schematics are encouraged for your medical advancement."
"I would greatly appreciate any schematics or technical documents you can provide," I say.
"I will transfer the relevant data to a portable cogitator for your use and highlight sections of particular importance to the continued efficiency of your scholastic pursuits. You may return it at such a time as you feel it no longer serves an educational purpose." he replies.
Exiting the Mechanicus enclave, the cold air of the schola grounds bites at my cheeks. The sky has darkened, heavy with the threat of rain, mirroring the tumult within me. Hope, fragile yet persistent, flutters in my chest.
As I navigate the winding corridors back to my quarters, the familiar sights pass in a blur. Novices bustle about, their conversations a distant murmur. Candles flicker in wall sconces, casting long shadows that dance along the stone walls. My mind churns with possibilities, questions, and the silent promise that Aurora might still be out there.
Pushing open the heavy door to my chamber, I'm greeted by darkness. I step inside, the scent of parchment and incense comforting in its familiarity. Before I can reach for the lumen globe, a soft whirring sound halts me. My heart skips a beat.
A crimson glow pierces the shadows. Hovering near my desk is a servo-skull, but unlike any I've seen before. It's larger, fashioned from the skull of, perhaps an ogryn, or otherwise enhanced humanoid creature I can't readily identify. Intricate circuitry weaves across its bone surface, and dozens of mechadendrites adorned with tiny sensors and tools coil beneath it like metallic tendrils. This is no mere portable cogitator…
"Sacred Omnissiah…" I breathe, finding the lumen switch.
"Novitiate Valeria," it intones in a synthesized voice reminiscent if not a perfect copy of Magos Harspes, yet tonally distinct. "I am designation Harspes-1b. Authorization granted to relay information pertaining to Augmetic Limb Serial Theta-47-Zeta, as per educational directive. Be advised: certain data remains classified and has been redacted."
I blink, the surprise momentarily overriding my composure. "Harspes-1b," I repeat. "May I... refer to you as Bee?"
A pause, then: "Designation abbreviation acknowledged and accepted."
I manage a faint smile and make the sign of the cog. "Very well, Bee. Did Magos Harspes send you?"
"Affirmative. I am tasked with facilitating your inquiry into the specified holy augmetic device."
I pull out the chair to my desk and take a seat. "Thank you. Bee, can you provide me with the coordinates from which the last data transmission from Theta-47-Zeta originated?"
"The requested information is restricted and has been redacted," Bee replies.
I nod, having anticipated this. "Understood. Has Magos Harspes highlighted any data for my immediate review?"
"Affirmative," Bee confirms. "One area of technical operation has been marked as priority data. Priority data encompasses automated transmission protocols and pathways utilized by Augmetic Limb Theta-47-Zeta."
"Please proceed," I say.
Bee emits a soft chime before launching into what must be a direct quote. "Theta-47-Zeta transmits data bursts via encrypted machine-code pulses, utilizing omnidirectional vox, dynamic-channel frequency-hopping protocols. Upon emission, these signals interface with local, active vox-relay nodes capable of retransmission until a node capable of sufficient Mechanicus decryption is reached. The initial relay captures the data packet, which is then routed through sub-networks employing tertiary logic circuits to obfuscate origin points before reaching Magos Harspes's primary cogitator array."
The technical jargon washes over me like a torrent. While I've spent considerable time around the Mechanicus, much of their specialized language remains arcane. I catch fragments: frequencies, vox-relays, channels.
"Wait," I interject, holding up a hand. "You're saying that the data burst is first received by the local vox-relay node?"
"Correct," Bee affirms. "Proximity transmission to an active relay for repeat broadcast ensures optimal efficiency and reduces signal degradation."
A thought sparks. If I can identify the vox-relay that first received the transmission, I might narrow down Aurora's location.
"Bee," I begin carefully, "can you provide the designation of the vox-relay node that initially received the last data burst from Theta-47-Zeta?"
There is a brief hesitation, a soft whirring as Bee's optical sensors adjust. "Accessing relay logs. Cross-referencing with redaction protocols."
I hold my breath.
"Designation of initial vox-relay node is: Gilead Primus Subsector 12, Relay Station Sigma-9, Vox Relay 111-Nu."
My heart leaps. "Sigma," I repeat. "That's... that's within the lower hive, isn't it?"
"Affirmative," Bee confirms. "Relay Station Sigma-9, Sector Sigma services communications within the lower levels of Gilead Primus for use of the arbites and PDF, however volume of traffic suggests that denizens frequently access the system without proper authorization."
The lower hive. If Aurora's augmetic transmitted from there, then she must be somewhere within that realm.
But how, why?
"Thank you, Bee," I say, my mind racing. "This information is... incredibly helpful."
"Further inquiries are encouraged by Magos Harspes for comprehensive understanding," Bee replies.
I pause, considering my next move. As much as my heart is leaping in my chest I can't just venture into the lower hive without sanction, especially after recent events. But if there's a chance to find her... or even contact her…
"Bee, is there any way to enhance the signal tracing to determine a more precise location?"
"Signal triangulation is limited due to the encryption and the obfuscation protocols in place," Bee explains. "However, analysis of transmission intervals and relay patterns could potentially narrow the area."
I pause, trying to parse the words, "meaning that if additional transmissions occur, analysis could be performed to narrow the potential location of the augmetic for… say… recovery purposes." I mentally cross my fingers. "Could you perform that analysis?"
"Affirmative."
"Can you perform that analysis now, based on the last three data blurts from Theta-47-Zeta?"
"Processing request."
As Bee processes, I glance out the narrow window of my chamber. The cityscape of Gilead Primus stretches beyond, a labyrinth of spires and shadows. The weight of the decision settles upon me. Sister Helena's words come back to haunt me; curiosity will lead you to ruin.
"Analysis complete," Bee announces. "Based on available data, the probable transmission origin is confined to a sector radius of approximately 2.7 kilometers within the lower hive."
I exhale slowly. "Can you gather additional data for me if I request it, even if it's not directly related to Theta-47-Zeta?"
"Magos Harspes has authorized me to assist in your educational efforts."
Boundaries…
"Bee," I intone, making a snap decision, "are you familiar with my academic record?"
"Affirmative."
"And would it be the opinion of Magos Harspes that I am significantly ahead of my peers due to my frequent interactions with the Magos?"
"Affirmative."
"Quantify my progress and delineate the difference between myself and my peers in standard educational cycles."
The skull bobs slightly, almost as if listening to an unheard voice, "subject Valeria Progena exceeds the educational pace of adjacent subjects by two point eight eight standard cycles."
I blink several times. I had been hoping for a year, almost three meant… The Magos believed I was already qualified to undergo the trials and be named a full Sister Hospitaller. I snort, well, that's not something Chief Hospitaller Amara will allow but…
"Bee, come with me," I grab my ceremonial shroud and trigger the door. Rain ours down around me, above me lightning plays between the highest spires, "I have someone I need you to repeat that last assessment to…"
The rain is a cold curtain against my skin as I step out from the Mechanicus enclave. Harspes-1b hovers beside me, its crimson optics casting a faint glow in the dimming light. The sky above is a roiling mass of black clouds, pierced occasionally by jagged forks of lightning. The schola's spires loom like silent sentinels, their gothic arches reaching toward the turbulent heavens.
I pull my cloak tighter, the fabric heavy with moisture. My original path was to Sister Amara, but a new thought grips me—a detour that might solidify my plan. I turn toward the Libra Primus, the grand library of the schola, its vast repository of knowledge both sacred and arcane.
"Bee," I say, my voice barely audible over the distant rumble of thunder.
"Awaiting directives," the servo-skull replies, its tone devoid of inflection.
"There's something I need you to help me with before we see Sister Amara."
"Directive acknowledged."
We navigate the labyrinthine corridors, the halls eerily quiet at this hour. Candles flicker in wall sconces, casting elongated shadows that dance along the stone walls. The scent of old parchment and incense grows stronger as we approach the library's towering doors, crafted from dark wood and embossed with the Aquila.
Pushing them open, we're greeted by the vast expanse of the Libra Primus. Rows upon rows of towering shelves stretch into the shadows above, laden with tomes bound in cracked leather and scrolls sealed with wax. The silence here is profound, broken only by the faint rustling of pages and the distant footsteps of a lone scribe.
Prior to entry a servitor stops us and I'm required to towel off and leave my outer robe to meet the library's strict permittable moisture requirements. As I dry, I see entire sections of the library sealed off by temporary walls and barriers, a testament just how bad the explosion and subsequent fire ravaged the building and what great work remains to restore it.
I lead Bee to one of the alcoves equipped with data terminals. Settling into the worn wooden chair, I activate the terminal. The screen flickers to life, lines of code scrolling rapidly.
"Bee, I need you to access the library's cogitator array, recent information, past six months," I whisper, conscious of the sacredness of this place. "Search for sanctioned activities in the lower hive, sector Sigma. Exclude any operations conducted by the Mechanicus."
"Initiating system interface," Bee responds. Its mechadendrites extend, delicate tendrils interfacing with the terminal's ports. Tiny sparks of electricity dance along the connectors.
I watch as streams of data cascade across the screen, too fast for me to follow. My fingers tap anxiously on the edge of the desk.
"Accessing records of sanctioned activities in Lower Hive Sector Sigma," Bee intones. "Data retrieval in progress."
I glance around. The library remains undisturbed. No one seems to notice or care about our activities.
"Compilation complete," Bee announces. "Sanctioned activities within Sector Sigma are limited."
"List them, please," I say.
"Activities include: periodic purge operations by Planetary Defense Forces, press-ganging efforts for labor conscription, and the presence of a singular Adeptus Arbites precinct designated Sigma-1."
An Arbites precinct. My heart quickens. That could be my way in.
"Bee, provide detailed information on Arbites Precinct Sigma-1," I request.
"Processing."
The screen shifts, displaying schematics, reports, and operational logs. I lean forward, eyes widening at the wealth of information unfolding before me.
"Arbites Precinct Sigma-1," Bee begins. "Established 843 standard years prior. Standard objectives: enforcement of Imperial law, suppression of heretical activities, maintenance of order within Sector Sigma. Operational specialty: security of hive critical infrastructure."
"Go on," I urge.
"Operational directives include but are not limited to:
Protection and oversight of critical infrastructure nodes, including geothermal power substation 1172-bz and corpse starch processing facility 6-yyz.
Inspection and maintenance coordination of primary aqua-ducts responsible for water purification and distribution.
Security of vox-relay stations facilitating communication networks vital to planetary defense and governance.
Monitoring and regulation of underhive gang activity to prevent incursions into sanctioned zones.
Coordination with the Departmento Munitorum for the retrieval and conscription of able-bodied individuals for Imperial Guard recruitment drives and flesh tithes.
Execution of sanctioned raids on suspected heretical enclaves.
Oversight of waste management systems and the prevention of toxic seepage affecting upper hive inhabitants.
Implementation of quarantine protocols in response to outbreaks of disease or bio-contaminants."
I stare at the screen, absorbing the staggering amount of detail. Each point is accompanied by sub-reports, incident logs, and tactical assessments spanning hundreds of years. It's far more than I expected to access.
"Bee, how are you obtaining all this?" I ask, unable to mask my astonishment.
"Data retrieval is within authorized parameters for educational purposes," Bee replies.
Educational purposes. Is this the Magos's influence? I swallow and decide not to look a gift femur in the marrow and press on.
"Display recent operation summaries," I instruct.
"Displaying summaries of operations conducted within the last six standard months:
Operation Steel Veil
Location: Geothermal Substation, Sector Sigma
Reporting Officer: Proctor Jeremiah Grosch
Objective: Secure Geothermal Substation 3 following reports of sabotage attempts by local gang factions, ensuring uninterrupted power supply to mid-hive districts.
Summary: Intelligence indicated sabotage activities targeting Geothermal Substation 3 by underhive gangs aiming to disrupt power to mid-hive sectors. A contingent of Enforcers, under my command, was dispatched to secure the facility and eliminate any threats.
Actions Taken:
Insertion: The team deployed to the substation's main entrance, achieving complete tactical surprise.
Engagement: Upon entry, we encountered resistance from gang members armed with autoguns and improvised explosives, numbering approximately forty combatants.
Tactics: Utilizing shock mauls and suppression shields, Enforcers advanced methodically, employing disciplined volleys of shotgun fire. Smoke grenades were deployed to obscure enemy lines of sight.
Results:
Enemy Casualties: All hostile elements were neutralized. Thirty gang members eliminated; remaining hostiles fled into deeper tunnels.
Arbites Injuries: Five Enforcers sustained minor injuries due to shrapnel and blunt force impacts. All are expected to make full recoveries.
Outcome: Sabotage attempts were thwarted. The substation remained fully operational, preventing a potential power outage affecting millions of Imperial citizens.
Conclusion: Operation Steel Veil was a decisive success, demonstrating the effectiveness of the Adeptus Arbites of precinct Sigma-1 in safeguarding vital infrastructure against underhive threats. The valor and professionalism of all Enforcers involved upheld the honor of the Emperor's law.
Signed,
Proctor Jeremiah Grosch—"
My mind reels as a dozen additional operations scroll past, demonstrating the vast scope of their duties. The Arbites here aren't merely enforcers; they're the thin line holding back chaos from consuming the hive! Each operation is a testament to a relentless struggle to maintain order against all odds and the valor of the precinct sigma-1 enforcers and troopers. This is exactly the kind of in I need to get close to Aurora…
I collect my robe from the warming stone beside the libra primus entrance, the fabric now dry and warm against my fingers. The storm outside still rages, sheets of rain hammering against the stained-glass windows, lightning casting fleeting shadows across the vaulted ceilings. Bee hovers beside me, its optic sensors flickering softly.
"Bee," I say, pulling the robe over my shoulders, "we're going to see the chief hospitaller, Sister Amara."
"Directive acknowledged," Bee replies, its mechadendrites retracting with a faint whirr.
We set off through the covered walkways connecting the libra primus to the administration wing. The corridors are dimly lit, sconces casting pools of golden light that fight against the encroaching gloom. The air smells of incense and old parchment, a comforting blend that does little to calm the storm within me.
My footsteps echo against the marble floors, each step a beat in the drum of my resolve. I glance at Bee, its presence a silent reminder of the Magos's support. The data I've gathered feels like a weight in my satchel, heavy with potential.
Reaching the double doors of Sister Amara's office, I pause. The carved wood is adorned with symbols of the Adepta Sororitas and the Rod of Asclepius, a testament to the duality of our path—faith and healing intertwined.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. "Emperor guide me," I whisper, pressing the chime.
"Enter," comes the firm voice from within.
Pushing the doors open, I'm greeted by the soft glow of lumen globes reflecting off shelves lined with tomes and vials of medicinal herbs. Sister Amara stands behind her desk, her mechadendrites coiling gracefully around surgical instruments laid out for cleaning. Her gaze meets mine, sharp yet not unkind.
"Novitiate Valeria," she says, her voice measured. "To what do I owe this visit?"
I step forward, inclining my head respectfully. "Sister Amara, I seek your counsel on a matter of some importance."
Her silver eyebrow arches slightly. "Proceed."
Bee hovers beside me, and I gesture to it. "Magos Harspes has permitted me the use of Harspes-1b to aid in my studies. Bee, please relay the Magos' assessment."
"Directive received," Bee intones. "Magos Biologis Harspes assesses Novitiate Valeria's academic and practical performance to be equivalent to a candidate two point eight eight standard years ahead of her current educational cycle."
Sister Amara's gaze shifts to Bee, then back to me. "Is that so?"
"Yes, Sister," I affirm. "I've dedicated myself fully to my studies, both theological and medical. The Magos believes I am prepared for more advanced challenges."
She folds her hands atop the desk. "And do you believe you are prepared?"
"I do," I reply without hesitation.
A faint smile tugs at the corner of her lips. "Confidence is admirable, but humility is a virtue we must not forget."
I nod. "Of course, Sister. I am ever mindful of the Emperor's teachings."
"Indeed." She leans back slightly. "Understand this," she continues after her assessing eyes have passed over me several times. "I have no intention of allowing you to graduate early or attempt your trials ahead of time. The path to becoming a full Sister Hospitaller is arduous and must be walked in its entirety."
"I accept that, Sister Amara."
"However," she allows a faint smile, "I am impressed by your initiative, it is a bold thing to come to me with this assessment and I sense a great conviction behind your purpose here. The Emperor favors those who act with purpose, please, present your request."
I draw a steadying breath, this is it, this is my one chance to find Aurora without leaving the confines of my duty… God Emperor help me.... "I wish to request an assignment to Arbites Precinct Sigma-1 for a full educational cycle. The precinct operates in Sector Sigma of the lower hive, an area with frequent engagements against gang elements. I believe the practical experience in treating combat injuries and performing field surgeries would be invaluable."
Her expression becomes thoughtful. "Field assignments are typically reserved for those on the chirurgeon or medicae paths. You aspire to be a Sister Hospitaller, do you not?"
"I do, Sister Amara. But the experiences I could gain there would greatly enhance my capabilities when I eventually serve on battlefields alongside our sisters."
She regards me for a long moment, her mechadendrites stilling their movements. "Your dedication is unquestionable, Valeria. Your academic record is exemplary, and your faith is steadfast."
"Thank you, Sister."
"However," she continues, "assigning a novitiate to such a perilous location is not a decision made lightly. The lower hive is fraught with dangers beyond mere physical harm, a point very poignantly displayed in the recent violence against this very institutional body and its members."
"I understand the risks," I say earnestly. "But I am prepared to face them in service to the Emperor."
She rises from her chair, moving around the desk to stand before me. The absence of her right arm is filled by a complex array of mechadendrites, each one a marvel of the Mechanicus's art. They move with a fluid grace, tools glinting like silver fingers.
"Tell me," she says softly, "why are you so eager to return to the underhive?"
I meet her gaze. "Because our duty is to heal and to serve, wherever we are needed most. The Arbites in Precinct Sigma-1 face constant threats, and their need for medical support is great. I wish to lend my skills where they can make the most difference."
She studies me, eyes searching. "And this has nothing to do with recent events concerning your friends?"
A cold finger traces down my spine. How? How could she know!? "S-Sister?"
"Do not feign ignorance," she chides gently "I know what motivates the fire I see in you. I am aware of the bond you shared with our sisters who died in that costly retreat. You have come in here clearly masking your emotions, hurt, loss, anxiety, and a fearsome resolve."
I nod mutely, not trusting my voice to betray my relief. Not Arora, she doesn't think this is about her…
"Their losses weigh heavily on us all." One of her mechadendrites snakes down from her arm and wraps itself warmly around my wrist, a comforting gesture, but the significance is not lost on me. She is listening to my pulse, tasting my sweat, assessing my response. "I must know that you are not doing this out of some misguided sense of guilt for not being there, standing beside them. Ours is not the way of seeking martyrdom, nor will I tolerate a belief for the need to self-flagellate for circumstances beyond your control."
I lower my eyes. "The loss from that day weighs heavily on me, Chief Hospitaller," I admit honestly. "But my request is not driven by grief. It is driven by only purpose; purpose go and do more than what another year in these walls would allow me." That too is truth, though not all of it.
Silence stretches between us, filled only by the soft hum of Bee's systems. The mechadendrite retreats back into her arm.
Finally, she nods. "Your resolve is commendable. And perhaps a change of environment would serve you well."
Hope flares in my chest. "Then you will consider my request?"
"I will do more than that," she says, a hint of a smile returning. "I will grant it."
"Truly?" I breathe.
"Yes. I have an excellent working relationship with the Lord Marshal of the Arbites. He has often requested additional support, and I believe assigning you will benefit all parties."
"Thank you, Sister Amara! I am deeply grateful."
She stands and walks around the desk to place a hand on my shoulder, her grip firm. "Know this, Valeria. This assignment will test you in ways the schola cannot. You will witness the worst the hive has to offer. Those around you will need you for more than just medical support, but spiritual healing as well. Be sure that in lending that support you yourself are not borne down by the weaker faiths of those outside our order. I have faith that you will uphold the virtues of our order in every way."
"I will not falter, Sister. I swear it."
"Good." She releases me, turning back to her desk. "Prepare your belongings. You depart at dawn."
"Dawn?" I echo, the reality settling in.
"Time is of the essence," she remarks. "And with most scholastic pursuits still restricted by the ongoing investigations I see no reason to delay your departure. And Valeria?"
"Yes, Sister?"
"While you are there, remember that you represent not only the Adepta Sororitas but the entire ecclesiarchy. Conduct yourself with the dignity and honor befitting a Sister Hospitaller."
"I will, Sister Amara."
She nods. "May the Emperor's light guide you."
As I turn to leave, Bee follows silently. My heart races with a mix of exhilaration and trepidation. The path ahead is uncertain, but it's a path that leads me closer to Aurora.
Exiting the administration wing, I step into the corridor, the sounds of the schola muted around me. Bee hovers at my side, its presence a comforting constant.
"Bee," I say quietly.
"Awaiting instruction," it responds.
"Thank you for your assistance."
"Gratitude is unnecessary. Fulfillment of directive is its own reward."
A small smile touches my lips. "Even so, I appreciate it."
We walk in silence back to my quarters, the weight of the impending journey heavy yet welcome. The storm outside shows no sign of abating, but within me, a new determination burns bright.
I will find you, Aurora. Whatever it takes.
Chapter 6: By Spit, and a Prayer (Valeria's POV)
New
Chapter 6: By Spit, and a Prayer (Valeria's POV)
The hum of faulty luminators casts a flickering pallor over the corridor, a stuttering dance of light and shadow that does little to dispel the gloom. I stand outside Proctor Grosch's office, the worn soles of my boots pressing into the cracked ferrocrete floor. The air is thick with the scent of machine oil and something acrid—burned recaf, perhaps, or the lingering trace of discharged lascarbines. Harspes-1b, whom I've taken to calling Bee, hovers silently beside me, his optical sensors scanning the dim surroundings.
Three weeks. Three weeks in Precinct Sigma-1, and still no audience with the elusive Proctor Jeremiah Grosch. I've sutured wounds, set fractures, even performed an augmetic thumb replacement in a pinch, but the man who supposedly runs this place, the only one who can authorize my repeated requests to accompany the outbound patrols, remains a phantom.
The Enforcers speak his name with a curious mix of reverence and distance, as if invoking a ghost. According to Bee's tertiary logic, that's because Grosch is, in fact, dead. Whatever game is being played here, if they think they're going to keep giving me the run around they've got another thing coming…
A murmur of voices filters through the heavy door—a solid slab of plasteel scarred with the marks of countless briefings and debriefings. I adjust the medicae satchel at my side, the weight of it a familiar comfort. Beneath the antiseptic and gauze, I can still catch the undercurrent of damp and decay that permeates the precinct.
The door slides open with a reluctant hiss, and I'm met not by the Proctor but by Enforcer Sergeant Tully, the man who first greeted me on arrival. He reclines behind Grosch's desk, booted feet propped up on a stack of data-slates. His uniform is rumpled, the Arbites insignia dulled and scratched. A half-smoked lho-stick dangles from the corner of his mouth, a thin wisp of smoke curling toward the stained ceiling.
"Ah, Sister Valeria," Tully drawls, a sly grin tugging at his weathered face. "Come on in. Don't be shy."
I step inside, the soles of my boots sticking slightly to an ancient patch of spilled amasec. The office is a cluttered mess—charts pinned haphazardly to the walls, a cracked pict-screen flickering with static, and the unmistakable aroma of cheap liquor hanging in the air. Behind Tully, a faded Aquila banner sags on its pole, the edges frayed.
"Sergeant Tully," I acknowledge, allowing no surprise to color my tone. Bee settles just behind my shoulder, his presence a silent sentinel.
Tully raises an eyebrow, clearly expecting a different reaction. "Surprised to see me here, are you?"
"Should I be?" I reply evenly, letting my gaze drift over the room. The desk is strewn with empty shot glasses and stained cogitator printouts. A dataslate bearing Proctor Grosch's seal sits casually beneath Tully's elbow.
He chuckles, a low, rough sound. "I suppose not. Word is you Sisters are a sharp bunch."
I meet his eyes, noting the faint bloodshot tint. "Sharp enough."
He swings his feet off the desk and leans forward, elbows resting on a spread of tattered maps. "So, what can I do for our esteemed Sister Hospitaller today?"
I take a moment before responding, letting the distant clamor of the precinct fill the silence—the clatter of equipment, muffled curses, the thud of boots on metal grating. "I think I'd like to stop wasting my time. It's time we dispensed with pretense, Sergeant."
His grin falters slightly. "Oh? And what pretense would that be?"
I gesture lightly to the room. "This charade. Pretending Proctor Grosch is still in command when it's clear he's... unavailable."
He narrows his eyes, a flicker of caution in his expression. "That's a bold statement."
"An honest one," I counter. "Bee has informed me that all official reports signed by Grosch have been encrypted and transmitted from your personal terminal."
Tully glances at Bee, his jaw tightening. "That so?"
"Indeed," Bee confirms in his monotone voice. "Data transmission logs corroborate this information."
Tully sighs, leaning back in the chair. "Well, aren't you full of surprises."
I fold my hands calmly. "It's in everyone's best interest that we stop lying to each other. Transparency fosters trust."
He barks a short laugh. "Trust? In the underhive? You're a long way from the schola, Sister."
"Perhaps," I allow. "But I believe we can find common ground. Since I've uncovered your... adjustments to protocol, it's only fair you start by telling me the truth about the situation here."
He studies me for a long moment, the levity fading from his eyes. "And in return?"
"I'll tell you why I haven't reported your subterfuge to the authorities," I offer. "Despite having ample opportunity and time to do so."
The ambient hum of the precinct fills the space between us. Somewhere in the distance, a burst of raucous laughter echoes through the corridors, followed by the tinny strains of a bawdy tune filtering from a vox-unit.
"Fair enough," Tully concedes, rubbing a hand over his stubbled chin. "Proctor Grosch is dead. Has been for over a decade."
I nod slowly. "I'm sorry for your loss."
He snorts. "Don't be. The bastard got himself killed chasing glory that wasn't there. Left us in a tight spot."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning if High Command found out we were without a Proctor, they'd send someone else." He leans forward, eyes hardening. "Someone who doesn't understand how things work down here. Someone who'd get a lot of good people killed."
"Or expose the... vices of the precinct's senior Enforcer?" I suggest.
He stiffens slightly. "Careful, Sister. You're treading dangerous ground."
"I'm merely stating facts." I glance around the cluttered office. "It's clear you've maintained a delicate balance in Sector Sigma, whatever that means. It's all your men will talk about, keeping the balance. But the reports you've been sending are utter fabrications."
"Necessary ones," he retorts. "The brass up top wants results. They don't care how we get 'em, as long as the power stays on, the water flows, and the river of corpse starch never runs dry."
I consider his words, the weight of them settling. "And the illicit activities within the precinct? The drugs, the illegal still, the lax discipline?"
He raises an eyebrow. "You've been paying attention."
"It's hard not to," I reply. "Especially when treating patients with substances in their bloodstream that shouldn't be there."
He shrugs. "Life down here is hard. My men and women need... outlets."
"Outlets that compromise their duty?"
He meets my gaze unflinchingly. "You think the brass cares about a little contraband? As long as we keep the gears turning, they turn a blind eye."
I fold my arms. "I didn't include those details in my own logs."
"Why not?" he asks, suspicion edging his tone.
"Because I'm not here to disrupt your operations," I say plainly. "I have my own reasons for being here."
He studies me, weighing my words. "Ah, so this would be your turn to tell the truth. Alright, I'll bite, what reasons would those be?"
I pause, choosing my next words carefully. "I'm searching for someone. A friend who may have passed through Sector Sigma."
His eyes narrow. "Through? The underhive swallows people whole, Sister. Not many make it out once they're down here."
"I'm aware of the risks," I reply. "But I believe she's still alive."
He taps a finger on the desk, considering. "So, you want my help finding her?"
"I want mutual cooperation," I correct. "I can provide medical expertise and support. In return, I need access to information."
He chuckles without humor. "You're a sharp one, alright. But information comes at a price, especially down here."
"I'm not asking for classified data," I assure him. "Just assistance in navigating this little corner of the underhive. I want out, outside. I want to access the local vox relay 111-nu. I want to be included."
He rubs his chin again, the bristles rasping under his fingers. "And if I refuse?"
I glance pointedly at the dataslate bearing Grosch's seal. "Then perhaps I'll reconsider my decision not to inform the authorities about the discrepancies in your reports."
He laughs outright this time. "You've got some brass, Sister. I'll give you that."
"I prefer to think of it as conviction."
He shakes his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Fine. We'll play it your way. But know this—down here, nothing is as it seems. You think you can handle that?"
"I wouldn't be here if I couldn't."
He leans back, folding his arms over his chest. "Alright. We've got a patrol heading out tomorrow. Making the rounds with the local bosses, something's got them all kinds of upset. You can tag along, that nice, powered suit of yours should help things stay civil."
"Thank you," I say evenly.
"But," he adds, pointing a finger at me, "you follow my lead. You don't wander off. And you don't interfere unless I say so."
"Understood."
He glances at Bee, who hovers impassively beside me. "That thing going to be a problem?"
"Bee is my educational assistant," I reply. "He goes where I go."
Tully grunts. "Just keep it out of the way."
A moment of silence stretches between us. The distant sounds of the precinct seep back in—the clank of machinery, the muffled thud of footsteps overhead.
"Now," he says, rising from the chair and moving around the desk, "since we're being honest, there's something you should know."
"I'm listening."
He stops a pace away from me, his gaze serious. "This place... it's held together by spit and a prayer. The gangs, the infrastructure, even the damn air we breathe—it's all hanging by a thread. One wrong move, one misstep, and it all comes crashing down."
Tully brushes a pile of dataslates onto the floor and produces a map, his finger tracing the thick black lines that divide Sector Sigma into four uneven quadrants. Each is marked with a distinct color—red, blue, yellow, and black.
"See this?" he says, tapping the red quadrant. "That's Quadrant A. Gnarl's territory. Calls himself the King of Sigma, arrogant bastard. His gang, the Crimson Fangs, control the geothermal substation. Without it, half the lower hive goes dark, maybe worse."
I lean in, studying the crude annotations scrawled across the map. The substation is circled in red, surrounded by a maze of tunnels and access points.
"Gnarl siphons power," Tully continues. "Sells it to whoever can pay. He's got tech-adepts under his thumb, probably stolen from the Mechanicus or trained in the shadows. If he wanted, he could cut power to us, to the lower-hive, maybe even higher. But he doesn't, because he knows that'd bring the full weight of the Arbites, not to mention the mechanicus down on his head."
"Yet you tolerate his activities," I observe.
Tully shrugs. "We tolerate a lot down here. It's about balance, as you've heard. As long as he keeps the substation running and doesn't cause too much trouble, we let him play his games."
He moves his finger to the blue quadrant. "Quadrant B. Lutefisk's domain. He fancies himself the Duke of the Dike. His gang, the Blue Shadows—though we just call 'em the Blues—control access to clean water. Not the purification plant itself—that's sealed tighter than a Tech-Priest's vault—but the outbuildings, the lateral pipes and pumping stations. He's got a knack for cracking seals, probably has his own tech-adepts too. Fancies himself some kind of know-it-all noble or some shite."
"Lutefisk controls the water supply?" I ask, the enormity of it sinking in.
"Spot on. Without him, folks down here would be back to drinking sludge and runoff. He rations it out, sells it, uses it to keep the other gangs in check. Again, we let it slide because he keeps the water flowing."
Tully's finger slides to the yellow quadrant. "Quadrant C. Trebor's territory. Leader of the Yellow Dead. Now, Trebor's a different breed. Unstable, unpredictable. Calls himself an anarchist and a prophet, but really he's just a madman with a following. Controls the corpse starch processing plant."
My stomach tightens. "He controls food production?"
"As much as anyone can down here. The plant is mostly sealed and totally automated, takes in bodies from all over the hive, grinds 'em up, turns 'em into the ration wafers that keep folks from starving. Trebor has access to the few working access points and siphons what he wants. Food is power, and he wields it like a cudgel."
"And Quadrant D?" I ask, noting the blacked-out section of the map.
Tully's expression darkens. "Quadrant D is... off-limits. We call it the Black. No one goes in there if they can help it. Even the gangs steer clear. Rumors say it's haunted, cursed. Tech malfunctions, people disappear. Only thing of note is an old temple, abandoned and sealed. Vox goes dead in the Black. It's a void."
Bee emits a soft whirr. "Area likely exhibits characteristics of electromagnetic interference and anomalous energy readings."
"Right," Tully agrees, casting a wary glance at Bee. "We don't mess with it, and neither should you."
I file the information away, my mind already turning over the possibilities. "So, these three gang leaders—Gnarl, Lutefisk, and Trebor—they control the essentials. Power, water, food."
"Exactly," Tully says. "And we've got an understanding with them. We let them run their operations, within reason, and they keep the critical infrastructure intact. It's a delicate balance. Of course that's not all there is down here."
"Oh?"
"The quadrants are huge, the gangs restrict themselves to the bits that interface with the infrastructure they control and the main roads. Everything else is the wilds, a hundred square kilometers of Emperor knows what, mutant hordes, droves of humanity, the waste chutes, the markets, and things that go bump even in the daylight, and there's none of that down here." Tully remarked sourly, "A billion billion little hidey-holes where your friend could be and with things trending the way they are, we're not going out to search them anytime soon."
"The balance is threatened now," I surmise. "Or else you would have been less agreeable with me. You're anxious, afraid perhaps. Presumably you now see value in engaging my services more directly, you expect to need my skills."
He nods grimly. "No lie there, I'm worried sick. In the past twelve hours we've received a request to meet sent from each of the gang leaders, separately. To say that's not good would be like saying exposure to the warp is bad for your health. Usually, we meet on a set schedule, keep the peace, address any issues, police disputes between the gangs. But for all three to reach out like this, all at once? Something's stirring."
"Do you have any idea what it might be?"
"Not yet," he admits. "But I intend to find out. That's why tomorrow's patrol is so important. We need to get ahead of whatever's coming."
I glance back at the map. "And you believe bringing me along will help?"
He smirks. "Your power armor and that floating skull of yours make quite the impression. The gangs respect strength, and the presence of a Sister Hospitaller adds a certain... weight to our discussions."
"Even if I'm not a full Sister yet?"
"They don't need to know that," he says with a wink. "Besides, you carry yourself with more authority than half the Arbitrators I've met."
I feel a flush of embarrassment but push it aside. "Very well. What can you tell me about the relationships between the gangs?"
Tully sighs, rubbing his temples. "It's a web of rivalries and uneasy alliances. Gnarl and Lutefisk tolerate each other because they need each other's resources. Power and water go hand in hand. Trebor, on the other hand, is a wildcard. He controls the food supply but doesn't play nice with anyone."
"Sounds volatile."
"That's putting it mildly. We've managed to keep them from outright war, but tensions are always high. If one of them were to push too hard, or if something were to upset the balance..." He trails off, the implication clear.
"Gang War," I finish.
"Exactly."
I consider his words carefully. "And what is our role in all this?"
"Officially, we're here to enforce the Emperor's law," he says wryly. "In reality, we're the glue holding this mess together. We keep the gangs in check, make sure the infrastructure stays operational, and prevent the whole sector from tearing itself apart."
"By bending the rules."
He meets my gaze squarely. "By doing what's necessary. By being an impartial fourth party. You may not like it, Sister, but down here, pragmatism keeps people alive. Strict adherence to protocol would see us all dead within a week."
I take a deep breath, weighing his words. "I understand the need for compromise. But there must be limits."
"There are," he assures me. "I won't tolerate heresy, xenos influence, or anything that threatens the hive as a whole. But petty crimes? Contraband? A little siphoning which, to them seems like a lot but doesn't even move the decimal point for the main hive? We pick our battles."
"Selective enforcement," I muse.
"Call it what you will. It's the only way to maintain order in Sector Sigma."
I glance again at the sagging Aquila banner behind him. "And what about your own vices? The drinking, the drugs?"
He chuckles, a hint of self-deprecation in his eyes. "Guilty as charged. But I don't let it interfere with my duties. Can't say the same for some of the others, but I keep them in line all the same."
"Do they respect you?"
"They know I keep them alive. That's enough."
I nod slowly. "Very well. I appreciate your candor, Sergeant."
He raises an eyebrow. "That easy, huh? I expected more pushback."
"I'm not naive," I reply. "I know that idealism doesn't survive long in places like this. My priority is to find my friend and to help where I can, not lead a righteous crusade."
"Fair enough."
A moment of silence settles between us, the distant sounds of the precinct filling the void. Somewhere, a pipe leaks steam with a high-pitched whistle. The air feels heavier, laden with unspoken concerns.
"One more thing," Tully says, his tone shifting to a more serious register. "When we're out there, stay alert. The underhive isn't forgiving, and the gangs aren't the only dangers lurking."
I frown. "What do you mean?"
He hesitates, then shakes his head. "Just... trust me. Keep your eyes open, stay close, never, under any circumstances, go anywhere alone."
"Understood."
He glances at the chrono on the wall, its hands stuck between hours. "It's late. Get some rest. We'll set out at first light—or what passes for it down here."
I turn to leave but pause at the doorway. "Sergeant?"
"Yeah?"
"If things are as precarious as you say, why not request more support? Reinforcements, supplies?"
He gives me a weary smile. "Because that would bring scrutiny. And scrutiny brings orders from people who don't understand this place. We'd lose what little control we have. One big purge, lots of dead bodies, then the brass calls it clean, leaves, sticks some idiot in charge, and ten years later we're right back where we are now."
"Is that worth the risk of everything collapsing?"
He meets my gaze, the lines on his face deepening. "It's a gamble. But it's one I've been making for almost forty years. So far, it's paid off."
I nod, accepting his answer for now. "Good night, Sergeant."
"Good night, Sister."
As I step back into the dim corridor, the door closes behind me with a heavy thud. Bee hovers at my side, his sensors adjusting to the low light.
"Thoughts, Bee?" I ask quietly as we make our way back through the maze of passages.
"Sergeant Tully displays adaptive leadership traits consistent with prolonged exposure to high-stress environments," Bee replies. "His methods, while unorthodox and technically illegal, appear effective in maintaining relative stability and satisfy priority mission mandates regarding local infrastructure."
"Do you trust him?"
"Trust is a subjective assessment," Bee states. "However, probability analysis suggests cooperation is beneficial to current objectives of both parties."
I suppress a smile. "Ever the pragmatist."
We pass a group of off-duty Enforcers lounging in a makeshift rec area. A couple of them glance our way, curiosity mingled with suspicion. The smell of distilled alcohol and the acrid tang of lho-sticks hangs heavy in the air.
"Evening, Sister," one of them calls out, a hint of slur in his voice.
"Rest well," I reply, continuing on without pause.
Our quarters are spartan—a small cell with a narrow cot, a metal locker, and a flickering lumen strip overhead. I set my satchel down and begin the routine of checking my equipment. Armor seals, power pack levels, medicae supplies—all must be in order.
"Bee, run a diagnostic on your systems," I instruct.
"Initiating self-diagnostic," he responds.
As he processes, I allow myself a moment to sit on the edge of the cot. The weight of the day presses upon me, but sleep feels distant. My thoughts drift to Aurora—somewhere in this labyrinth of shadows and secrets.
"Diagnostic complete," Bee announces. "All systems functioning within optimal parameters."
"Good." I hesitate.
As I settle onto the cot, a heavy weight presses down on my chest—a familiar dread that I've tried to suppress since arriving at Precinct Sigma-1.
It's been three weeks.
Three agonizing weeks without a single transmission from Aurora's augmetic arm. Ever since we got here, the silence has been deafening. Bee warned me that such a prolonged cessation likely meant the augmetic was inactive, which could only mean one thing: Aurora might be dead.
I stare up at the cracked ceiling, the flickering lumen strip casting erratic shadows that seem to mock my uncertainty. The thought of confirming my worst fears twists my stomach into knots. Part of me doesn't want to ask, to keep clinging to the fragile hope that no news is good news. But I can't ignore it any longer.
Taking a shaky breath, I whisper into the dimness, "Bee?"
"Affirmative?" Bee's monotone voice replies from his hover position beside me.
I hesitate, my throat dry. "Any... any new transmissions from Augmetic Limb Serial Theta-47-Zeta?"
There's a brief pause as Bee processes the request. The silence stretches, each second amplifying my anxiety.
"Accessing data logs," he finally says.
I hold my breath, bracing myself for the confirmation of my deepest fear—that Aurora is truly gone and all of this… this foolishness on my part will prove to be just that, a fool's hope.
"New transmission detected," Bee announces. "Timestamp: twelve hours prior."
I sit bolt upright, the cot creaking beneath me. "What did you say?"
"Augmetic Limb Serial Theta-47-Zeta transmitted a data burst twelve hours prior," Bee repeats.
A surge of hope floods through me, so intense it leaves me lightheaded. "She's alive," I whisper. "After three weeks of silence... she's alive."
"Current data suggests the augmetic is operational," Bee cautions. "However, the status of the user cannot be independently verified without further information."
I nod, barely able to contain my emotions. "But it's something. It's more than we've had in weeks."
As the initial shock subsides, a realization dawns on me. "Wait a moment," I say, thinking back to my conversation with Tully. "Twelve hours ago—that's around the same time Sergeant Tully received urgent requests from all the gang leaders."
"Temporal correlation noted," Bee acknowledges. "Potential significance requires further analysis."
I swing my legs over the side of the cot, adrenaline banishing any trace of fatigue. "It's too much to be a coincidence. Aurora's augmetic starts transmitting again after weeks of silence, and suddenly the gangs are all clamoring to meet with the Arbites?"
"Probability of a connection is statistically low but not insignificant," Bee confirms.
"Could she be involved somehow? Maybe she's the reason they're on edge." My mind races with possibilities. "Perhaps she encountered them, or... or they're reacting to something she did."
Aurora… what are you doing down here? The thought crosses my mind for the millionth time since I left Sister Amara's office.
"Insufficient data to draw conclusions," Bee reminds me. "Further information is necessary."
I rub my temples, trying to piece it together. "Regardless, it's a lead. We might find answers on tomorrow's patrol."
"Advisement: rest is recommended to maintain optimal cognitive and physical performance," Bee suggests.
I glance at the lumen strip, its light now steady but dim. The underhive never truly sleeps, but I know Bee is right. "You're right," I admit, though my mind is far from ready to rest.
Lying back down, I pull the thin blanket over myself, its coarse fabric rough against my skin. The myriad sounds of the precinct—the distant clank of machinery, muffled voices, the hum of ventilation systems—all fade into the background as I focus on the faint glimmer of hope rekindled within me.
"Bee," I murmur into the darkness, "thank you."
"Gratitude is unnecessary. Operational assistance is my function."
A small smile touches my lips. "Still, thank you."
Silence settles over the room, but it's no longer oppressive. The fear that had been a constant companion these past weeks has loosened its grip, replaced by cautious optimism.
"Do you think it's really her?" I ask softly.
"Based on available data, the likelihood that subject Aurora remains alive has increased," Bee replies.
I close my eyes, holding onto that thought. "We'll find her," I vow quietly. "Whatever it takes."
"Affirmative," Bee responds. "Objective acknowledged."
Sleep pulls at the edges of my consciousness, and this time, I don't resist.
The hum of faulty luminators casts a flickering pallor over the corridor, a stuttering dance of light and shadow that does little to dispel the gloom. I stand outside Proctor Grosch's office, the worn soles of my boots pressing into the cracked ferrocrete floor. The air is thick with the scent of machine oil and something acrid—burned recaf, perhaps, or the lingering trace of discharged lascarbines. Harspes-1b, whom I've taken to calling Bee, hovers silently beside me, his optical sensors scanning the dim surroundings.
Three weeks. Three weeks in Precinct Sigma-1, and still no audience with the elusive Proctor Jeremiah Grosch. I've sutured wounds, set fractures, even performed an augmetic thumb replacement in a pinch, but the man who supposedly runs this place, the only one who can authorize my repeated requests to accompany the outbound patrols, remains a phantom.
The Enforcers speak his name with a curious mix of reverence and distance, as if invoking a ghost. According to Bee's tertiary logic, that's because Grosch is, in fact, dead. Whatever game is being played here, if they think they're going to keep giving me the run around they've got another thing coming…
A murmur of voices filters through the heavy door—a solid slab of plasteel scarred with the marks of countless briefings and debriefings. I adjust the medicae satchel at my side, the weight of it a familiar comfort. Beneath the antiseptic and gauze, I can still catch the undercurrent of damp and decay that permeates the precinct.
The door slides open with a reluctant hiss, and I'm met not by the Proctor but by Enforcer Sergeant Tully, the man who first greeted me on arrival. He reclines behind Grosch's desk, booted feet propped up on a stack of data-slates. His uniform is rumpled, the Arbites insignia dulled and scratched. A half-smoked lho-stick dangles from the corner of his mouth, a thin wisp of smoke curling toward the stained ceiling.
"Ah, Sister Valeria," Tully drawls, a sly grin tugging at his weathered face. "Come on in. Don't be shy."
I step inside, the soles of my boots sticking slightly to an ancient patch of spilled amasec. The office is a cluttered mess—charts pinned haphazardly to the walls, a cracked pict-screen flickering with static, and the unmistakable aroma of cheap liquor hanging in the air. Behind Tully, a faded Aquila banner sags on its pole, the edges frayed.
"Sergeant Tully," I acknowledge, allowing no surprise to color my tone. Bee settles just behind my shoulder, his presence a silent sentinel.
Tully raises an eyebrow, clearly expecting a different reaction. "Surprised to see me here, are you?"
"Should I be?" I reply evenly, letting my gaze drift over the room. The desk is strewn with empty shot glasses and stained cogitator printouts. A dataslate bearing Proctor Grosch's seal sits casually beneath Tully's elbow.
He chuckles, a low, rough sound. "I suppose not. Word is you Sisters are a sharp bunch."
I meet his eyes, noting the faint bloodshot tint. "Sharp enough."
He swings his feet off the desk and leans forward, elbows resting on a spread of tattered maps. "So, what can I do for our esteemed Sister Hospitaller today?"
I take a moment before responding, letting the distant clamor of the precinct fill the silence—the clatter of equipment, muffled curses, the thud of boots on metal grating. "I think I'd like to stop wasting my time. It's time we dispensed with pretense, Sergeant."
His grin falters slightly. "Oh? And what pretense would that be?"
I gesture lightly to the room. "This charade. Pretending Proctor Grosch is still in command when it's clear he's... unavailable."
He narrows his eyes, a flicker of caution in his expression. "That's a bold statement."
"An honest one," I counter. "Bee has informed me that all official reports signed by Grosch have been encrypted and transmitted from your personal terminal."
Tully glances at Bee, his jaw tightening. "That so?"
"Indeed," Bee confirms in his monotone voice. "Data transmission logs corroborate this information."
Tully sighs, leaning back in the chair. "Well, aren't you full of surprises."
I fold my hands calmly. "It's in everyone's best interest that we stop lying to each other. Transparency fosters trust."
He barks a short laugh. "Trust? In the underhive? You're a long way from the schola, Sister."
"Perhaps," I allow. "But I believe we can find common ground. Since I've uncovered your... adjustments to protocol, it's only fair you start by telling me the truth about the situation here."
He studies me for a long moment, the levity fading from his eyes. "And in return?"
"I'll tell you why I haven't reported your subterfuge to the authorities," I offer. "Despite having ample opportunity and time to do so."
The ambient hum of the precinct fills the space between us. Somewhere in the distance, a burst of raucous laughter echoes through the corridors, followed by the tinny strains of a bawdy tune filtering from a vox-unit.
"Fair enough," Tully concedes, rubbing a hand over his stubbled chin. "Proctor Grosch is dead. Has been for over a decade."
I nod slowly. "I'm sorry for your loss."
He snorts. "Don't be. The bastard got himself killed chasing glory that wasn't there. Left us in a tight spot."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning if High Command found out we were without a Proctor, they'd send someone else." He leans forward, eyes hardening. "Someone who doesn't understand how things work down here. Someone who'd get a lot of good people killed."
"Or expose the... vices of the precinct's senior Enforcer?" I suggest.
He stiffens slightly. "Careful, Sister. You're treading dangerous ground."
"I'm merely stating facts." I glance around the cluttered office. "It's clear you've maintained a delicate balance in Sector Sigma, whatever that means. It's all your men will talk about, keeping the balance. But the reports you've been sending are utter fabrications."
"Necessary ones," he retorts. "The brass up top wants results. They don't care how we get 'em, as long as the power stays on, the water flows, and the river of corpse starch never runs dry."
I consider his words, the weight of them settling. "And the illicit activities within the precinct? The drugs, the illegal still, the lax discipline?"
He raises an eyebrow. "You've been paying attention."
"It's hard not to," I reply. "Especially when treating patients with substances in their bloodstream that shouldn't be there."
He shrugs. "Life down here is hard. My men and women need... outlets."
"Outlets that compromise their duty?"
He meets my gaze unflinchingly. "You think the brass cares about a little contraband? As long as we keep the gears turning, they turn a blind eye."
I fold my arms. "I didn't include those details in my own logs."
"Why not?" he asks, suspicion edging his tone.
"Because I'm not here to disrupt your operations," I say plainly. "I have my own reasons for being here."
He studies me, weighing my words. "Ah, so this would be your turn to tell the truth. Alright, I'll bite, what reasons would those be?"
I pause, choosing my next words carefully. "I'm searching for someone. A friend who may have passed through Sector Sigma."
His eyes narrow. "Through? The underhive swallows people whole, Sister. Not many make it out once they're down here."
"I'm aware of the risks," I reply. "But I believe she's still alive."
He taps a finger on the desk, considering. "So, you want my help finding her?"
"I want mutual cooperation," I correct. "I can provide medical expertise and support. In return, I need access to information."
He chuckles without humor. "You're a sharp one, alright. But information comes at a price, especially down here."
"I'm not asking for classified data," I assure him. "Just assistance in navigating this little corner of the underhive. I want out, outside. I want to access the local vox relay 111-nu. I want to be included."
He rubs his chin again, the bristles rasping under his fingers. "And if I refuse?"
I glance pointedly at the dataslate bearing Grosch's seal. "Then perhaps I'll reconsider my decision not to inform the authorities about the discrepancies in your reports."
He laughs outright this time. "You've got some brass, Sister. I'll give you that."
"I prefer to think of it as conviction."
He shakes his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Fine. We'll play it your way. But know this—down here, nothing is as it seems. You think you can handle that?"
"I wouldn't be here if I couldn't."
He leans back, folding his arms over his chest. "Alright. We've got a patrol heading out tomorrow. Making the rounds with the local bosses, something's got them all kinds of upset. You can tag along, that nice, powered suit of yours should help things stay civil."
"Thank you," I say evenly.
"But," he adds, pointing a finger at me, "you follow my lead. You don't wander off. And you don't interfere unless I say so."
"Understood."
He glances at Bee, who hovers impassively beside me. "That thing going to be a problem?"
"Bee is my educational assistant," I reply. "He goes where I go."
Tully grunts. "Just keep it out of the way."
A moment of silence stretches between us. The distant sounds of the precinct seep back in—the clank of machinery, the muffled thud of footsteps overhead.
"Now," he says, rising from the chair and moving around the desk, "since we're being honest, there's something you should know."
"I'm listening."
He stops a pace away from me, his gaze serious. "This place... it's held together by spit and a prayer. The gangs, the infrastructure, even the damn air we breathe—it's all hanging by a thread. One wrong move, one misstep, and it all comes crashing down."
Tully brushes a pile of dataslates onto the floor and produces a map, his finger tracing the thick black lines that divide Sector Sigma into four uneven quadrants. Each is marked with a distinct color—red, blue, yellow, and black.
"See this?" he says, tapping the red quadrant. "That's Quadrant A. Gnarl's territory. Calls himself the King of Sigma, arrogant bastard. His gang, the Crimson Fangs, control the geothermal substation. Without it, half the lower hive goes dark, maybe worse."
I lean in, studying the crude annotations scrawled across the map. The substation is circled in red, surrounded by a maze of tunnels and access points.
"Gnarl siphons power," Tully continues. "Sells it to whoever can pay. He's got tech-adepts under his thumb, probably stolen from the Mechanicus or trained in the shadows. If he wanted, he could cut power to us, to the lower-hive, maybe even higher. But he doesn't, because he knows that'd bring the full weight of the Arbites, not to mention the mechanicus down on his head."
"Yet you tolerate his activities," I observe.
Tully shrugs. "We tolerate a lot down here. It's about balance, as you've heard. As long as he keeps the substation running and doesn't cause too much trouble, we let him play his games."
He moves his finger to the blue quadrant. "Quadrant B. Lutefisk's domain. He fancies himself the Duke of the Dike. His gang, the Blue Shadows—though we just call 'em the Blues—control access to clean water. Not the purification plant itself—that's sealed tighter than a Tech-Priest's vault—but the outbuildings, the lateral pipes and pumping stations. He's got a knack for cracking seals, probably has his own tech-adepts too. Fancies himself some kind of know-it-all noble or some shite."
"Lutefisk controls the water supply?" I ask, the enormity of it sinking in.
"Spot on. Without him, folks down here would be back to drinking sludge and runoff. He rations it out, sells it, uses it to keep the other gangs in check. Again, we let it slide because he keeps the water flowing."
Tully's finger slides to the yellow quadrant. "Quadrant C. Trebor's territory. Leader of the Yellow Dead. Now, Trebor's a different breed. Unstable, unpredictable. Calls himself an anarchist and a prophet, but really he's just a madman with a following. Controls the corpse starch processing plant."
My stomach tightens. "He controls food production?"
"As much as anyone can down here. The plant is mostly sealed and totally automated, takes in bodies from all over the hive, grinds 'em up, turns 'em into the ration wafers that keep folks from starving. Trebor has access to the few working access points and siphons what he wants. Food is power, and he wields it like a cudgel."
"And Quadrant D?" I ask, noting the blacked-out section of the map.
Tully's expression darkens. "Quadrant D is... off-limits. We call it the Black. No one goes in there if they can help it. Even the gangs steer clear. Rumors say it's haunted, cursed. Tech malfunctions, people disappear. Only thing of note is an old temple, abandoned and sealed. Vox goes dead in the Black. It's a void."
Bee emits a soft whirr. "Area likely exhibits characteristics of electromagnetic interference and anomalous energy readings."
"Right," Tully agrees, casting a wary glance at Bee. "We don't mess with it, and neither should you."
I file the information away, my mind already turning over the possibilities. "So, these three gang leaders—Gnarl, Lutefisk, and Trebor—they control the essentials. Power, water, food."
"Exactly," Tully says. "And we've got an understanding with them. We let them run their operations, within reason, and they keep the critical infrastructure intact. It's a delicate balance. Of course that's not all there is down here."
"Oh?"
"The quadrants are huge, the gangs restrict themselves to the bits that interface with the infrastructure they control and the main roads. Everything else is the wilds, a hundred square kilometers of Emperor knows what, mutant hordes, droves of humanity, the waste chutes, the markets, and things that go bump even in the daylight, and there's none of that down here." Tully remarked sourly, "A billion billion little hidey-holes where your friend could be and with things trending the way they are, we're not going out to search them anytime soon."
"The balance is threatened now," I surmise. "Or else you would have been less agreeable with me. You're anxious, afraid perhaps. Presumably you now see value in engaging my services more directly, you expect to need my skills."
He nods grimly. "No lie there, I'm worried sick. In the past twelve hours we've received a request to meet sent from each of the gang leaders, separately. To say that's not good would be like saying exposure to the warp is bad for your health. Usually, we meet on a set schedule, keep the peace, address any issues, police disputes between the gangs. But for all three to reach out like this, all at once? Something's stirring."
"Do you have any idea what it might be?"
"Not yet," he admits. "But I intend to find out. That's why tomorrow's patrol is so important. We need to get ahead of whatever's coming."
I glance back at the map. "And you believe bringing me along will help?"
He smirks. "Your power armor and that floating skull of yours make quite the impression. The gangs respect strength, and the presence of a Sister Hospitaller adds a certain... weight to our discussions."
"Even if I'm not a full Sister yet?"
"They don't need to know that," he says with a wink. "Besides, you carry yourself with more authority than half the Arbitrators I've met."
I feel a flush of embarrassment but push it aside. "Very well. What can you tell me about the relationships between the gangs?"
Tully sighs, rubbing his temples. "It's a web of rivalries and uneasy alliances. Gnarl and Lutefisk tolerate each other because they need each other's resources. Power and water go hand in hand. Trebor, on the other hand, is a wildcard. He controls the food supply but doesn't play nice with anyone."
"Sounds volatile."
"That's putting it mildly. We've managed to keep them from outright war, but tensions are always high. If one of them were to push too hard, or if something were to upset the balance..." He trails off, the implication clear.
"Gang War," I finish.
"Exactly."
I consider his words carefully. "And what is our role in all this?"
"Officially, we're here to enforce the Emperor's law," he says wryly. "In reality, we're the glue holding this mess together. We keep the gangs in check, make sure the infrastructure stays operational, and prevent the whole sector from tearing itself apart."
"By bending the rules."
He meets my gaze squarely. "By doing what's necessary. By being an impartial fourth party. You may not like it, Sister, but down here, pragmatism keeps people alive. Strict adherence to protocol would see us all dead within a week."
I take a deep breath, weighing his words. "I understand the need for compromise. But there must be limits."
"There are," he assures me. "I won't tolerate heresy, xenos influence, or anything that threatens the hive as a whole. But petty crimes? Contraband? A little siphoning which, to them seems like a lot but doesn't even move the decimal point for the main hive? We pick our battles."
"Selective enforcement," I muse.
"Call it what you will. It's the only way to maintain order in Sector Sigma."
I glance again at the sagging Aquila banner behind him. "And what about your own vices? The drinking, the drugs?"
He chuckles, a hint of self-deprecation in his eyes. "Guilty as charged. But I don't let it interfere with my duties. Can't say the same for some of the others, but I keep them in line all the same."
"Do they respect you?"
"They know I keep them alive. That's enough."
I nod slowly. "Very well. I appreciate your candor, Sergeant."
He raises an eyebrow. "That easy, huh? I expected more pushback."
"I'm not naive," I reply. "I know that idealism doesn't survive long in places like this. My priority is to find my friend and to help where I can, not lead a righteous crusade."
"Fair enough."
A moment of silence settles between us, the distant sounds of the precinct filling the void. Somewhere, a pipe leaks steam with a high-pitched whistle. The air feels heavier, laden with unspoken concerns.
"One more thing," Tully says, his tone shifting to a more serious register. "When we're out there, stay alert. The underhive isn't forgiving, and the gangs aren't the only dangers lurking."
I frown. "What do you mean?"
He hesitates, then shakes his head. "Just... trust me. Keep your eyes open, stay close, never, under any circumstances, go anywhere alone."
"Understood."
He glances at the chrono on the wall, its hands stuck between hours. "It's late. Get some rest. We'll set out at first light—or what passes for it down here."
I turn to leave but pause at the doorway. "Sergeant?"
"Yeah?"
"If things are as precarious as you say, why not request more support? Reinforcements, supplies?"
He gives me a weary smile. "Because that would bring scrutiny. And scrutiny brings orders from people who don't understand this place. We'd lose what little control we have. One big purge, lots of dead bodies, then the brass calls it clean, leaves, sticks some idiot in charge, and ten years later we're right back where we are now."
"Is that worth the risk of everything collapsing?"
He meets my gaze, the lines on his face deepening. "It's a gamble. But it's one I've been making for almost forty years. So far, it's paid off."
I nod, accepting his answer for now. "Good night, Sergeant."
"Good night, Sister."
As I step back into the dim corridor, the door closes behind me with a heavy thud. Bee hovers at my side, his sensors adjusting to the low light.
"Thoughts, Bee?" I ask quietly as we make our way back through the maze of passages.
"Sergeant Tully displays adaptive leadership traits consistent with prolonged exposure to high-stress environments," Bee replies. "His methods, while unorthodox and technically illegal, appear effective in maintaining relative stability and satisfy priority mission mandates regarding local infrastructure."
"Do you trust him?"
"Trust is a subjective assessment," Bee states. "However, probability analysis suggests cooperation is beneficial to current objectives of both parties."
I suppress a smile. "Ever the pragmatist."
We pass a group of off-duty Enforcers lounging in a makeshift rec area. A couple of them glance our way, curiosity mingled with suspicion. The smell of distilled alcohol and the acrid tang of lho-sticks hangs heavy in the air.
"Evening, Sister," one of them calls out, a hint of slur in his voice.
"Rest well," I reply, continuing on without pause.
Our quarters are spartan—a small cell with a narrow cot, a metal locker, and a flickering lumen strip overhead. I set my satchel down and begin the routine of checking my equipment. Armor seals, power pack levels, medicae supplies—all must be in order.
"Bee, run a diagnostic on your systems," I instruct.
"Initiating self-diagnostic," he responds.
As he processes, I allow myself a moment to sit on the edge of the cot. The weight of the day presses upon me, but sleep feels distant. My thoughts drift to Aurora—somewhere in this labyrinth of shadows and secrets.
"Diagnostic complete," Bee announces. "All systems functioning within optimal parameters."
"Good." I hesitate.
As I settle onto the cot, a heavy weight presses down on my chest—a familiar dread that I've tried to suppress since arriving at Precinct Sigma-1.
It's been three weeks.
Three agonizing weeks without a single transmission from Aurora's augmetic arm. Ever since we got here, the silence has been deafening. Bee warned me that such a prolonged cessation likely meant the augmetic was inactive, which could only mean one thing: Aurora might be dead.
I stare up at the cracked ceiling, the flickering lumen strip casting erratic shadows that seem to mock my uncertainty. The thought of confirming my worst fears twists my stomach into knots. Part of me doesn't want to ask, to keep clinging to the fragile hope that no news is good news. But I can't ignore it any longer.
Taking a shaky breath, I whisper into the dimness, "Bee?"
"Affirmative?" Bee's monotone voice replies from his hover position beside me.
I hesitate, my throat dry. "Any... any new transmissions from Augmetic Limb Serial Theta-47-Zeta?"
There's a brief pause as Bee processes the request. The silence stretches, each second amplifying my anxiety.
"Accessing data logs," he finally says.
I hold my breath, bracing myself for the confirmation of my deepest fear—that Aurora is truly gone and all of this… this foolishness on my part will prove to be just that, a fool's hope.
"New transmission detected," Bee announces. "Timestamp: twelve hours prior."
I sit bolt upright, the cot creaking beneath me. "What did you say?"
"Augmetic Limb Serial Theta-47-Zeta transmitted a data burst twelve hours prior," Bee repeats.
A surge of hope floods through me, so intense it leaves me lightheaded. "She's alive," I whisper. "After three weeks of silence... she's alive."
"Current data suggests the augmetic is operational," Bee cautions. "However, the status of the user cannot be independently verified without further information."
I nod, barely able to contain my emotions. "But it's something. It's more than we've had in weeks."
As the initial shock subsides, a realization dawns on me. "Wait a moment," I say, thinking back to my conversation with Tully. "Twelve hours ago—that's around the same time Sergeant Tully received urgent requests from all the gang leaders."
"Temporal correlation noted," Bee acknowledges. "Potential significance requires further analysis."
I swing my legs over the side of the cot, adrenaline banishing any trace of fatigue. "It's too much to be a coincidence. Aurora's augmetic starts transmitting again after weeks of silence, and suddenly the gangs are all clamoring to meet with the Arbites?"
"Probability of a connection is statistically low but not insignificant," Bee confirms.
"Could she be involved somehow? Maybe she's the reason they're on edge." My mind races with possibilities. "Perhaps she encountered them, or... or they're reacting to something she did."
Aurora… what are you doing down here? The thought crosses my mind for the millionth time since I left Sister Amara's office.
"Insufficient data to draw conclusions," Bee reminds me. "Further information is necessary."
I rub my temples, trying to piece it together. "Regardless, it's a lead. We might find answers on tomorrow's patrol."
"Advisement: rest is recommended to maintain optimal cognitive and physical performance," Bee suggests.
I glance at the lumen strip, its light now steady but dim. The underhive never truly sleeps, but I know Bee is right. "You're right," I admit, though my mind is far from ready to rest.
Lying back down, I pull the thin blanket over myself, its coarse fabric rough against my skin. The myriad sounds of the precinct—the distant clank of machinery, muffled voices, the hum of ventilation systems—all fade into the background as I focus on the faint glimmer of hope rekindled within me.
"Bee," I murmur into the darkness, "thank you."
"Gratitude is unnecessary. Operational assistance is my function."
A small smile touches my lips. "Still, thank you."
Silence settles over the room, but it's no longer oppressive. The fear that had been a constant companion these past weeks has loosened its grip, replaced by cautious optimism.
"Do you think it's really her?" I ask softly.
"Based on available data, the likelihood that subject Aurora remains alive has increased," Bee replies.
I close my eyes, holding onto that thought. "We'll find her," I vow quietly. "Whatever it takes."
"Affirmative," Bee responds. "Objective acknowledged."
Sleep pulls at the edges of my consciousness, and this time, I don't resist.
Chapter 7: The Usual Suspects (SGT Tully's POV) Part 1: Red
New
Chapter 7: The Usual Suspects (SGT Tully's POV) Part 1: Red
The low hum of the recyc unit is the first thing I hear. A constant drone that blends into the background, but after forty years in this hole, it's as familiar as my own heartbeat. My eyes open to the dim glow of a lumen strip, flickering weakly overhead. Another power fluctuation. Gnarl's boys must be skimming more than their usual share.
I swing my legs over the edge of the cot, the metal creaking under my weight. The chill of the floor bites at my bare feet, a stark contrast to the stale warmth of the bunk. My boots sit where I left them, scuffed and worn, the left one sporting a new crack along the sole. Need to patch that up before the patrol.
Reaching under the pillow, my fingers close around cold steel. I pull out the battered flask, unscrewing the cap with a practiced twist. The sharp scent of amasec fills the air—cheap stuff, but it does the job. I take a swig, the liquid burning a path down my throat, settling heavy in my gut. The familiar warmth spreads, steadying the tremor in my hands.
A man needs his rituals.
I set the flask aside and reach for the tarnished aquila pendant hanging from a nail on the wall. The metal is cool against my palm, edges smoothed by years of handling. Holding it tightly, I bow my head.
"Emperor, grant me the strength to carry the burdens of this day," I murmur. The words come easily; a litany etched into my bones. "Watch over those who serve, and forgive us our failings."
The silence that follows is thick, but it's a comfort. I tuck the pendant into my shirt, its weight resting comfortingly against my chest.
The cracked mirror on the wall shows a face etched by time and wear—a mess of grey stubble, scars tracing jagged lines across sunken cheeks, eyes shadowed but alert. I run a hand over my jaw, contemplating a shave, then shrug. Not much point down here.
Uniform's draped over the back of the lone chair—a threadbare thing that's seen better years. I dress methodically: undershirt, armored vest, the black fatigues marked with the faded insignia of the Arbites. The carapace plates come next, each one strapped and secured with muscle memory. As I fasten the last buckle, I catch another glimpse of myself in the cracked mirror.
Grey stubble shadows a lined face, eyes set deep with the weariness of too many long nights. A jagged scar cuts across my brow, a souvenir from a skirmish years back. I run a hand through thinning hair, shrugging off the vanity. Not much to be done about that.
My gaze shifts to the corner of the room where the power maul leans against the wall, its casing chipped but functional. Beside it, the suppression shield bears the marks of countless engagements—dents and scorch marks, each with a story I stopped telling long ago. The shotgun leans against the opposite wall—cleaned, loaded, ready. I sling it over my shoulder, the comforting heft a reminder of days long past.
Finally, I holster my sidearm, checking the charge. Full. Good. Never trust the indicators down here.
A soft knock echoes from the door.
"Enter," I call out.
The door creaks open to reveal Lannis, one of the newer recruits. Fresh-faced, but with eyes that have seen too much too soon. Nervous breakdown, got two of his buddies killed, but only I know that, no need to make him a pariah in a place where we're all pariahs of one type or another. He hesitates on the threshold.
"Sergeant Tully," he says, voice tight. "Shift report."
I nod for him to continue.
"Minimal disturbances overnight. Patrol Six reported a minor scuffle near the eastern sump pits. No casualties."
"Any more word from the gangs?"
He shakes his head. "All quiet, sir."
Too quiet.
"Thank you, Lannis. Dismissed."
He lingers for a moment, eyes darting to the flask on the table before he catches himself. I raise an eyebrow, and he quickly averts his gaze, offering a curt nod before retreating.
I sigh, picking up the flask once more. Another small sip, just to take the edge off. Can't afford to be off my game today.
I gather my kit, pausing to tuck a worn leather pouch into my belt. The lho-sticks inside rattle softly—a habit I've tried and failed to kick. The first drag fills my lungs with acrid smoke, the nicotine biting but familiar. I exhale, watching the tendrils curl toward the ceiling.
Stepping out into the hallway, the precinct hums with subdued activity. Enforcers shuffle past, armor clanking, eyes downcast. The air is thick with the scent of recycled air and too many bodies in too small a space. I nod to a few familiar faces—Keller, adjusting the sights on his sidearm; Diaz, muttering a prayer over a faded pict of her kid.
"Sergeant," they acknowledge, their gazes meeting mine briefly before sliding away. Respect, tinged with something else. Weariness, perhaps. Or resignation.
The mess hall is a hive of low conversations and clattering utensils. I grab a tin mug of recaf—strong enough to strip paint—and take a seat at an empty table. The liquid scalds my tongue, but I welcome the jolt.
"Rough night!" a voice booms from my left.
I glance up to see Enforcer Briggs dropping into the seat across from me. His face is a mosaic of bruises, one eye swollen nearly shut.
"You look like you kissed a servitor," I remark.
He chuckles, winces. "Just a brawl near the eastern sumps, market street, local vendors tried to hike the prices on us. We had a friendly disagreement. They didn't like the idea of haggling."
"They rarely do." I take another sip. "Make sure you see the medicae before patrol."
He waves a hand dismissively. "Nothing a stim patch won't fix."
I give him a pointed look. "That's an order, Briggs."
He nods, more subdued. "Yes, Sarge."
The chrono on the wall ticks closer to the hour. I drain the rest of the recaf and stand. "Time to round up the squad."
Briggs rises with me. "Heard we're bringing the Sister along today."
"That's right."
He whistles low. "Think she'll be a help or a hindrance?"
I shrug. "Depends on if she can keep up."
The corridor leading to the armory is a maze of flickering lights and leaking pipes. I navigate it by habit, sidestepping a puddle of something best left unidentified. Voices drift from ahead—raised, agitated.
Turning the corner, I spot two enforcers squared off, fists clenched.
"I told you, that's my gear, Jaquelin!" one snarls.
"Back off, Sykes," the other snaps. "Finders keepers."
"Enough!" I bark, the word slicing through the tension. They freeze, turning to face me.
"Care to explain?" I ask, arching an eyebrow.
Sykes shuffles his feet. "Just a... misunderstanding, Sarge."
I fix them both with a hard stare. "We don't have time for petty squabbles. Gear up and be ready in five."
They nod hurriedly, scurrying off in opposite directions. I sigh inwardly. Keeping this crew in line is like herding grox hounds.
In the armory, I find Derren, our quartermaster, organizing crates of ammunition. He looks up as I enter, his mechanical eye whirring softly as it focuses.
"Need supplies for the patrol," I state.
He gestures to a pile of gear on the bench. "Already prepped. Extra charge packs, shock grenades, and a medkit—figured you'd be bringing the Sister."
"Good man." I clap a hand on his shoulder. "How's the auger array holding up?"
He grimaces. "Barely. Could use new parts, but you know how it is."
"Make do. We always have."
He nods, returning to his work.
As I secure a spare power pack to my belt, a presence looms at the edge of my vision. I turn to see Valeria, the Sister Hospitaller, standing in the doorway. Her power armor gleams even in the dim light, the insignia of the Adepta Sororitas prominent on her shoulder guard. Bee hovers silently beside her.
"Sergeant Tully," she greets, her tone crisp.
She looks about as out of place as a pearl necklace on a servitor. Still, for today, that's the point. Something new, an unknown factor, a big scary unknown factor in power armor with a chain blade bolted to her gauntlet, yes, that will keep things civil. God Emperor, I hope it will…
"Morning, Sister," I reply. "Ready for a stroll through paradise?"
She inclines her head. "I am prepared for today's patrol."
I smirk. "We'll see about that."
The rest of the squad filters in—Keller, Diaz, Sykes, Jaquelin, Briggs, and a few others. They eye Valeria warily, not quite sure what to make of her. Can't blame them. The Sororitas are a rare sight down here.
"Alright, listen up," I announce, pulling their attention. "We've got a busy day ahead. We're making the rounds—Gnarl, Lutefisk, and Trebor all want a word. Keep your wits about you, and remember: we're there to talk, not start a firefight."
A few grumbles, nods of acknowledgment.
"And keep an eye on each other," I add. "No one goes off alone. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," comes the chorus.
I catch Valeria's gaze. There's a determination there, a fire that hasn't been snuffed out by this place. Yet.
"Jaquelin, how's Bessy this morning?"
The only one in the room with a face more augmetic than flesh, courtesy of intimate contact with a frag a few years back, turns and gives me a lipless smile. "Purring like a kitten with a cold, sarge." The smile fades and she shrugs, "she'll make the rounds, headlights are still out though. Munitorum keeps insisting they've arrived; I keep telling them to pound grox shit."
I mutter a curse, "we'll have to make do with lamp packs." It's also not beyond reasonable conjecture that Jaquelin, or one of any number of others traded those headlights for contraband, booze, or favors. Even so, I doubt it, vices or no, no one wants to die and having actual headlights would go a long way to ensuring that doesn't happen.
"Let's move out," I order, leading the way toward the transport bay, "we'll brief enroute to the geothermal substation."
As we make our way through the precinct, I can't shake the feeling of unease gnawing at the edges. Something's shifting in Sector Sigma, and I aim to find out what before it swallows us all, or at least, me.
The engine coughs and sputters beneath us, a beast on its last legs. The open-top Chimera rattles as we trundle along, each jolt and shudder a reminder of the sorry state of our equipment. Jaquelin grips the controls with white-knuckled determination, her augmetic eye scanning the dim path ahead. Lamp-packs strapped to the front cast wavering beams into the gloom, barely piercing the thick shadows of Sector Sigma.
I stand near the rear, one hand gripping a rusted handle to steady myself. The squad is scattered around the transport's open bed—Keller checks his shotgun for the third time, Diaz mutters a prayer under her breath, and Briggs absently taps a rhythm on his thigh armor. Valeria sits apart, her posture rigid, Bee hovering silently at her shoulder. Her power armor catches the scant light, an ivory beacon amidst the grime.
"Eyes up!" I call over the din of the engine. "We're entering the outer zones."
They shift their attention, gazes sweeping the darkened expanse around us. The air is thick here, laden with the stench of decay and ozone. Above, the cavernous ceiling stretches into shadow, a labyrinth of pipes and rusted gantries disappearing into the abyss. Faint pinpricks of red flicker like dying stars—a faulty lumen here, a breach in the hive's layers allowing a trickle of light from above.
"First-timer's briefing," I announce, casting a glance at Valeria. "Pay attention, Sister."
She meets my gaze, her expression unreadable behind the visor of her helm. "I'm listening."
"Sector Sigma isn't like the rest of the underhive," I begin. "It's a damned cathedral of ruin. Used to be the crown of the hive a few millennia back. Now it's a graveyard of forgotten glories."
The Chimera lurches over a pile of debris, and I tighten my grip. "Look around. Streets wide enough to march an army through, buildings that scrape the belly of the hive a kilometer above. But don't let the open space fool you—danger hides in every shadow."
As if to punctuate my words, a distant screech echoes from somewhere in the maze of structures. Valeria's eyes flick in that direction, hand drifting toward her sidearm.
"Mutants," I say. "Scavvies, feral gangs, things without names, packs of rogue servitors. They keep to the unlit zones, but they're always watching."
Keller spits over the side. "Saw a pack tear apart a group of drifters apart last week. Three minutes and poof, nothing but clean white bones."
"Lovely imagery," Valeria remarks dryly.
"It's reality," I reply. "And reality here is grim."
We pass a cluster of shanties huddled against the base of a collapsed tower. Makeshift shelters cobbled from scrap metal and tattered cloth. Pale faces peer out as we rumble by—sunken eyes reflecting the lamp-light, whispers trailing in our wake.
"Those are the drifters," I explain. "Too poor or broken to join the gangs, too stubborn to die. They scrape by on whatever they can find."
"Why don't we offer them assistance?" Valeria asks.
I chuckle without humor. "Assist them how? We barely have resources for ourselves. And bringing them into the precinct would be a death sentence—for them and us. Besides, they don't even know they need assistance. They've been born and died here for countless generations."
She opens her mouth to argue but thinks better of it. Instead, she surveys the surroundings, perhaps seeing the underhive truly for the first time.
"Mind the gaps," Jaquelin warns from the front. She swerves the Chimera around a yawning chasm where the street has collapsed into the levels below. The vehicle groans in protest, but holds together.
"How much farther?" Diaz calls out.
"Another twenty," I reply. "Assuming we don't hit any snags."
I move toward the center of the group, raising my voice to be heard. "Listen up! We're heading into Gnarl's territory first. You know the drill, but let's review for our guest."
A few smirks and sideways glances, but they pay attention.
"Gnarl fancies himself a king," I continue. "Controls the geothermal substation—massive piece of tech that keeps the hive's lights on. He's arrogant, loud, and devout in his own twisted way. Claims to worship the Omnissiah, but he's no Tech-Priest."
"Does he pose a threat?" Valeria inquires.
"Only if provoked," I answer. "He likes to bluster, show off his toys. But he's smart enough to know that crossing us brings unwanted attention."
"Protocol?" Keller asks.
"We let him talk, nod along, and make sure he understands the balance remains. He called us, not something that happens often and never with good news. Still, we're not there to start trouble."
I fix Valeria with a hard stare. "That means no sudden moves, no challenges, no preaching. Understood?"
She bristles slightly. "I am capable of discretion, Sergeant."
"See that you are. Gnarl's got a short fuse, and his men are jumpy. Last thing we need is a firefight in the substation."
Briggs chuckles. "Remember when Harkin made a joke about Gnarl's 'holy machines' because of how full of holes they were?"
"Yeah," Sykes grumbles. "We were picking shrapnel out of our armor for days."
"And Harkin," Briggs agrees.
"Point is," I say, cutting them off, "keep it polite and professional."
Valeria nods. "Understood."
The Chimera navigates a narrow passage between two leaning hab-blocks, their upper floors fused together by time and decay. Above, silhouettes scurry across makeshift bridges—gang lookouts, or worse.
"Watch those rooftops," I warn. "Never know who's planning an ambush."
Bee emits a soft hum, its augur array scanning the area. "Multiple heat signatures detected. No immediate threats."
"Handy little device," Briggs remarks.
"Magos Harspes's creation," Valeria replies. "Bee is quite resourceful."
"Just keep it close," I advise. "Wouldn't want someone deciding to add it to their collection."
We emerge into a wider avenue, the structures here more substantial. Pillars carved with faded iconography line the street, remnants of a bygone era. Ahead, the looming silhouette of the geothermal substation rises, its bulk disappearing into the darkness above. A monolith of metal and machinery, it hums with a deep, resonant thrum that vibrates through the bones.
"There she is," I announce. "Gnarl's palace."
The squad grows quiet, the weight of the structure imposing even after countless visits. Valeria gazes up, a mixture of awe and apprehension on her face.
"It's... enormous," she whispers.
"Supposedly runs through the entire hive," I tell her. "Channels geothermal energy from the planet's core all the way to the spires."
"And he controls it?"
"Less than one percent of it," I correct. "But enough to matter, at least down here."
As we approach, lights flare along the substation's exterior—harsh spotlights that snap on one by one, illuminating the approach. Shadows dance as figures move into position along the balconies and platforms jutting from the structure.
"Showtime," I mutter. "Remember, let me do the talking."
The Chimera rolls to a stop at the base of a wide staircase leading up to a massive set of doors. They're adorned with cogs and circuitry patterns, a crude homage to the Mechanicus.
"Gnarl's got a flair for the dramatic," Diaz comments.
"Better than bullets," I reply.
We disembark, boots hitting the ground in unison. The squad forms up behind me, weapons at rest but ready. Valeria stands to my right, Bee hovering just over her shoulder.
"Stay close," I remind her quietly.
She nods, eyes fixed ahead.
As we ascend the steps toward Gnarl's so-called castle, I can't help but notice the theatrics he's set up since our last visit. Torch sconces blaze with unnatural blue flames, casting eerie shadows across the worn metal walls. His gangers line the path, armed to the teeth and wearing mismatched armor adorned with cogs and wires—a crude attempt at mimicking Mechanicus aesthetics.
"Welcome to the kingdom," Briggs mutters sarcastically behind me.
"Stow it," I whisper back. "Eyes sharp."
The massive double doors at the entrance groan open, revealing a grand hall that must have once been an administratum hub. Now it's a gaudy throne room, filled with salvaged banners and relics of dubious authenticity. At the far end sits Gnarl himself on an elevated dais, flanked by hulking brutes with improvised augmetics.
Gnarl rises to his feet, arms spread wide. He's a mountain of a man, draped in a patchwork robe that glitters with embedded circuitry. His dreadlocked hair is threaded with metal beads and wires, and a pair of cracked goggles rest atop his forehead.
"Sergeant Tully!" he bellows, his voice echoing through the chamber. "You've graced us with your presence at last!"
I stride forward, keeping my posture relaxed but assertive. Valeria matches my pace on the right, her armor gleaming under the flickering lights. Bee hovers just over her shoulder, its optics scanning the room.
"Gnarl," I reply evenly. "You requested a meeting."
He descends the steps from his throne, his entourage following like shadows. "Indeed I did, but I see you've brought... distinguished company." His eyes roam over Valeria, curiosity and a hint of awe flickering across his features.
"Allow me to introduce Sister Valeria," I say before he can continue. "An angelic healer sent by the Emperor himself to aid us against the foul darkness stirring in Sigma Sector."
A hush falls over the hall. Gnarl's bravado falters for a fraction of a second as he takes in Valeria's imposing figure. The gangers exchange uneasy glances, shifting their grips on their weapons.
"An angel, you say?" Gnarl recovers, a wide grin splitting his face. "Truly, we are blessed this day!"
Valeria inclines her head slightly but remains silent. Her helmet conceals her expression, adding to the mystique.
"And this," I gesture to Bee, "is a sacred envoy of the Omnissiah, sent to observe and guide."
At the sight of Bee, Gnarl's eyes widen. He drops to one knee with surprising grace for a man of his size. "Behold!" he cries, voice filled with reverence. "An angel of the Machine God graces our humble abode!"
His followers quickly mimic his posture, a ripple of kneeling figures spreading through the chamber. Weapons clatter to the floor as they bow their heads.
"All hail the Omnissiah's divine messenger!" Gnarl proclaims. "We are your faithful servants!"
I suppress a smirk. Didn't quite expect that reaction, but I'll take any advantage I can get.
"Rise," I say, perhaps a bit more magnanimously than usual. "We have matters to discuss."
Gnarl stands, composing himself. "Of course, Sergeant. Anything to aid the herald of the Omnissiah come to rid us of this menace and reward us for our devotion!"
I glance sideways, noting the shouts of acclamation, the bowed heads, even a few on their faces murmuring prayers they've no doubt made up on the spot. Gnarl's no fool, Bee and Valeria may be my trump cards here, but he's using them as well, self-righteous bastard.
"Your message mentioned trouble," I prompt.
A shadow crosses his face. "Yes. My outposts are under attack. Power junctions compromised, my men... incapacitated."
Valeria tilts her head. "Incapacitated how?"
He hesitates, eyes flicking to her uncertainly before settling back on me. "Found them disarmed, staring into nothing. They wouldn't speak, wouldn't even scream under... questioning. It's as if they've been hollowed out."
I study him closely. The bravado is cracking. "Any idea who's responsible?"
"It must be Lutefisk or that lunatic Trebor!" he snaps, fists clenching. "They're envious of my dominion."
"Any proof of that?" I ask evenly.
Gnarl bristles. "Their territories border mine. Who else could it be?"
"Someone new, perhaps," Valeria suggests softly.
He scoffs, but there's uncertainty in his eyes. "New, down here? Not without my knowing it."
"Describe the attacks in more detail," I press.
He exhales sharply. "Fine. My patrols vanish near the fringe zones. When we find them, they're like empty shells. Weapons gone, but no signs of struggle. No blood, no bodies. Three power nodes, same story, defenders at their posts, stripped of weapons, unresponsive. No tags, no colors, not a mark on them!"
"Strange," I murmur. No gang markings, no territorial tags. Doesn't fit the usual patterns.
Valeria steps forward. "Did they mention anything before you... dealt with them?"
Gnarl's jaw tightens. "Nothing useful. Most didn't utter a sound, even as they died. A few were found already babbling. Eyes in the dark and whispers in the vox. Utter nonsense that my interrogation methods had no impact on."
"Eyes and whispers," I echo. Could be fear talking, or something more.
He glares at me. "I don't care for riddles, Tully. I need this threat eliminated."
"Intervention requires investigation, understanding," I counter. "If we act blindly, we risk igniting a war."
"War is certainly preferable to this... this unseen menace," he growls and spits.
I sense his fear—a powerful man grappling with the unknown. "Your men, were they all found in specific locations?"
He pauses. "Mostly near the old transit tunnels. Places we've held for years without issue."
I unfold a worn map, spreading it on a nearby crate. "Show me."
Gnarl leans over, jabbing grimy fingers at several points. I note the positions—disconnected, yet all near the border of Quadrant D, along the touching territories of Lutefisk and Trebor true, but closest to where they touch the black.
"Quadrant D," I muse. "The Black."
He shifts uncomfortably. "No one goes there, no attack comes from there. Don't you dare try to encourage fear in my own house!" Gnarl thunders but I can hear the slight tremor in his voice, "All access ways are blocked, tunnels collapsed, entryways sealed, roads blockaded, no one in no one out, not even Trebor is mad enough to try crossing the black to get to me!"
"Perhaps something's changed," Valeria suggests.
He shakes his head vehemently. "It's cursed. Machines fail, vox goes dead. It's death to enter."
"Desperate times," I remark. "Maybe someone found a way to use it to their advantage. When was the last time you checked all these supposedly collapsed tunnels, sealed entrances, and blockaded streets?"
Gnarl narrows his eyes. "If you're suggesting we venture there—"
"I'm suggesting we consider all possibilities," I interrupt. "Tell me, have you reinforced your positions?"
"Of course," he snaps. "Doubled patrols, but morale is low. Whatever's out there has my men spooked more than facing Trebor's psychos."
"Yet you haven't retaliated," I point out.
He glares. "Against whom? I strike Lutefisk or Trebor without cause, and we plunge into chaos. I may be king, but I'm no fool."
First sensible thing he's said.
Valeria glances at me. I catch the uncertainty in her stance—she's out of her depth but trying to piece it together just the same.
"Perhaps we can investigate the attack sites?" she offers.
Gnarl looks at her skeptically, then at Bee. The sight of the servo-skull seems to bolster his deference. "If the Omnissiah's herald wills it, who am I to refuse? My territory is open to you, fair angel, Sergeant. Travel as you see fit."
"Your cooperation is appreciated," I say. "In the meantime, keep your men alert but restrained. No aggressive moves."
He grimaces but nods. "Very well. But I expect results, Tully. Quickly. Word that I've been attacked will travel quickly and if no retaliation is offered then I look weak. I must remedy that, and soon."
"Understood."
As we turn to leave, Gnarl's voice drops to a low murmur. "And Tully... if you find this threat, eliminate it but bring me back a head or two. I won't have my kingdom threatened by shadows or my men defeated by phantom beliefs in spirits and eyes in the dark."
"Count on it," I reply.
Outside the throne room, the stale air feels a touch lighter. Valeria falls in beside me. "He's scared," she observes.
"Terrified," I agree. "And that makes him predictable."
She hesitates. "Do you think it's wise to involve ourselves directly?"
"Got any better ideas?" I glance at her. "This is how we keep the peace—by nipping problems in the bud."
Bee emits a soft hum. "Data suggests a pattern may be forming."
"Care to enlighten us?" I ask.
"Attack locations correlate with proximity to Quadrant D access points," Bee states.
"What's in Quadrant D?" she asks.
"Additional data unavailable." Bee responds.
"Officially? Nothing beyond what I've told you," I add, "just a massive expanse of empty. No power relays run that way, no water pipes in and out, just supposedly an abandoned temple, sealed for long centuries surrounded by kilometers of darkness and shadow. Unofficially? Nightmares and old tech that doesn't play nice with others, vox most of all."
She takes a deep breath. "Then that's where we need to go."
I stop in my tracks, turning sharply to face her. "Absolutely not," I say, more forcefully than intended. The squad halts behind us, sensing the tension.
Valeria meets my gaze evenly. "Why not?"
"Quadrant D is off-limits," I state. "For good reason. It's a dead zone—tech fails, vox goes silent. People who venture in don't come back."
"Yet if that's where these attacks are originating, we have a responsibility to investigate," she counters.
I suppress a surge of irritation. "There's no proof of that yet, what we have are guesses. Our responsibility is to maintain the peace and protect critical infrastructure. Marching into the Black is a fool's errand."
Her eyes narrow behind her visor. "Preventing a gang war is part of maintaining the peace, is it not? If venturing into Quadrant D can stop that, it's our duty to do so."
I take a step closer, lowering my voice. "Listen, Sister. You may be willing to throw yourself into the abyss, but I've got a whole precinct to think about. I'm not leading them into a death trap again based on conjecture!"
"Conjecture?" She gestures toward Bee. "The data suggests—" she hesitates, eyes narrowing behind her visor. "What do you mean, again?"
I sigh heavily, feeling the weight of memories I'd rather forget pressing down. The squad's eyes are on me, but it's Valeria's piercing gaze that holds me.
"Over a decade ago," I begin, keeping my voice low, "we had a new Proctor assigned to the precinct—Jeremiah Grosch. Fresh from the upper hive, full of ambition and ideals. Quadrant D caught his eye immediately. Became an obsession."
She listens intently, Bee hovering silently beside her.
"I warned him," I continue. "Told him the stories, the disappearances. But he wouldn't listen. Thought he could uncover some hidden relic or technological treasure, make a name for himself."
I pause, the vivid images flashing unbidden: the eager faces of the fifty men who followed Grosch, the rumble of the three Chimeras as they disappeared into the darkness.
"He took fifty of our best and three Chimeras," I say quietly. "Went marching into the Black on a fool's errand to that damned temple. None of them came back. Not a word, not a trace."
Her voice softens slightly. "I'm sorry."
I shrug, masking the old hurt. "I had to cover it up. Fabricated reports of a massive gang uprising, claimed heavy losses in the suppression. Had to explain the missing men and equipment somehow."
"That's why the Proctor's death was never reported," she realizes aloud.
"Exactly. If the higher-ups knew we'd lost that many men without a fight, they'd have shut us down—or worse, sent more of us in there. I've been keeping this precinct running ever since."
She considers this, the gears turning behind her eyes. "With respect, Sergeant," she says firmly, "we have more information now. These attacks—"
I shake my head. "You don't understand what it's like in there. The Black eats men alive. Tech fails, minds break. It's not just about being prepared."
"Then we'll be cautious," she insists. "But we can't ignore this."
I look away, staring into the murky distance where the shadows seem to writhe. Memories of Grosch's confident smile, the hope in the men's eyes—they all haunt me still.
"Sergeant," Valeria's voice softens. "I know you've suffered losses. But sometimes facing the darkness is the only way to protect those we care about."
"Is this about facing the darkness? About me and my men? About the infrastructure?" I give her a steady look, "or is this about your missing friend?"
The silence of her muted breathing through the helmet is testament enough.
I meet her gaze again. "This isn't some noble crusade, Sister. Down here, the darkness usually wins."
"Not if we shine the Emperor's light into it," she replies much more quietly and in a voice that makes her seem suddenly very small. Guilt elbows me in the ribs but I ignore it.
I let out a dry chuckle. "You really believe that, don't you?"
"I have to," she says simply.
I take a deep breath, weighing my options. The others are watching, waiting for my decision. They're good people—flawed, sure, but they deserve better than being led to slaughter.
"Fine," I relent. "But we do this my way. We gather every piece of intel we can. If everything points to sector D… well… we're just as dead if we let the gangs loose on eachother, either from them or the neckbreakers they send down to see us once they find out what's been going on these last ten years. But let's be perfectly clear, this is my call, got it?"
She nods. "agreed."
"First stop is Lutefisk," I state. "He has access to the cogitator arrays at the water treatment plant. Maybe Bee can interface with them, get us more data on Quadrant D."
"That sounds reasonable," she admits.
"Then let's move," I command, turning to the squad. "Mount up! We're heading out."
The low hum of the recyc unit is the first thing I hear. A constant drone that blends into the background, but after forty years in this hole, it's as familiar as my own heartbeat. My eyes open to the dim glow of a lumen strip, flickering weakly overhead. Another power fluctuation. Gnarl's boys must be skimming more than their usual share.
I swing my legs over the edge of the cot, the metal creaking under my weight. The chill of the floor bites at my bare feet, a stark contrast to the stale warmth of the bunk. My boots sit where I left them, scuffed and worn, the left one sporting a new crack along the sole. Need to patch that up before the patrol.
Reaching under the pillow, my fingers close around cold steel. I pull out the battered flask, unscrewing the cap with a practiced twist. The sharp scent of amasec fills the air—cheap stuff, but it does the job. I take a swig, the liquid burning a path down my throat, settling heavy in my gut. The familiar warmth spreads, steadying the tremor in my hands.
A man needs his rituals.
I set the flask aside and reach for the tarnished aquila pendant hanging from a nail on the wall. The metal is cool against my palm, edges smoothed by years of handling. Holding it tightly, I bow my head.
"Emperor, grant me the strength to carry the burdens of this day," I murmur. The words come easily; a litany etched into my bones. "Watch over those who serve, and forgive us our failings."
The silence that follows is thick, but it's a comfort. I tuck the pendant into my shirt, its weight resting comfortingly against my chest.
The cracked mirror on the wall shows a face etched by time and wear—a mess of grey stubble, scars tracing jagged lines across sunken cheeks, eyes shadowed but alert. I run a hand over my jaw, contemplating a shave, then shrug. Not much point down here.
Uniform's draped over the back of the lone chair—a threadbare thing that's seen better years. I dress methodically: undershirt, armored vest, the black fatigues marked with the faded insignia of the Arbites. The carapace plates come next, each one strapped and secured with muscle memory. As I fasten the last buckle, I catch another glimpse of myself in the cracked mirror.
Grey stubble shadows a lined face, eyes set deep with the weariness of too many long nights. A jagged scar cuts across my brow, a souvenir from a skirmish years back. I run a hand through thinning hair, shrugging off the vanity. Not much to be done about that.
My gaze shifts to the corner of the room where the power maul leans against the wall, its casing chipped but functional. Beside it, the suppression shield bears the marks of countless engagements—dents and scorch marks, each with a story I stopped telling long ago. The shotgun leans against the opposite wall—cleaned, loaded, ready. I sling it over my shoulder, the comforting heft a reminder of days long past.
Finally, I holster my sidearm, checking the charge. Full. Good. Never trust the indicators down here.
A soft knock echoes from the door.
"Enter," I call out.
The door creaks open to reveal Lannis, one of the newer recruits. Fresh-faced, but with eyes that have seen too much too soon. Nervous breakdown, got two of his buddies killed, but only I know that, no need to make him a pariah in a place where we're all pariahs of one type or another. He hesitates on the threshold.
"Sergeant Tully," he says, voice tight. "Shift report."
I nod for him to continue.
"Minimal disturbances overnight. Patrol Six reported a minor scuffle near the eastern sump pits. No casualties."
"Any more word from the gangs?"
He shakes his head. "All quiet, sir."
Too quiet.
"Thank you, Lannis. Dismissed."
He lingers for a moment, eyes darting to the flask on the table before he catches himself. I raise an eyebrow, and he quickly averts his gaze, offering a curt nod before retreating.
I sigh, picking up the flask once more. Another small sip, just to take the edge off. Can't afford to be off my game today.
I gather my kit, pausing to tuck a worn leather pouch into my belt. The lho-sticks inside rattle softly—a habit I've tried and failed to kick. The first drag fills my lungs with acrid smoke, the nicotine biting but familiar. I exhale, watching the tendrils curl toward the ceiling.
Stepping out into the hallway, the precinct hums with subdued activity. Enforcers shuffle past, armor clanking, eyes downcast. The air is thick with the scent of recycled air and too many bodies in too small a space. I nod to a few familiar faces—Keller, adjusting the sights on his sidearm; Diaz, muttering a prayer over a faded pict of her kid.
"Sergeant," they acknowledge, their gazes meeting mine briefly before sliding away. Respect, tinged with something else. Weariness, perhaps. Or resignation.
The mess hall is a hive of low conversations and clattering utensils. I grab a tin mug of recaf—strong enough to strip paint—and take a seat at an empty table. The liquid scalds my tongue, but I welcome the jolt.
"Rough night!" a voice booms from my left.
I glance up to see Enforcer Briggs dropping into the seat across from me. His face is a mosaic of bruises, one eye swollen nearly shut.
"You look like you kissed a servitor," I remark.
He chuckles, winces. "Just a brawl near the eastern sumps, market street, local vendors tried to hike the prices on us. We had a friendly disagreement. They didn't like the idea of haggling."
"They rarely do." I take another sip. "Make sure you see the medicae before patrol."
He waves a hand dismissively. "Nothing a stim patch won't fix."
I give him a pointed look. "That's an order, Briggs."
He nods, more subdued. "Yes, Sarge."
The chrono on the wall ticks closer to the hour. I drain the rest of the recaf and stand. "Time to round up the squad."
Briggs rises with me. "Heard we're bringing the Sister along today."
"That's right."
He whistles low. "Think she'll be a help or a hindrance?"
I shrug. "Depends on if she can keep up."
The corridor leading to the armory is a maze of flickering lights and leaking pipes. I navigate it by habit, sidestepping a puddle of something best left unidentified. Voices drift from ahead—raised, agitated.
Turning the corner, I spot two enforcers squared off, fists clenched.
"I told you, that's my gear, Jaquelin!" one snarls.
"Back off, Sykes," the other snaps. "Finders keepers."
"Enough!" I bark, the word slicing through the tension. They freeze, turning to face me.
"Care to explain?" I ask, arching an eyebrow.
Sykes shuffles his feet. "Just a... misunderstanding, Sarge."
I fix them both with a hard stare. "We don't have time for petty squabbles. Gear up and be ready in five."
They nod hurriedly, scurrying off in opposite directions. I sigh inwardly. Keeping this crew in line is like herding grox hounds.
In the armory, I find Derren, our quartermaster, organizing crates of ammunition. He looks up as I enter, his mechanical eye whirring softly as it focuses.
"Need supplies for the patrol," I state.
He gestures to a pile of gear on the bench. "Already prepped. Extra charge packs, shock grenades, and a medkit—figured you'd be bringing the Sister."
"Good man." I clap a hand on his shoulder. "How's the auger array holding up?"
He grimaces. "Barely. Could use new parts, but you know how it is."
"Make do. We always have."
He nods, returning to his work.
As I secure a spare power pack to my belt, a presence looms at the edge of my vision. I turn to see Valeria, the Sister Hospitaller, standing in the doorway. Her power armor gleams even in the dim light, the insignia of the Adepta Sororitas prominent on her shoulder guard. Bee hovers silently beside her.
"Sergeant Tully," she greets, her tone crisp.
She looks about as out of place as a pearl necklace on a servitor. Still, for today, that's the point. Something new, an unknown factor, a big scary unknown factor in power armor with a chain blade bolted to her gauntlet, yes, that will keep things civil. God Emperor, I hope it will…
"Morning, Sister," I reply. "Ready for a stroll through paradise?"
She inclines her head. "I am prepared for today's patrol."
I smirk. "We'll see about that."
The rest of the squad filters in—Keller, Diaz, Sykes, Jaquelin, Briggs, and a few others. They eye Valeria warily, not quite sure what to make of her. Can't blame them. The Sororitas are a rare sight down here.
"Alright, listen up," I announce, pulling their attention. "We've got a busy day ahead. We're making the rounds—Gnarl, Lutefisk, and Trebor all want a word. Keep your wits about you, and remember: we're there to talk, not start a firefight."
A few grumbles, nods of acknowledgment.
"And keep an eye on each other," I add. "No one goes off alone. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," comes the chorus.
I catch Valeria's gaze. There's a determination there, a fire that hasn't been snuffed out by this place. Yet.
"Jaquelin, how's Bessy this morning?"
The only one in the room with a face more augmetic than flesh, courtesy of intimate contact with a frag a few years back, turns and gives me a lipless smile. "Purring like a kitten with a cold, sarge." The smile fades and she shrugs, "she'll make the rounds, headlights are still out though. Munitorum keeps insisting they've arrived; I keep telling them to pound grox shit."
I mutter a curse, "we'll have to make do with lamp packs." It's also not beyond reasonable conjecture that Jaquelin, or one of any number of others traded those headlights for contraband, booze, or favors. Even so, I doubt it, vices or no, no one wants to die and having actual headlights would go a long way to ensuring that doesn't happen.
"Let's move out," I order, leading the way toward the transport bay, "we'll brief enroute to the geothermal substation."
As we make our way through the precinct, I can't shake the feeling of unease gnawing at the edges. Something's shifting in Sector Sigma, and I aim to find out what before it swallows us all, or at least, me.
The engine coughs and sputters beneath us, a beast on its last legs. The open-top Chimera rattles as we trundle along, each jolt and shudder a reminder of the sorry state of our equipment. Jaquelin grips the controls with white-knuckled determination, her augmetic eye scanning the dim path ahead. Lamp-packs strapped to the front cast wavering beams into the gloom, barely piercing the thick shadows of Sector Sigma.
I stand near the rear, one hand gripping a rusted handle to steady myself. The squad is scattered around the transport's open bed—Keller checks his shotgun for the third time, Diaz mutters a prayer under her breath, and Briggs absently taps a rhythm on his thigh armor. Valeria sits apart, her posture rigid, Bee hovering silently at her shoulder. Her power armor catches the scant light, an ivory beacon amidst the grime.
"Eyes up!" I call over the din of the engine. "We're entering the outer zones."
They shift their attention, gazes sweeping the darkened expanse around us. The air is thick here, laden with the stench of decay and ozone. Above, the cavernous ceiling stretches into shadow, a labyrinth of pipes and rusted gantries disappearing into the abyss. Faint pinpricks of red flicker like dying stars—a faulty lumen here, a breach in the hive's layers allowing a trickle of light from above.
"First-timer's briefing," I announce, casting a glance at Valeria. "Pay attention, Sister."
She meets my gaze, her expression unreadable behind the visor of her helm. "I'm listening."
"Sector Sigma isn't like the rest of the underhive," I begin. "It's a damned cathedral of ruin. Used to be the crown of the hive a few millennia back. Now it's a graveyard of forgotten glories."
The Chimera lurches over a pile of debris, and I tighten my grip. "Look around. Streets wide enough to march an army through, buildings that scrape the belly of the hive a kilometer above. But don't let the open space fool you—danger hides in every shadow."
As if to punctuate my words, a distant screech echoes from somewhere in the maze of structures. Valeria's eyes flick in that direction, hand drifting toward her sidearm.
"Mutants," I say. "Scavvies, feral gangs, things without names, packs of rogue servitors. They keep to the unlit zones, but they're always watching."
Keller spits over the side. "Saw a pack tear apart a group of drifters apart last week. Three minutes and poof, nothing but clean white bones."
"Lovely imagery," Valeria remarks dryly.
"It's reality," I reply. "And reality here is grim."
We pass a cluster of shanties huddled against the base of a collapsed tower. Makeshift shelters cobbled from scrap metal and tattered cloth. Pale faces peer out as we rumble by—sunken eyes reflecting the lamp-light, whispers trailing in our wake.
"Those are the drifters," I explain. "Too poor or broken to join the gangs, too stubborn to die. They scrape by on whatever they can find."
"Why don't we offer them assistance?" Valeria asks.
I chuckle without humor. "Assist them how? We barely have resources for ourselves. And bringing them into the precinct would be a death sentence—for them and us. Besides, they don't even know they need assistance. They've been born and died here for countless generations."
She opens her mouth to argue but thinks better of it. Instead, she surveys the surroundings, perhaps seeing the underhive truly for the first time.
"Mind the gaps," Jaquelin warns from the front. She swerves the Chimera around a yawning chasm where the street has collapsed into the levels below. The vehicle groans in protest, but holds together.
"How much farther?" Diaz calls out.
"Another twenty," I reply. "Assuming we don't hit any snags."
I move toward the center of the group, raising my voice to be heard. "Listen up! We're heading into Gnarl's territory first. You know the drill, but let's review for our guest."
A few smirks and sideways glances, but they pay attention.
"Gnarl fancies himself a king," I continue. "Controls the geothermal substation—massive piece of tech that keeps the hive's lights on. He's arrogant, loud, and devout in his own twisted way. Claims to worship the Omnissiah, but he's no Tech-Priest."
"Does he pose a threat?" Valeria inquires.
"Only if provoked," I answer. "He likes to bluster, show off his toys. But he's smart enough to know that crossing us brings unwanted attention."
"Protocol?" Keller asks.
"We let him talk, nod along, and make sure he understands the balance remains. He called us, not something that happens often and never with good news. Still, we're not there to start trouble."
I fix Valeria with a hard stare. "That means no sudden moves, no challenges, no preaching. Understood?"
She bristles slightly. "I am capable of discretion, Sergeant."
"See that you are. Gnarl's got a short fuse, and his men are jumpy. Last thing we need is a firefight in the substation."
Briggs chuckles. "Remember when Harkin made a joke about Gnarl's 'holy machines' because of how full of holes they were?"
"Yeah," Sykes grumbles. "We were picking shrapnel out of our armor for days."
"And Harkin," Briggs agrees.
"Point is," I say, cutting them off, "keep it polite and professional."
Valeria nods. "Understood."
The Chimera navigates a narrow passage between two leaning hab-blocks, their upper floors fused together by time and decay. Above, silhouettes scurry across makeshift bridges—gang lookouts, or worse.
"Watch those rooftops," I warn. "Never know who's planning an ambush."
Bee emits a soft hum, its augur array scanning the area. "Multiple heat signatures detected. No immediate threats."
"Handy little device," Briggs remarks.
"Magos Harspes's creation," Valeria replies. "Bee is quite resourceful."
"Just keep it close," I advise. "Wouldn't want someone deciding to add it to their collection."
We emerge into a wider avenue, the structures here more substantial. Pillars carved with faded iconography line the street, remnants of a bygone era. Ahead, the looming silhouette of the geothermal substation rises, its bulk disappearing into the darkness above. A monolith of metal and machinery, it hums with a deep, resonant thrum that vibrates through the bones.
"There she is," I announce. "Gnarl's palace."
The squad grows quiet, the weight of the structure imposing even after countless visits. Valeria gazes up, a mixture of awe and apprehension on her face.
"It's... enormous," she whispers.
"Supposedly runs through the entire hive," I tell her. "Channels geothermal energy from the planet's core all the way to the spires."
"And he controls it?"
"Less than one percent of it," I correct. "But enough to matter, at least down here."
As we approach, lights flare along the substation's exterior—harsh spotlights that snap on one by one, illuminating the approach. Shadows dance as figures move into position along the balconies and platforms jutting from the structure.
"Showtime," I mutter. "Remember, let me do the talking."
The Chimera rolls to a stop at the base of a wide staircase leading up to a massive set of doors. They're adorned with cogs and circuitry patterns, a crude homage to the Mechanicus.
"Gnarl's got a flair for the dramatic," Diaz comments.
"Better than bullets," I reply.
We disembark, boots hitting the ground in unison. The squad forms up behind me, weapons at rest but ready. Valeria stands to my right, Bee hovering just over her shoulder.
"Stay close," I remind her quietly.
She nods, eyes fixed ahead.
As we ascend the steps toward Gnarl's so-called castle, I can't help but notice the theatrics he's set up since our last visit. Torch sconces blaze with unnatural blue flames, casting eerie shadows across the worn metal walls. His gangers line the path, armed to the teeth and wearing mismatched armor adorned with cogs and wires—a crude attempt at mimicking Mechanicus aesthetics.
"Welcome to the kingdom," Briggs mutters sarcastically behind me.
"Stow it," I whisper back. "Eyes sharp."
The massive double doors at the entrance groan open, revealing a grand hall that must have once been an administratum hub. Now it's a gaudy throne room, filled with salvaged banners and relics of dubious authenticity. At the far end sits Gnarl himself on an elevated dais, flanked by hulking brutes with improvised augmetics.
Gnarl rises to his feet, arms spread wide. He's a mountain of a man, draped in a patchwork robe that glitters with embedded circuitry. His dreadlocked hair is threaded with metal beads and wires, and a pair of cracked goggles rest atop his forehead.
"Sergeant Tully!" he bellows, his voice echoing through the chamber. "You've graced us with your presence at last!"
I stride forward, keeping my posture relaxed but assertive. Valeria matches my pace on the right, her armor gleaming under the flickering lights. Bee hovers just over her shoulder, its optics scanning the room.
"Gnarl," I reply evenly. "You requested a meeting."
He descends the steps from his throne, his entourage following like shadows. "Indeed I did, but I see you've brought... distinguished company." His eyes roam over Valeria, curiosity and a hint of awe flickering across his features.
"Allow me to introduce Sister Valeria," I say before he can continue. "An angelic healer sent by the Emperor himself to aid us against the foul darkness stirring in Sigma Sector."
A hush falls over the hall. Gnarl's bravado falters for a fraction of a second as he takes in Valeria's imposing figure. The gangers exchange uneasy glances, shifting their grips on their weapons.
"An angel, you say?" Gnarl recovers, a wide grin splitting his face. "Truly, we are blessed this day!"
Valeria inclines her head slightly but remains silent. Her helmet conceals her expression, adding to the mystique.
"And this," I gesture to Bee, "is a sacred envoy of the Omnissiah, sent to observe and guide."
At the sight of Bee, Gnarl's eyes widen. He drops to one knee with surprising grace for a man of his size. "Behold!" he cries, voice filled with reverence. "An angel of the Machine God graces our humble abode!"
His followers quickly mimic his posture, a ripple of kneeling figures spreading through the chamber. Weapons clatter to the floor as they bow their heads.
"All hail the Omnissiah's divine messenger!" Gnarl proclaims. "We are your faithful servants!"
I suppress a smirk. Didn't quite expect that reaction, but I'll take any advantage I can get.
"Rise," I say, perhaps a bit more magnanimously than usual. "We have matters to discuss."
Gnarl stands, composing himself. "Of course, Sergeant. Anything to aid the herald of the Omnissiah come to rid us of this menace and reward us for our devotion!"
I glance sideways, noting the shouts of acclamation, the bowed heads, even a few on their faces murmuring prayers they've no doubt made up on the spot. Gnarl's no fool, Bee and Valeria may be my trump cards here, but he's using them as well, self-righteous bastard.
"Your message mentioned trouble," I prompt.
A shadow crosses his face. "Yes. My outposts are under attack. Power junctions compromised, my men... incapacitated."
Valeria tilts her head. "Incapacitated how?"
He hesitates, eyes flicking to her uncertainly before settling back on me. "Found them disarmed, staring into nothing. They wouldn't speak, wouldn't even scream under... questioning. It's as if they've been hollowed out."
I study him closely. The bravado is cracking. "Any idea who's responsible?"
"It must be Lutefisk or that lunatic Trebor!" he snaps, fists clenching. "They're envious of my dominion."
"Any proof of that?" I ask evenly.
Gnarl bristles. "Their territories border mine. Who else could it be?"
"Someone new, perhaps," Valeria suggests softly.
He scoffs, but there's uncertainty in his eyes. "New, down here? Not without my knowing it."
"Describe the attacks in more detail," I press.
He exhales sharply. "Fine. My patrols vanish near the fringe zones. When we find them, they're like empty shells. Weapons gone, but no signs of struggle. No blood, no bodies. Three power nodes, same story, defenders at their posts, stripped of weapons, unresponsive. No tags, no colors, not a mark on them!"
"Strange," I murmur. No gang markings, no territorial tags. Doesn't fit the usual patterns.
Valeria steps forward. "Did they mention anything before you... dealt with them?"
Gnarl's jaw tightens. "Nothing useful. Most didn't utter a sound, even as they died. A few were found already babbling. Eyes in the dark and whispers in the vox. Utter nonsense that my interrogation methods had no impact on."
"Eyes and whispers," I echo. Could be fear talking, or something more.
He glares at me. "I don't care for riddles, Tully. I need this threat eliminated."
"Intervention requires investigation, understanding," I counter. "If we act blindly, we risk igniting a war."
"War is certainly preferable to this... this unseen menace," he growls and spits.
I sense his fear—a powerful man grappling with the unknown. "Your men, were they all found in specific locations?"
He pauses. "Mostly near the old transit tunnels. Places we've held for years without issue."
I unfold a worn map, spreading it on a nearby crate. "Show me."
Gnarl leans over, jabbing grimy fingers at several points. I note the positions—disconnected, yet all near the border of Quadrant D, along the touching territories of Lutefisk and Trebor true, but closest to where they touch the black.
"Quadrant D," I muse. "The Black."
He shifts uncomfortably. "No one goes there, no attack comes from there. Don't you dare try to encourage fear in my own house!" Gnarl thunders but I can hear the slight tremor in his voice, "All access ways are blocked, tunnels collapsed, entryways sealed, roads blockaded, no one in no one out, not even Trebor is mad enough to try crossing the black to get to me!"
"Perhaps something's changed," Valeria suggests.
He shakes his head vehemently. "It's cursed. Machines fail, vox goes dead. It's death to enter."
"Desperate times," I remark. "Maybe someone found a way to use it to their advantage. When was the last time you checked all these supposedly collapsed tunnels, sealed entrances, and blockaded streets?"
Gnarl narrows his eyes. "If you're suggesting we venture there—"
"I'm suggesting we consider all possibilities," I interrupt. "Tell me, have you reinforced your positions?"
"Of course," he snaps. "Doubled patrols, but morale is low. Whatever's out there has my men spooked more than facing Trebor's psychos."
"Yet you haven't retaliated," I point out.
He glares. "Against whom? I strike Lutefisk or Trebor without cause, and we plunge into chaos. I may be king, but I'm no fool."
First sensible thing he's said.
Valeria glances at me. I catch the uncertainty in her stance—she's out of her depth but trying to piece it together just the same.
"Perhaps we can investigate the attack sites?" she offers.
Gnarl looks at her skeptically, then at Bee. The sight of the servo-skull seems to bolster his deference. "If the Omnissiah's herald wills it, who am I to refuse? My territory is open to you, fair angel, Sergeant. Travel as you see fit."
"Your cooperation is appreciated," I say. "In the meantime, keep your men alert but restrained. No aggressive moves."
He grimaces but nods. "Very well. But I expect results, Tully. Quickly. Word that I've been attacked will travel quickly and if no retaliation is offered then I look weak. I must remedy that, and soon."
"Understood."
As we turn to leave, Gnarl's voice drops to a low murmur. "And Tully... if you find this threat, eliminate it but bring me back a head or two. I won't have my kingdom threatened by shadows or my men defeated by phantom beliefs in spirits and eyes in the dark."
"Count on it," I reply.
Outside the throne room, the stale air feels a touch lighter. Valeria falls in beside me. "He's scared," she observes.
"Terrified," I agree. "And that makes him predictable."
She hesitates. "Do you think it's wise to involve ourselves directly?"
"Got any better ideas?" I glance at her. "This is how we keep the peace—by nipping problems in the bud."
Bee emits a soft hum. "Data suggests a pattern may be forming."
"Care to enlighten us?" I ask.
"Attack locations correlate with proximity to Quadrant D access points," Bee states.
"What's in Quadrant D?" she asks.
"Additional data unavailable." Bee responds.
"Officially? Nothing beyond what I've told you," I add, "just a massive expanse of empty. No power relays run that way, no water pipes in and out, just supposedly an abandoned temple, sealed for long centuries surrounded by kilometers of darkness and shadow. Unofficially? Nightmares and old tech that doesn't play nice with others, vox most of all."
She takes a deep breath. "Then that's where we need to go."
I stop in my tracks, turning sharply to face her. "Absolutely not," I say, more forcefully than intended. The squad halts behind us, sensing the tension.
Valeria meets my gaze evenly. "Why not?"
"Quadrant D is off-limits," I state. "For good reason. It's a dead zone—tech fails, vox goes silent. People who venture in don't come back."
"Yet if that's where these attacks are originating, we have a responsibility to investigate," she counters.
I suppress a surge of irritation. "There's no proof of that yet, what we have are guesses. Our responsibility is to maintain the peace and protect critical infrastructure. Marching into the Black is a fool's errand."
Her eyes narrow behind her visor. "Preventing a gang war is part of maintaining the peace, is it not? If venturing into Quadrant D can stop that, it's our duty to do so."
I take a step closer, lowering my voice. "Listen, Sister. You may be willing to throw yourself into the abyss, but I've got a whole precinct to think about. I'm not leading them into a death trap again based on conjecture!"
"Conjecture?" She gestures toward Bee. "The data suggests—" she hesitates, eyes narrowing behind her visor. "What do you mean, again?"
I sigh heavily, feeling the weight of memories I'd rather forget pressing down. The squad's eyes are on me, but it's Valeria's piercing gaze that holds me.
"Over a decade ago," I begin, keeping my voice low, "we had a new Proctor assigned to the precinct—Jeremiah Grosch. Fresh from the upper hive, full of ambition and ideals. Quadrant D caught his eye immediately. Became an obsession."
She listens intently, Bee hovering silently beside her.
"I warned him," I continue. "Told him the stories, the disappearances. But he wouldn't listen. Thought he could uncover some hidden relic or technological treasure, make a name for himself."
I pause, the vivid images flashing unbidden: the eager faces of the fifty men who followed Grosch, the rumble of the three Chimeras as they disappeared into the darkness.
"He took fifty of our best and three Chimeras," I say quietly. "Went marching into the Black on a fool's errand to that damned temple. None of them came back. Not a word, not a trace."
Her voice softens slightly. "I'm sorry."
I shrug, masking the old hurt. "I had to cover it up. Fabricated reports of a massive gang uprising, claimed heavy losses in the suppression. Had to explain the missing men and equipment somehow."
"That's why the Proctor's death was never reported," she realizes aloud.
"Exactly. If the higher-ups knew we'd lost that many men without a fight, they'd have shut us down—or worse, sent more of us in there. I've been keeping this precinct running ever since."
She considers this, the gears turning behind her eyes. "With respect, Sergeant," she says firmly, "we have more information now. These attacks—"
I shake my head. "You don't understand what it's like in there. The Black eats men alive. Tech fails, minds break. It's not just about being prepared."
"Then we'll be cautious," she insists. "But we can't ignore this."
I look away, staring into the murky distance where the shadows seem to writhe. Memories of Grosch's confident smile, the hope in the men's eyes—they all haunt me still.
"Sergeant," Valeria's voice softens. "I know you've suffered losses. But sometimes facing the darkness is the only way to protect those we care about."
"Is this about facing the darkness? About me and my men? About the infrastructure?" I give her a steady look, "or is this about your missing friend?"
The silence of her muted breathing through the helmet is testament enough.
I meet her gaze again. "This isn't some noble crusade, Sister. Down here, the darkness usually wins."
"Not if we shine the Emperor's light into it," she replies much more quietly and in a voice that makes her seem suddenly very small. Guilt elbows me in the ribs but I ignore it.
I let out a dry chuckle. "You really believe that, don't you?"
"I have to," she says simply.
I take a deep breath, weighing my options. The others are watching, waiting for my decision. They're good people—flawed, sure, but they deserve better than being led to slaughter.
"Fine," I relent. "But we do this my way. We gather every piece of intel we can. If everything points to sector D… well… we're just as dead if we let the gangs loose on eachother, either from them or the neckbreakers they send down to see us once they find out what's been going on these last ten years. But let's be perfectly clear, this is my call, got it?"
She nods. "agreed."
"First stop is Lutefisk," I state. "He has access to the cogitator arrays at the water treatment plant. Maybe Bee can interface with them, get us more data on Quadrant D."
"That sounds reasonable," she admits.
"Then let's move," I command, turning to the squad. "Mount up! We're heading out."
Chapter 7: The Usual Suspects (SGT Tully's POV) Part Two: BLUE
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Chapter 7: The Usual Suspects (SGT Tully's POV) Part Two: BLUE
As we make our way back to the Chimera, I can't shake the unease settling in my gut. The thought of venturing into the Black again—or near it—brings back too many ghosts.
"Emperor help me," I think. "Let it be anything, anything else."
Valeria falls into step beside me. "Thank you for trusting me."
"Don't make me regret it," I reply gruffly.
"I won't," she promises.
I nod, hoping that's true. "Let's get to it, then."
We climb aboard the Chimera, the engine sputtering to life as Jaquelin guides us toward Lutefisk's territory. The squad is uncharacteristically quiet, each lost in their own thoughts.
"She doesn't understand," I think. "She's idealistic—a liability if not managed properly."
Jaquelin fires up the engine as we climb aboard. The vehicle shudders, belching black smoke before settling into a rough idle.
"Where to next?" she asks over her shoulder.
"Set a course for Lutefisk's territory," I reply.
"Aye, Sarge."
Valeria sits across from me, her expression unreadable beneath her helmet. Bee hovers beside her, silent but ever-watchful.
"You handled that well," Diaz whispers to me.
I grunt noncommittally. "Just doing what's necessary."
Keller leans in. "Think Lutefisk will be any more helpful?"
"He'd better be," I mutter.
The Chimera lurches forward, and we trundle away from Gnarl's domain. The squad settles into a wary silence, eyes scanning the shadowed ruins we pass.
After a few minutes, Valeria speaks up. "Tell me about Lutefisk. Do you think he'll cooperate?"
"He will if he knows what's good for him."
She falls silent again, but I can tell she's mulling things over. Probably plotting how to steer us back toward Quadrant D.
"Emperor save me from idealists," I think.
The terrain changes as we enter Lutefisk's territory. The air grows damp, the scent of stagnant water replacing the acrid fumes of Gnarl's realm. Makeshift aqueducts crisscross overhead, dripping murky liquid onto the cracked roads below.
"Eyes sharp," I call out. "The Blues like their traps."
As if on cue, a group of Lutefisk's enforcers steps out from behind a rubble on both sides of what goes for a road down here. They level weapons and I count a significantly greater number of hard-round and las weapons than Gnarl's gangers sport. Their uniforms are a patchwork of blue hues, better maintained than Gnarl's rabble as I've come to expect from the Duke and his gangers.
"Hold up!" their leader shouts. "State your business."
"Sergeant Tully of the Adeptus Arbites," I shout as Jaquelin skids us to a quick stop. "Here to see Lutefisk."
He eyes our Chimera, then Valeria and Bee. Something, probably fear flickers in his eyes at the sight of her armor. "Wait here."
He steps aside to speak into a handheld vox-unit. After a terse exchange, he returns. "You're cleared. Follow the marked path. Any deviation, and we open fire."
"Charming," Briggs mutters.
We proceed slowly, the Chimera navigating the narrow, waterlogged streets. Lutefisk's base looms ahead—a fortified wall of scrap built around the central pumping station. The sound of churning machinery echoes all around.
We disembark, and I motion for the squad to stay alert. "Standard protocols. Let me do the talking."
Gangers escort us through the wall's only gate and into the main structure.
Inside, we're led through dimly lit corridors to a spacious chamber filled with humming cogitator banks and glowing datascreens. Lutefisk stands at the center, clad in a tailored blue coat, his silver hair slicked back. His eyes are sharp, calculating.
"Sergeant Tully," he greets with a slight bow. "A pleasure, as always."
"Lutefisk," I reply curtly. "We need to talk."
"Straight to business, then." His gaze shifts to Valeria, eyes sharp and appraising. "And you've brought distinguished company."
"Sister Valeria," I introduce. "Here to observe."
He offers a thin smile, the kind that doesn't reach his eyes. "Welcome to my humble domain, Sister of the esteemed Order of the Sanctified Shield—a Hospitaller, if I'm not mistaken."
She inclines her head, momentarily caught off guard. "Um, yes."
"Ah," he muses, clasping his hands behind his back. "It's been quite some time since I've had the pleasure of conversing with someone of such refined standing."
"We're not here for pleasantries," I interject, keeping my tone firm.
He glances at me sidelong. "Of course, Sergeant Tully. Always the consummate professional." Turning back to Valeria, he adds, "Though I must admit, it's a rare delight to encounter a Sister down here in the depths."
Valeria shifts slightly, uncertain how to respond. "I go where I am needed."
"Admirable," he says softly. "Tell me, how fares the upper hive these days? Still awash with opulence and ignorance, I presume?"
She hesitates. "I wouldn't know."
Lutefisk chuckles, a dry sound. "Wise answer." His eyes drift over the group, lingering on Bee. "And a genuine servoskull of extraordinary make, a veritable herald of the Omnissiah. Gnarl must have wet himself, though, crass remarks aside, I am honored, truly."
"Enough," I cut in. "We didn't come here to reminisce."
He sighs dramatically. "Very well, Sergeant. What pressing matter brings you to my doorstep?"
"You sent a message requesting my presence," I state bluntly. "Attacks on your facilities, I assume. Sabotage? We need details."
He raises an eyebrow. "Straight to the point, as always. But perhaps before we delve into such grim topics, a bit of context might be beneficial—especially for our esteemed guest."
I grit my teeth. "We don't have time for stories."
Valeria interjects gently, "If it's relevant, perhaps it would help."
Lutefisk smiles appreciatively at her. "Thank you, Sister. Ever the voice of reason." He begins to pace slowly. "You see, I wasn't always the so-called 'Duke of the Dike' that our dear Sergeant here so fondly labels me."
I suppress a snort. "Fondly. Right."
He continues unabated. "Once upon a lifetime ago, I resided in the upper hive. A place of light, luxury, and lies. I was... educated. Groomed for a life of tedium amidst the aristocracy."
Valeria's eyes show a flicker of surprise. "You're from the upper hive?"
He inclines his head. "Indeed. But fate, as it often does, had other plans. I was discarded—tossed out with the garbage, quite literally. Left to die in the depths."
"Charming story," I remark. "But what's your point?"
He stops pacing, fixing me with a steady gaze. "My point, Sergeant, is that labels can be deceiving. You refer to my organization as a 'gang,' but we are so much more. A collective of the educated and the enlightened, striving to bring order and purpose to this forsaken place."
"By controlling the water supply and extorting the locals," I counter.
He smiles thinly. "Survival necessitates difficult choices. Surely, you understand that."
Valeria steps forward slightly. "If you have information that can help us prevent further attacks, we would appreciate your cooperation."
"Ah, ever so diplomatic." He gestures gracefully. "Very well. Ask your questions."
"Your facilities have been targeted," I say. "Let me guess same pattern as Gnarl's territory—men disarmed, equipment stolen, no casualties?"
A shadow crosses his features. "Regrettably true."
"Any idea who's responsible?" I probe.
He taps a finger against his chin. "One might suspect Gnarl, though similar attacks on his own forces seem to rule that point quite out, if his word is true. Trebor then, given his... unpredictable nature I would place the blame with the Yellow Dead. But this lacks his usual… flair for chaos."
"Agreed," I nod. "Which leads us to believe there's another player involved."
"Perhaps," he concedes. "Though I doubt it, anyone new coming to the scene would have approached me for access to clean water, and, none of the attacks on the outer pumping stations showed signs of sabotage."
"But Gnarl said—"
"That mindless brute was told what his little mind could conceive, that someone attacked me to access the water." I can feel the ice in his glare, damned noble that he was he clearly learned to look down his nose, "but no such sabotage took place. The only losses were the equipment of my men and…"
"And…?" I prompt, not bothering to hide my impatience.
"The loss of one gang member, one of the women, missing. Although the others were found wandering aimlessly, gazes blank, unable, it seems, to respond to external stimuli. It's quite possible she was simply jumped by any number of opportunist predators before we found the rest."
"Noted…" I mumble, annoyed that I have to enter it into my data slate and give him the satisfaction of having provided new information.
"Your tech-adepts have access to the cogitator arrays at the water treatment plant," Valeria points out as I write. "We need any data they can provide on Quadrant D."
His eyes flicker with interest. "The Black Quadrant? Now that's a dangerous curiosity."
"Can you help us or not?" I press.
He studies us for a moment. "I may be able to assist. The cogitators are ancient and temperamental, but with the right... persuasion, they might yield some secrets."
"Bee can interface with them," Valeria offers.
Lutefisk glances at the servo-skull, a hint of admiration in his gaze. "A fascinating construct. Very well, you may have access."
"Appreciated," I say curtly.
He motions for one of his attendants. "Prepare the cogitator chamber for our guests."
As we wait, Valeria addresses him cautiously. "You mentioned you were from the upper hive. May I ask what led to your... change in circumstances?"
He chuckles without humor. "Curiosity is a dangerous trait, Sister. Let's just say that I chose a path less traveled—one that didn't align with the expectations of my esteemed family."
"Meaning you got caught doing something you shouldn't have," I interject.
He smirks. "Always so cynical, Sergeant. But believe what you will. The underhive has been far more... invigorating than any life I left behind."
"Exploiting others tends to be," I retort.
He raises an eyebrow. "And enforcing the will of an indifferent aristocracy is any different?"
I feel a flare of anger but clamp it down. "We're not here to debate philosophy."
"Indeed," he agrees lightly. "Though it's a discussion I'd relish another time."
An attendant returns, nodding to Lutefisk. "The chamber is ready, sir."
"Excellent." He gestures toward a side corridor. "Shall we proceed?"
We follow him into a dimly lit room humming with the energy of ancient machinery. Rows of cogitator units line the walls, their interfaces blinking sporadically. A trio of tech-adepts hunch over terminals, their mechadendrites weaving through nests of cables.
"Impressive setup," Valeria notes.
"Years of restoration," Lutefisk replies proudly. "Salvaged from the ruins and given new purpose. Not the main banks in the heart of the facility of course, but these units predate whatever catastrophe lead to the abandoning of this level of the hive, they may yield information."
"Bee," Valeria prompts, "see what you can do."
Bee emits a soft whir, drifting toward one of the primary interfaces. "Initiating connection."
The tech-adepts watch with a mix of awe and apprehension as the servo-skull's data tendrils merge with the ancient system. Screens flicker, streams of code cascading faster than the eye can follow.
"Accessing archival data," Bee reports. "Retrieving information on Quadrant D."
Lutefisk folds his arms, observing intently. "Remarkable. Your construct is quite efficient."
"My mentor's own holy workmanship," Valeria acknowledges and I can hear the pride in her tone, clearly she thinks quite highly of the Omnisiah herself.
He nods thoughtfully. "An individual I would very much like to meet someday."
I keep my attention on the screens. "Any progress, Bee?"
"Data retrieval at seventy percent," Bee responds. "Encountering numerous fragmented sectors."
"Can you bypass them?" Valeria asks
"Affirmative. Reconstruction of data pathways possible."
Bee's optics flicker as streams of data pour into the cogitator's ancient systems. The room hums with a low vibration, the tech-adepts murmuring litanies under their breath. I watch the screens, but the lines of code mean little to me—I've always been more comfortable with tangible threats.
Bee's tone shifts to a more formal register, echoing the archaic language of the Mechanicus. "Accessing archival records pertaining to Sector Sigma's utility schematics. Available data encompasses industrial, commercial, and administrative zones."
"That's Quadrants A, B, and C," I note. "Not precisely broken up like that, of course but close enough. What about Quadrant D?"
"Quadrant D is referenced indirectly," Bee replies. "Specific records are absent or redacted."
"Convenient," I say, suspicion gnawing at me, "and a great waste of time."
"Wait," Valeria interjects. "Bee, what about historical events that mention Quadrant D indirectly?"
Bee pauses for a moment. "Affirmative. Approximately 1,400 standard years ago, records indicate a significant power fluctuation affecting Sector Sigma."
One of the tech-adepts leans forward, interest piqued. "Specify."
Bee continues, "Due to destabilization in the primary geothermal conduit, the Ecclesiarchy permitted a temporary linkage of an entity referred to as 'the Seat of the Sacred Lady' or possibly translated 'Heart of the Saint' to the main geothermal system, thus restoring equilibrium over a period of… time unspecified."
"The Heart of the Sacred Lady?" Valeria repeats. "That sounds... significant."
"Sounds like Ecclesiarchy jargon. I once met a priest who referred to my recaf as imbibing the sacred fluid of vitality," I remark. "But why isn't Quadrant D mentioned directly?"
"Given the context," Bee explains, "it is plausible that 'the Heart of the Sacred Lady' resides within Quadrant D. The absence of explicit references suggests that the area was under exclusive control of the Ecclesiarchy. Data pertaining to it, therefore, has likely been classified or stored separately. Clarification: this is a summary of 3.8 gigaquads of data, more than 70% of which is corrupted or partially corrupted by time and therefore subject to some liberal interpretation."
I rub my chin, pondering this new information. "So, you're saying Quadrant D had its own power infrastructure, separate from the main grid?"
"Correct," Bee confirms. "Available Schematics of Sigma Sector imply an independent network, a further implication of separate hydrostructure, and likely, transportation systems, though these cannot be verified as anything but high probabilities due to the age and lack of maintenance of the data involved."
"That doesn't make sense," I argue. "The only structure we know of in Quadrant D is that sealed temple, and it's big, sure, monstrous even, but it's not large enough to house a geothermal power station, not even a small one."
"Well, this is only the tip of the hive, as it were," Lutefisk chimes in, "if, as is true of every layer of the live, this layer was once the upper hive, then what lays beneath it in chasms as vast as Sector Sigma or far smaller, is completely unknown. Anything could be down there."
"All the more reason to avoid it," I glare at the former noble and tap my data slate, "I'll deal with what we do know. Now, mark out your grievances."
Lutefisk makes a tutting noise that makes me want to wipe his nose with my fist and picks up the slate, entering several locations. "Two attacks, far fewer than Gnarl's it appears, but my infrastructure is far less tangible. There are only a few dozen pumping stations and only four within a few hundred meters of…"
He pauses and I close my eyes, knowing what he's going to say next. He seems to notice and purposely leaves the sentence dangling. "Only those four are near quadrant D?" I grind out.
"A most astute deduction," he hands the slate back and I snatch it.
"Could I examine the survivors you recovered?" Valeria asks, and it's not a bad idea.
"I'm afraid not." Lutefisk's tone drops a few octaves into dour regret, "once we determined no physical damage had been done, I had them burned, everyone involved in their… apprehension, is currently quarantined, just encase this is some sort of chemical or biological effect, which… I pray and hope to the God Emperor it is."
I shudder. The underhive has produced its own index of nasty diseases, mutations, and pools of mixed liquids that can kill you any number of ways, including reaching out and dragging you in. "You hope!?"
"Indeed, good Sergeant. The two probable alternatives are, in order or probability, a rogue psyker, or a hitherto unexplained advance of whatever malevolence exists in quadrant D into quadrant's A, B, and presumably, C."
He taps the data slate, "I'm reinforcing these positions, bringing in more light and brighter minds. When you leave, I'll send my condolences to Gnarl and ask for additional power to support that endeavor, suggesting he do the same in a spirit of mutual cooperation against a common foe."
"You think that will fly, after he's already blaming you for the attacks on him?" I question.
"It will if I grovel," Lutefisk rolls his eyes. "Gnarl is a simple creature; begging will always work at least once, and I don't care how I have to ask if it gets the job done. But… Sergeant." His tone drops and, for the first time, I can hear the fear in it. "If I reinforce those pumps and this same thing happens again… I will have to abandon them."
"You poor thing." I manage.
"Oh, I don't say that to engage your sympathies my dear Arbite, but your own sense of survival." His tone takes on the cutting edge of a bone saw, "those two pumping stations supply the water to your complex."
By the time we leave Lutefisk's domain, my nerves are frayed. His parting words about our water supply still echo in my mind. The man thrives on manipulation, and I can't shake the feeling we've played right into his hands.
"Next stop, the Yellow Dead," I announce, climbing into the Chimera. The squad exchanges uneasy glances but says nothing. They know better than to question the route.
Valeria settles across from me, her helmet cradled in her lap. Bee hovers silently beside her, its optics dimmed to conserve power.
"Trebor's not going to be any happier than the others," Diaz mutters, checking her sidearm.
"Trebor's never happy," Briggs retorts. "Mad as a grox in a thorn patch, that one."
"Enough chatter," I snap. "Stay focused."
As we make our way back to the Chimera, I can't shake the unease settling in my gut. The thought of venturing into the Black again—or near it—brings back too many ghosts.
"Emperor help me," I think. "Let it be anything, anything else."
Valeria falls into step beside me. "Thank you for trusting me."
"Don't make me regret it," I reply gruffly.
"I won't," she promises.
I nod, hoping that's true. "Let's get to it, then."
We climb aboard the Chimera, the engine sputtering to life as Jaquelin guides us toward Lutefisk's territory. The squad is uncharacteristically quiet, each lost in their own thoughts.
"She doesn't understand," I think. "She's idealistic—a liability if not managed properly."
Jaquelin fires up the engine as we climb aboard. The vehicle shudders, belching black smoke before settling into a rough idle.
"Where to next?" she asks over her shoulder.
"Set a course for Lutefisk's territory," I reply.
"Aye, Sarge."
Valeria sits across from me, her expression unreadable beneath her helmet. Bee hovers beside her, silent but ever-watchful.
"You handled that well," Diaz whispers to me.
I grunt noncommittally. "Just doing what's necessary."
Keller leans in. "Think Lutefisk will be any more helpful?"
"He'd better be," I mutter.
The Chimera lurches forward, and we trundle away from Gnarl's domain. The squad settles into a wary silence, eyes scanning the shadowed ruins we pass.
After a few minutes, Valeria speaks up. "Tell me about Lutefisk. Do you think he'll cooperate?"
"He will if he knows what's good for him."
She falls silent again, but I can tell she's mulling things over. Probably plotting how to steer us back toward Quadrant D.
"Emperor save me from idealists," I think.
The terrain changes as we enter Lutefisk's territory. The air grows damp, the scent of stagnant water replacing the acrid fumes of Gnarl's realm. Makeshift aqueducts crisscross overhead, dripping murky liquid onto the cracked roads below.
"Eyes sharp," I call out. "The Blues like their traps."
As if on cue, a group of Lutefisk's enforcers steps out from behind a rubble on both sides of what goes for a road down here. They level weapons and I count a significantly greater number of hard-round and las weapons than Gnarl's gangers sport. Their uniforms are a patchwork of blue hues, better maintained than Gnarl's rabble as I've come to expect from the Duke and his gangers.
"Hold up!" their leader shouts. "State your business."
"Sergeant Tully of the Adeptus Arbites," I shout as Jaquelin skids us to a quick stop. "Here to see Lutefisk."
He eyes our Chimera, then Valeria and Bee. Something, probably fear flickers in his eyes at the sight of her armor. "Wait here."
He steps aside to speak into a handheld vox-unit. After a terse exchange, he returns. "You're cleared. Follow the marked path. Any deviation, and we open fire."
"Charming," Briggs mutters.
We proceed slowly, the Chimera navigating the narrow, waterlogged streets. Lutefisk's base looms ahead—a fortified wall of scrap built around the central pumping station. The sound of churning machinery echoes all around.
We disembark, and I motion for the squad to stay alert. "Standard protocols. Let me do the talking."
Gangers escort us through the wall's only gate and into the main structure.
Inside, we're led through dimly lit corridors to a spacious chamber filled with humming cogitator banks and glowing datascreens. Lutefisk stands at the center, clad in a tailored blue coat, his silver hair slicked back. His eyes are sharp, calculating.
"Sergeant Tully," he greets with a slight bow. "A pleasure, as always."
"Lutefisk," I reply curtly. "We need to talk."
"Straight to business, then." His gaze shifts to Valeria, eyes sharp and appraising. "And you've brought distinguished company."
"Sister Valeria," I introduce. "Here to observe."
He offers a thin smile, the kind that doesn't reach his eyes. "Welcome to my humble domain, Sister of the esteemed Order of the Sanctified Shield—a Hospitaller, if I'm not mistaken."
She inclines her head, momentarily caught off guard. "Um, yes."
"Ah," he muses, clasping his hands behind his back. "It's been quite some time since I've had the pleasure of conversing with someone of such refined standing."
"We're not here for pleasantries," I interject, keeping my tone firm.
He glances at me sidelong. "Of course, Sergeant Tully. Always the consummate professional." Turning back to Valeria, he adds, "Though I must admit, it's a rare delight to encounter a Sister down here in the depths."
Valeria shifts slightly, uncertain how to respond. "I go where I am needed."
"Admirable," he says softly. "Tell me, how fares the upper hive these days? Still awash with opulence and ignorance, I presume?"
She hesitates. "I wouldn't know."
Lutefisk chuckles, a dry sound. "Wise answer." His eyes drift over the group, lingering on Bee. "And a genuine servoskull of extraordinary make, a veritable herald of the Omnissiah. Gnarl must have wet himself, though, crass remarks aside, I am honored, truly."
"Enough," I cut in. "We didn't come here to reminisce."
He sighs dramatically. "Very well, Sergeant. What pressing matter brings you to my doorstep?"
"You sent a message requesting my presence," I state bluntly. "Attacks on your facilities, I assume. Sabotage? We need details."
He raises an eyebrow. "Straight to the point, as always. But perhaps before we delve into such grim topics, a bit of context might be beneficial—especially for our esteemed guest."
I grit my teeth. "We don't have time for stories."
Valeria interjects gently, "If it's relevant, perhaps it would help."
Lutefisk smiles appreciatively at her. "Thank you, Sister. Ever the voice of reason." He begins to pace slowly. "You see, I wasn't always the so-called 'Duke of the Dike' that our dear Sergeant here so fondly labels me."
I suppress a snort. "Fondly. Right."
He continues unabated. "Once upon a lifetime ago, I resided in the upper hive. A place of light, luxury, and lies. I was... educated. Groomed for a life of tedium amidst the aristocracy."
Valeria's eyes show a flicker of surprise. "You're from the upper hive?"
He inclines his head. "Indeed. But fate, as it often does, had other plans. I was discarded—tossed out with the garbage, quite literally. Left to die in the depths."
"Charming story," I remark. "But what's your point?"
He stops pacing, fixing me with a steady gaze. "My point, Sergeant, is that labels can be deceiving. You refer to my organization as a 'gang,' but we are so much more. A collective of the educated and the enlightened, striving to bring order and purpose to this forsaken place."
"By controlling the water supply and extorting the locals," I counter.
He smiles thinly. "Survival necessitates difficult choices. Surely, you understand that."
Valeria steps forward slightly. "If you have information that can help us prevent further attacks, we would appreciate your cooperation."
"Ah, ever so diplomatic." He gestures gracefully. "Very well. Ask your questions."
"Your facilities have been targeted," I say. "Let me guess same pattern as Gnarl's territory—men disarmed, equipment stolen, no casualties?"
A shadow crosses his features. "Regrettably true."
"Any idea who's responsible?" I probe.
He taps a finger against his chin. "One might suspect Gnarl, though similar attacks on his own forces seem to rule that point quite out, if his word is true. Trebor then, given his... unpredictable nature I would place the blame with the Yellow Dead. But this lacks his usual… flair for chaos."
"Agreed," I nod. "Which leads us to believe there's another player involved."
"Perhaps," he concedes. "Though I doubt it, anyone new coming to the scene would have approached me for access to clean water, and, none of the attacks on the outer pumping stations showed signs of sabotage."
"But Gnarl said—"
"That mindless brute was told what his little mind could conceive, that someone attacked me to access the water." I can feel the ice in his glare, damned noble that he was he clearly learned to look down his nose, "but no such sabotage took place. The only losses were the equipment of my men and…"
"And…?" I prompt, not bothering to hide my impatience.
"The loss of one gang member, one of the women, missing. Although the others were found wandering aimlessly, gazes blank, unable, it seems, to respond to external stimuli. It's quite possible she was simply jumped by any number of opportunist predators before we found the rest."
"Noted…" I mumble, annoyed that I have to enter it into my data slate and give him the satisfaction of having provided new information.
"Your tech-adepts have access to the cogitator arrays at the water treatment plant," Valeria points out as I write. "We need any data they can provide on Quadrant D."
His eyes flicker with interest. "The Black Quadrant? Now that's a dangerous curiosity."
"Can you help us or not?" I press.
He studies us for a moment. "I may be able to assist. The cogitators are ancient and temperamental, but with the right... persuasion, they might yield some secrets."
"Bee can interface with them," Valeria offers.
Lutefisk glances at the servo-skull, a hint of admiration in his gaze. "A fascinating construct. Very well, you may have access."
"Appreciated," I say curtly.
He motions for one of his attendants. "Prepare the cogitator chamber for our guests."
As we wait, Valeria addresses him cautiously. "You mentioned you were from the upper hive. May I ask what led to your... change in circumstances?"
He chuckles without humor. "Curiosity is a dangerous trait, Sister. Let's just say that I chose a path less traveled—one that didn't align with the expectations of my esteemed family."
"Meaning you got caught doing something you shouldn't have," I interject.
He smirks. "Always so cynical, Sergeant. But believe what you will. The underhive has been far more... invigorating than any life I left behind."
"Exploiting others tends to be," I retort.
He raises an eyebrow. "And enforcing the will of an indifferent aristocracy is any different?"
I feel a flare of anger but clamp it down. "We're not here to debate philosophy."
"Indeed," he agrees lightly. "Though it's a discussion I'd relish another time."
An attendant returns, nodding to Lutefisk. "The chamber is ready, sir."
"Excellent." He gestures toward a side corridor. "Shall we proceed?"
We follow him into a dimly lit room humming with the energy of ancient machinery. Rows of cogitator units line the walls, their interfaces blinking sporadically. A trio of tech-adepts hunch over terminals, their mechadendrites weaving through nests of cables.
"Impressive setup," Valeria notes.
"Years of restoration," Lutefisk replies proudly. "Salvaged from the ruins and given new purpose. Not the main banks in the heart of the facility of course, but these units predate whatever catastrophe lead to the abandoning of this level of the hive, they may yield information."
"Bee," Valeria prompts, "see what you can do."
Bee emits a soft whir, drifting toward one of the primary interfaces. "Initiating connection."
The tech-adepts watch with a mix of awe and apprehension as the servo-skull's data tendrils merge with the ancient system. Screens flicker, streams of code cascading faster than the eye can follow.
"Accessing archival data," Bee reports. "Retrieving information on Quadrant D."
Lutefisk folds his arms, observing intently. "Remarkable. Your construct is quite efficient."
"My mentor's own holy workmanship," Valeria acknowledges and I can hear the pride in her tone, clearly she thinks quite highly of the Omnisiah herself.
He nods thoughtfully. "An individual I would very much like to meet someday."
I keep my attention on the screens. "Any progress, Bee?"
"Data retrieval at seventy percent," Bee responds. "Encountering numerous fragmented sectors."
"Can you bypass them?" Valeria asks
"Affirmative. Reconstruction of data pathways possible."
Bee's optics flicker as streams of data pour into the cogitator's ancient systems. The room hums with a low vibration, the tech-adepts murmuring litanies under their breath. I watch the screens, but the lines of code mean little to me—I've always been more comfortable with tangible threats.
Bee's tone shifts to a more formal register, echoing the archaic language of the Mechanicus. "Accessing archival records pertaining to Sector Sigma's utility schematics. Available data encompasses industrial, commercial, and administrative zones."
"That's Quadrants A, B, and C," I note. "Not precisely broken up like that, of course but close enough. What about Quadrant D?"
"Quadrant D is referenced indirectly," Bee replies. "Specific records are absent or redacted."
"Convenient," I say, suspicion gnawing at me, "and a great waste of time."
"Wait," Valeria interjects. "Bee, what about historical events that mention Quadrant D indirectly?"
Bee pauses for a moment. "Affirmative. Approximately 1,400 standard years ago, records indicate a significant power fluctuation affecting Sector Sigma."
One of the tech-adepts leans forward, interest piqued. "Specify."
Bee continues, "Due to destabilization in the primary geothermal conduit, the Ecclesiarchy permitted a temporary linkage of an entity referred to as 'the Seat of the Sacred Lady' or possibly translated 'Heart of the Saint' to the main geothermal system, thus restoring equilibrium over a period of… time unspecified."
"The Heart of the Sacred Lady?" Valeria repeats. "That sounds... significant."
"Sounds like Ecclesiarchy jargon. I once met a priest who referred to my recaf as imbibing the sacred fluid of vitality," I remark. "But why isn't Quadrant D mentioned directly?"
"Given the context," Bee explains, "it is plausible that 'the Heart of the Sacred Lady' resides within Quadrant D. The absence of explicit references suggests that the area was under exclusive control of the Ecclesiarchy. Data pertaining to it, therefore, has likely been classified or stored separately. Clarification: this is a summary of 3.8 gigaquads of data, more than 70% of which is corrupted or partially corrupted by time and therefore subject to some liberal interpretation."
I rub my chin, pondering this new information. "So, you're saying Quadrant D had its own power infrastructure, separate from the main grid?"
"Correct," Bee confirms. "Available Schematics of Sigma Sector imply an independent network, a further implication of separate hydrostructure, and likely, transportation systems, though these cannot be verified as anything but high probabilities due to the age and lack of maintenance of the data involved."
"That doesn't make sense," I argue. "The only structure we know of in Quadrant D is that sealed temple, and it's big, sure, monstrous even, but it's not large enough to house a geothermal power station, not even a small one."
"Well, this is only the tip of the hive, as it were," Lutefisk chimes in, "if, as is true of every layer of the live, this layer was once the upper hive, then what lays beneath it in chasms as vast as Sector Sigma or far smaller, is completely unknown. Anything could be down there."
"All the more reason to avoid it," I glare at the former noble and tap my data slate, "I'll deal with what we do know. Now, mark out your grievances."
Lutefisk makes a tutting noise that makes me want to wipe his nose with my fist and picks up the slate, entering several locations. "Two attacks, far fewer than Gnarl's it appears, but my infrastructure is far less tangible. There are only a few dozen pumping stations and only four within a few hundred meters of…"
He pauses and I close my eyes, knowing what he's going to say next. He seems to notice and purposely leaves the sentence dangling. "Only those four are near quadrant D?" I grind out.
"A most astute deduction," he hands the slate back and I snatch it.
"Could I examine the survivors you recovered?" Valeria asks, and it's not a bad idea.
"I'm afraid not." Lutefisk's tone drops a few octaves into dour regret, "once we determined no physical damage had been done, I had them burned, everyone involved in their… apprehension, is currently quarantined, just encase this is some sort of chemical or biological effect, which… I pray and hope to the God Emperor it is."
I shudder. The underhive has produced its own index of nasty diseases, mutations, and pools of mixed liquids that can kill you any number of ways, including reaching out and dragging you in. "You hope!?"
"Indeed, good Sergeant. The two probable alternatives are, in order or probability, a rogue psyker, or a hitherto unexplained advance of whatever malevolence exists in quadrant D into quadrant's A, B, and presumably, C."
He taps the data slate, "I'm reinforcing these positions, bringing in more light and brighter minds. When you leave, I'll send my condolences to Gnarl and ask for additional power to support that endeavor, suggesting he do the same in a spirit of mutual cooperation against a common foe."
"You think that will fly, after he's already blaming you for the attacks on him?" I question.
"It will if I grovel," Lutefisk rolls his eyes. "Gnarl is a simple creature; begging will always work at least once, and I don't care how I have to ask if it gets the job done. But… Sergeant." His tone drops and, for the first time, I can hear the fear in it. "If I reinforce those pumps and this same thing happens again… I will have to abandon them."
"You poor thing." I manage.
"Oh, I don't say that to engage your sympathies my dear Arbite, but your own sense of survival." His tone takes on the cutting edge of a bone saw, "those two pumping stations supply the water to your complex."
By the time we leave Lutefisk's domain, my nerves are frayed. His parting words about our water supply still echo in my mind. The man thrives on manipulation, and I can't shake the feeling we've played right into his hands.
"Next stop, the Yellow Dead," I announce, climbing into the Chimera. The squad exchanges uneasy glances but says nothing. They know better than to question the route.
Valeria settles across from me, her helmet cradled in her lap. Bee hovers silently beside her, its optics dimmed to conserve power.
"Trebor's not going to be any happier than the others," Diaz mutters, checking her sidearm.
"Trebor's never happy," Briggs retorts. "Mad as a grox in a thorn patch, that one."
"Enough chatter," I snap. "Stay focused."
Chapter 7: The Usual Suspects (SGT Tully's POV) Part Three: Yellow
New
Chapter 7: The Usual Suspects (SGT Tully's POV) Part Three: Yellow
As we rumble toward Trebor's territory, the atmosphere grows oppressive. The air thickens with the stench of decay and chemical residue. Shadows deepen, stretching like grasping fingers along the dilapidated structures.
We pass clusters of his followers—emaciated figures draped in tattered yellow robes; faces hidden behind crude masks painted with skulls. They stop and stare as we pass, unmoving, like specters.
"Emperor's mercy," Valeria whispers, her gaze sweeping over them.
"Don't expect any here," I reply grimly.
Trebor's stronghold looms ahead: the corpse processing plant. Once an industrial marvel, now a twisted monument to his deranged reign. Massive chimneys spew acrid smoke into the cavernous heights above, and the constant grind of unseen machinery reverberates through the ground.
We disembark, and immediately, a cadre of his fanatics surrounds us. Their eyes gleam with a fervor that borders on lunacy.
"State your purpose," one demands, voice muffled behind his skull mask.
"Sergeant Tully of the Adeptus Arbites," I declare. "Here at the invitation of Trebor."
They exchange glances before parting to form a path. "The prophet awaits you within," the leader says, a hint of reverence in his tone.
"Charming reception," Briggs murmurs.
"Stay alert," I warn. "And keep your weapons holstered unless I say otherwise."
We proceed into the facility, the air growing warmer and fouler with each step. The walls are adorned with grotesque murals—depictions of flames, eyes, and cryptic symbols. Chanting echoes from unseen chambers, a discordant hymn that sets my teeth on edge.
"Welcome, friends!" Trebor's voice rings out as we enter a vast chamber. He's perched atop a makeshift throne fashioned from scrap metal and bones, draped in a tattered yellow cloak. His eyes blaze with unnatural light, and a manic grin splits his face.
"Trebor," I acknowledge tersely. "We've come to discuss recent events."
He claps his hands, and the chanting ceases. "Ah, the diligent Sergeant Tully, ever the mediator. And you've brought the girl!" His gaze locks onto Valeria. "The harbinger arrives at last at last at long last!"
Valeria stiffens. "I am Sister Valeria of the Order Hospitaller, here to offer assistance and—"
He throws back his head and laughs, a grating sound that echoes unsettlingly. "Assistance! Oh, the irony!"
"Trebor," I interject firmly, "we're here at your request, I assume you've suffered attacks? Let me guess, your gangers found unresponsive but alive, weapons missing, occurring near quadrant D?"
His expression shifts abruptly to fury. "Alive? Quadrant D? Attacks? No, Sergeant, declarations of war! Gnarl and Lutefisk have united against me, the fools!"
"There's no evidence they've banded together," I counter. "Both have also been attacked. Gnarl expressed losing twelve power nodes worth of his men, seven of which border your territory and quadrant D, the other five Lutefisk's territory and quadrant D. Lutefisk claims the loss of two pumping stations, or at least the men defending them, also adjacent to quadrant D. Our investigation—"
"Lies!" he spits. "Did you see these so-called attacks? Did you witness their dead men walking? Their survivors?"
I pause. "No, but their fear seemed genuine."
"Of course it did!" he sneers. "A ploy to deceive you, to blind you to their treachery!"
Valeria steps forward despite my warning glance. "Trebor, please. Tell us what happened."
He eyes her warily, then leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Two of my blessed trains, carrying the sustenance of the masses, ambushed deep within my own domain. My faithful slaughtered—nowhere near quadrant D," he spits.
"Any survivors?" I ask.
Trebor shakes his head. "None. A massacre, painted in red and blue—the signatures of those treacherous dogs! Attacks carried out simultaneously! Clear declarations of war!"
"Convenient that they left their marks all over these attack sites," I muse. "You're certain it wasn't a third party?"
He narrows his eyes. "Doubt me if you wish, Sergeant, but the signs are clear. You yourself brought the Harbinger with you, how is it that you are blind to the coming darkness?"
Valeria tilts her head. "Trebor, you mentioned 'dead men walking' when speaking of their attacks. What did you mean?"
He chuckles darkly. "I have eyes in their camps, I see, I hear, I know what they tell you, what stories they spread. They spin tales of men left alive but hollowed out—spirits drained; minds broken. Fantasies to garner your sympathy. Delusions to deafen you to the drums of war."
"Or truths they fear to face," she suggests gently.
He scowls. "Do not presume to know the minds of madmen, girl."
"Pot calling the kettle black," Briggs mutters under his breath.
Trebor's gaze snaps to him. "Ah, the jester speaks! Careful, lest your tongue lead you to ruin."
"That's enough," I interject. "We're here to prevent bloodshed, Trebor. An all-out war serves no one."
He rises from his throne, arms outstretched. "War is upon us whether you accept it or not! The flames of retribution are kindled, and I shall not be consumed quietly!"
"Your men are gearing up," I observe. "But think—if Gnarl and Lutefisk are truly conspiring, why alert us to the attacks? Why feign fear?"
"To stall," he hisses. "To keep you occupied while they prepare to strike me down!"
"Or perhaps there's another threat," Valeria proposes. "Something that endangers all of you."
He scoffs. "The harbinger speaks of unity? The herald of doom speaks of threats? How quaint."
She takes a step closer. "You called me 'harbinger' just now, and earlier. Why?"
His eyes gleam with feverish intensity. "Because you are the herald of doom! The masked angel of prophecy!"
I can see where this is headed. "Sister, perhaps we should—"
She holds up a hand. "What prophecy, Trebor? Please, tell me."
He grins wickedly. "The sky will blacken, the stars shall fall. The masked one appears and comes for us all." He leans forward, voice dropping to a raspy whisper. "You wear the mask, Sister. You bring the end."
"Cryptic nonsense," I snap.
"Do not mock me!" Trebor leaps from his throne and lands with the sound of chains on iron. "I have seen the rising tide these past few months. The whispers grow louder, the lurker in the black stirs, his seed festers. The Emperor responds in kind, the sacred lady whose heart is broken will wake once more and blood blood blood will flow up from the underhive to consume the wretches above! And you," he points to Valeria, "you are but a piece on the board but not insignificant, named, Harbinger, Herald, she who stands at the left hand of the Holy Lady, standing in mercy while slaughter flies in her right!"
"Enough of this." I step forward but a plated fist catches my chest and holds me back.
Valeria is undeterred. "When is this supposed to happen?"
He laughs again. "It unfolds even now! The eye opens, the abyss yawns wide. You cannot stop what is destined!"
"Sergeant," Bee interjects softly, "the individual displays signs of acute psychosis but exhibits no biological indicators of deceit."
"Great," I mutter. "He's crazy but believes every word."
Trebor begins pacing erratically. "You feel it, don't you? The tremors beneath your feet, the whispers in the void. The harbinger's arrival marks the beginning of the end of Sigma, of the Hive, of the stars in half the sky!"
"Trebor," I try to regain control of the conversation, "if there's a threat, we need to work together."
He whirls on me, eyes wild. "There is no 'together'! Only the faithful and the damned!"
"Your men will die needlessly," I warn. "War will bring this whole sector down. Is that what you want?"
He pauses, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. "Sacrifices must be made. I must serve the sacred lady, the masked girl, the sister who isn't a sister, her herald, yes, when the time comes," he turns once more to face Valeria's visor, "I will follow you!"
Valeria seems to freeze for a moment as Trebor unexpectedly bows down and kisses one of her ceramite boots.
"But not yet! No! Not yet!" He rises and walks back to his throne, suddenly seeming much calmer than before, "the sky is whole, the stars still shine, now is not, is not yet the time."
I take a deep, calming breath as Valeria's arm drops back to her side.
"Oh-kay," I begin, speaking as though to a child, "so if the time isn't now, and you're so certain that you have a role to play in some future prophecy—"
"Do not mock me, Tully. Or do you think I wish to be this way, to see what I see, to know madness and folly, to toil with these poor wretches, to play games with blind fools like you and Gnarl and Lutefisk while watching the end draw nigh?"
Damn, for a moment that almost sounded sane.
"I think," I say carefully, "that if you want to be around to see those prophecies of yours come to pass, going to war with Gnarl and Lutefisk is not in the cards."
"Unbeliever," he huffs, wrapping himself suddenly in his robe and, for the first time since I've seen him, looking very small and vulnerable.
"Well, I've got my own prophecy," I decide, determined to get through to him. "And that prophecy says, if you start a war, and the infrastructure down here suffers, then holy fire the likes of which your mad eyes have never imagined will descend from the upper hive and will consume everything down here, including me. I," I emphasize the word, "would like to prevent that from happening."
For a long moment nothing is said, and I work hard to slow my breathing. Think, Tully, deduct, investigate. I need to think twice as rationally in a place like this or lose my head. The damned hospitaller is already playing into Trebor's fantasies. We need to get out of here, the walls feel like they're closing in, the chemical air is suffocating.
"We need to see the attack sites." I say finally.
"I will accompany you." Trebor rolls off the throne and takes several steps on all fours before rising on feet. I get the distinct impression he's talking to the Sister, not me, "I will show you, everything."
"Fine," I say, moving in front of him and grabbing his arms. I Force them behind his back and cuff him. I don't know why. It's a crazy move, but everything seems to be slipping out of my control. "Don't give me reason to have you shot."
His followers tense but Trebor shows no sign of concern, he doesn't even seem to notice the cuffs. "It's alright," he says, his voice raised, "I go with the harbinger, I shall return."
I push him forward as Briggs and Diaz stare at me in shock, "move," I slap Diaz on the shoulder guard, "back to the Chimera, before our luck runs out."
We reach the second attack site after a grueling halting drive then another long trek through the labyrinthine depths of Trebor's territory. The air grows thicker here, heavy with the metallic scent of blood and the cloying stench of decay. Our boots crunch over scattered debris and the occasional discarded shell casing, though notably fewer than I'd expect from a firefight.
The train looms ahead, an ungainly beast of rusted metal and makeshift repairs. Its once-grey surface is now slathered in vivid red paint, dripping like fresh wounds. Bodies lie strewn about—Trebor's followers, their yellow robes stained dark.
Valeria moves ahead, her armor gleaming even in the dim light filtering through cracked overhead lamps. She kneels beside one of the fallen, her gauntleted fingers gentle as she examines him.
"Same as the first site," she reports, her voice tight, telling me only things I can already see for myself. "No defensive wounds. Blunt force trauma, some stab wounds. They died where they stood."
I survey the scene, unease gnawing at me. "No signs they even tried to fight back," I mutter.
Trebor stands nearby, his eyes alight with a mix of fury and vindication. "You see now?" he exclaims, gesturing wildly at the carnage. "Proof! Gnarl and Lutefisk conspire against me. First blue paint, now red. They mock me even as they strike."
"Or someone's trying to make it look that way," I counter.
He rounds on me, snarling. "Doubt all you like, Sergeant. The evidence is before you!"
Diaz steps forward, her gaze sweeping over the empty train cars. "Sir, the starch is gone," she notes. "Nearly two tons of wafers missing if the car was full."
"Emperor's teeth," Briggs whistles softly. "That's a lot of food."
"Exactly," Trebor snaps. "They aim to remove their reliance on me, to strip me of my only deterrence."
Diaz continues, "Moving that much cargo would've taken significant manpower and time. Coordinated effort, maybe even vehicles. It's not something that could be done quickly or quietly."
I nod slowly. "Good observation. If Gnarl and Lutefisk have the starch, they could feed their forces for months."
"Enough to wage war without worrying about supply lines," Diaz adds.
"But how did they penetrate this deep into your territory?" I press, fixing Trebor with a hard stare. "Your men are fanatical, your checkpoints numerous."
He bristles. "Are you questioning my security?"
"I'm questioning the plausibility," I retort. "An operation of this scale shouldn't have gone unnoticed."
Diaz interjects, "With respect, Sergeant, the checkpoints focus on main roads and thoroughfares. In a sector this vast, there are countless ways to navigate unseen. Old tunnels, maintenance shafts, collapsed structures—it's very possible they found a route."
"Possible," I concede, though doubt still lingers. "But it doesn't match the pattern of the other attacks. Gnarl and Lutefisk reported no casualties, only their men left alive but incapacitated. Weapons taken, but infrastructure untouched."
Briggs scratches his chin. "Maybe they lied. Could be covering their tracks."
"Or setting the stage," I muse. "If they eliminate Trebor, they'd eventually turn on each other."
Valeria rises from examining another body, her expression troubled. "These men... they didn't even draw their weapons. There's no sign they tried to defend themselves."
"Could fear have immobilized them?" Diaz suggests.
"Unlikely," I shake my head. "Trebor's followers are zealots. They'd charge an Ork horde without hesitation."
Trebor's gaze snaps to me, a sly smile curving his lips. "Perhaps they saw something that shook even their faith."
I narrow my eyes. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
He shrugs theatrically. "The harbinger speaks. Shadows lengthen. Who can say what grips men's hearts in their final moments?"
"Enough with the riddles," I snap. "If you know something, spit it out."
He laughs softly. "I only know what the Emperor reveals."
I suppress the urge to throttle him. Turning to Valeria, I ask, "Anything else?"
"I'd have to run a more detailed chemical analysis, but the samples I took from the first site show levels of adrenaline consistent with hard labor, but not combat. Either they died without realizing they were in danger, or they didn't react to the danger in an automated biological way." She stands, "of course, there are a significant number of other things in their blood I can't readily identify, some of which may account for such an occurrence," but she doesn't believe it. She's telling me because she has the information, not because she thinks it changes the equation.
"Alright," Briggs says, stablight on his shotgun sweeping left and right. "What now boss."
I hear the actual statement in his tone, not his words. He's scared, he wants to leave. They all do. Well, all perhaps with the exception of the Sister, she's impossible to read under all that armor and probably as fanatical as Trebor's gangers, God Emperor help us...
"There's only one clue to follow," I say with a sigh, "the food. Wherever the food went, so did the attackers. We're not spreading out or splitting into teams, we're all going together, looking for—"
"I believe I can be of assistance in this endeavor," Bee chimes in.
"Yes?"
"I have detected corpse starch traces throughout the general area, the chemical signature is unique to the surrounding detritus."
"You can track where it went?"
"That is a distinct possibility," Bee replies, "please standby."
Bee hovers silently for a moment, optics flickering as if contemplating. "I have isolated the trail," it announces. Without waiting for a response, Bee glides away from the train wreck, leading us deeper into the maze of debris and shadows.
"Stay close," I order, gesturing for the squad to tighten up. Trebor follows obediently, cuffs clinking softly with each step. His eyes dart around, a mixture of curiosity and something else—anticipation, perhaps.
We move only a few dozen meters before Bee halts in front of a rusted hatch set into the ground. It's so encrusted with grime and corrosion that it blends seamlessly with the surrounding debris.
"This maintenance access point aligns with trace elements of the missing corpse starch," Bee reports.
Trebor lets out a low chuckle. "These hatches honeycomb the area," he says. "Built for maintenance servitors to tend the train systems, back when the Omnissiah's touch was fresh. They're all sealed now, machine spirits long dormant, power cables severed, inoperable."
"Are they now?" I muse.
Bee extends a data-tendril toward the hatch's control panel—a relic of cracked buttons and faded glyphs. "The machine spirit is indeed in a state of dormancy," he confirms. "However, I can attempt a reinitialization using my own auxiliary power."
Valeria steps forward. "Proceed, Bee."
The servo-skull emits a faint hum, a soft glow emanating from his data-tendrils as they interface with the ancient mechanism. For a tense moment, nothing happens. Then, with a groan of protest, the hatch shudders. Rust flakes cascade as internal gears grind back to life. The seal breaks with a hiss, and the hatch slowly swings open, revealing a dark shaft descending into the depths.
"After you," I gesture sarcastically to Trebor.
He grins. "Lead the way, Sergeant. This is your crusade too now."
I motion for Diaz and Briggs to follow me in. "Lamps on full. Watch your footing."
One by one, we descend the corroded ladder, boots slipping on rungs slick with centuries of neglect. The air grows colder, tinged with the damp scent of mold and stagnant water. After about two dozen meters, we reach the bottom—a wide tunnel stretching into darkness in both directions, partially collapsed in places but navigable.
"Where does this tunnel lead?" I ask aloud.
Bee hovers toward a wall-mounted terminal, its surface coated in grime. "I may be able to access schematics from this maintenance console," he suggests.
Valeria moves beside him, her hand wraps around to the back of the console and produces a set of severed and corroded cables. "Do you require additional power?"
"Affirmative," Bee replies. "The console's machine spirit requires a significant energy influx to awaken."
Without hesitation, Valeria extends a gauntlet, removing a coupling from her armor. Bee extends a tendril, linking itself, Valeria's power armor, and the console. The powerplant on Valeria's back whines as cooling fans kick into high gear. A soft glow envelops the terminal as the combined energies surge through it. The ancient runes flicker to life, screens displaying fragmented lines of code.
"Most data is corrupted," Bee reports. "However, partial schematics may be retrievable."
"Let's see what we've got," I say, stepping closer. The screen displays a convoluted map of tunnels and passages, lines intersecting like a tangled web.
"This main tunnel runs in two primary directions," Bee explains and a section of the map highlights. "To the east, it proceeds beneath Trebor's territory, extending under the corpse starch processing plant and then further out to the last station on the line, stopping adjacent to quadrant D."
"Of course it does," I mutter.
"And to the west?" Valeria prompts.
"The western route branches extensively," Bee continues and a number of lines light up. "It connects to a network of sub-tunnels beneath Quadrants A, B, and C—including regions containing substations beneath territory controlled by Gnarl and Lutefisk."
Briggs whistles softly. "So, this is how someone could move around unseen."
"Convenient," Diaz remarks. "Perfect for transporting large quantities without drawing attention, hiding troop movements, frack, even deploying gas."
I stare at the flickering map, the pieces clicking into place. An old maintenance network, forgotten by most, yet perfectly positioned to bypass surface checkpoints.
"Bee," I ask, already dreading the answer, "can you determine which direction the corpse starch traces lead?"
His optics pulse as he analyzes. "Trace elements indicate movement east, toward Quadrant D."
A heavy silence settles over the group. Even Trebor seems momentarily subdued.
"Quadrant D," Valeria repeats softly.
"Emperor damn it," I curse under my breath. The last place I wanted to go, and of course that's where the trail leads.
Trebor's eyes gleam in the dim light. "The abyss calls, Sergeant. Will you answer?"
I ignore him, turning to the squad. "Alright, listen up. We regroup topside, report back to the precinct, and—"
Valeria interrupts gently. "We can't turn back now. This is the lead we've been searching for; the trail is fresh, how long will it stay that way?"
I glare at her. "We're not equipped for a foray into the Black. You don't understand what—"
"I understand the risks as well as anyone since no one has ever gone in and come back to tell us about them," she insists. "But we have an opportunity to stop whatever's behind these attacks and prevent a war."
"She's right, Sarge," Briggs chimes in reluctantly. "If we back out now, the gangs will tear each other apart long before we can make it back here with reinforcements. Right now we've got Trebor cuffed, God Emperor I never thought I'd say it, but as long as he's with us… his zealots won't start a crusade."
I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling a migraine forming. "Fine. But we proceed with extreme caution."
Diaz checks her weapon. "Weapons hot?"
"Negative," I snap. "We don't know what's down there. Last thing we need is one of you to get trigger happy and startle something, disturb something, or wake something up."
"Something?" she echoes nervously.
"Could be scavvies, mutants, rogue servitors," I list off. "Or worse."
"Lovely," she mutters.
Valeria steps forward, her posture resolute. "I'll take point."
"Like hell you will," I retort. "This is my patrol. I lead."
She meets my gaze. "An effective and admirable quality, Sergeant, one of very few I credit you with, but I have the armor and equipment to best withstand potential threats. And," She hesitates. Frack… here it is… "As of this moment, I outrank you, Enforcer."
I want to argue, but she's not wrong. Her power armor is better suited for taking hits than our patched-up gear. She's also a sister and technically the rules don't make mention of the rank of visiting not-quite sister students… she might be right. She's also within her bounds to carve up anyone who disagrees, though she doesn't seem the homicidal fanatic type. You never know…
"Fine," I concede. "But stay within sight. No heroics."
"Understood."
Bee hovers between us. "I will maintain heightened augur protocols and alert you to any anomalies."
"Appreciated," I grumble and tap my vox bead, "Jaquelin?"
"Boss?" Her voice comes back crackling with static. We didn't leave the chimera that far behind… must be the damned tunnels. That knot in my gut gets just a bit tighter.
"Bug out," I order her, "get Bessy home, give her a once-over grab as many spare hands as she'll hold and sit on her, loaded for hell. Against my better judgement, I'm following a lead." I leave out where that lead is taking us, it won't matter if we never come back.
"Boss?" Surprise, fear, I sigh inwardly. The precinct isn't ready for this place to get nasty again.
"Just do it, and see if you can pull Arbiter Schultz out of whatever drug-crazed coma he's in. Tell him if he doesn't hear back from us in twelve hours… he's in charge."
"Technically, he's always in charge, sarge." Jaquelin quips.
I don't reply, and that tells her everything she needs to know.
"Frack me, alright, but God Emperor help you if I have to start writing your reports…"
"God Emperor help us all…" I mutter and cut the channel.
We form up, the tunnel stretching before us like the gullet of some vast beast. The air is stagnant, thick with the weight of untold centuries.
"Forward, then," I command.
As we move into the darkness, I can't shake the feeling that we're stepping over a threshold—from which there may be no return.
"Emperor protect us," someone whispers.
I echo the sentiment silently. The shadows seem to close in around us, the feeble beams of our lamp-packs swallowed by the void. Only the blessed beams of intense radiance from the Sister's armor seem to put the darkness in its place. Maybe it'll be different. We have a Sister, and her mechanicus companion. Maybe the trail will veer off or end before we get to quadrant D…
Behind me, Trebor hums a tuneless melody, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of excitement and madness.
"The harbinger leads the way," he murmurs.
"Shut it," I snap.
But his words linger, threading into the uneasy silence.
As we rumble toward Trebor's territory, the atmosphere grows oppressive. The air thickens with the stench of decay and chemical residue. Shadows deepen, stretching like grasping fingers along the dilapidated structures.
We pass clusters of his followers—emaciated figures draped in tattered yellow robes; faces hidden behind crude masks painted with skulls. They stop and stare as we pass, unmoving, like specters.
"Emperor's mercy," Valeria whispers, her gaze sweeping over them.
"Don't expect any here," I reply grimly.
Trebor's stronghold looms ahead: the corpse processing plant. Once an industrial marvel, now a twisted monument to his deranged reign. Massive chimneys spew acrid smoke into the cavernous heights above, and the constant grind of unseen machinery reverberates through the ground.
We disembark, and immediately, a cadre of his fanatics surrounds us. Their eyes gleam with a fervor that borders on lunacy.
"State your purpose," one demands, voice muffled behind his skull mask.
"Sergeant Tully of the Adeptus Arbites," I declare. "Here at the invitation of Trebor."
They exchange glances before parting to form a path. "The prophet awaits you within," the leader says, a hint of reverence in his tone.
"Charming reception," Briggs murmurs.
"Stay alert," I warn. "And keep your weapons holstered unless I say otherwise."
We proceed into the facility, the air growing warmer and fouler with each step. The walls are adorned with grotesque murals—depictions of flames, eyes, and cryptic symbols. Chanting echoes from unseen chambers, a discordant hymn that sets my teeth on edge.
"Welcome, friends!" Trebor's voice rings out as we enter a vast chamber. He's perched atop a makeshift throne fashioned from scrap metal and bones, draped in a tattered yellow cloak. His eyes blaze with unnatural light, and a manic grin splits his face.
"Trebor," I acknowledge tersely. "We've come to discuss recent events."
He claps his hands, and the chanting ceases. "Ah, the diligent Sergeant Tully, ever the mediator. And you've brought the girl!" His gaze locks onto Valeria. "The harbinger arrives at last at last at long last!"
Valeria stiffens. "I am Sister Valeria of the Order Hospitaller, here to offer assistance and—"
He throws back his head and laughs, a grating sound that echoes unsettlingly. "Assistance! Oh, the irony!"
"Trebor," I interject firmly, "we're here at your request, I assume you've suffered attacks? Let me guess, your gangers found unresponsive but alive, weapons missing, occurring near quadrant D?"
His expression shifts abruptly to fury. "Alive? Quadrant D? Attacks? No, Sergeant, declarations of war! Gnarl and Lutefisk have united against me, the fools!"
"There's no evidence they've banded together," I counter. "Both have also been attacked. Gnarl expressed losing twelve power nodes worth of his men, seven of which border your territory and quadrant D, the other five Lutefisk's territory and quadrant D. Lutefisk claims the loss of two pumping stations, or at least the men defending them, also adjacent to quadrant D. Our investigation—"
"Lies!" he spits. "Did you see these so-called attacks? Did you witness their dead men walking? Their survivors?"
I pause. "No, but their fear seemed genuine."
"Of course it did!" he sneers. "A ploy to deceive you, to blind you to their treachery!"
Valeria steps forward despite my warning glance. "Trebor, please. Tell us what happened."
He eyes her warily, then leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Two of my blessed trains, carrying the sustenance of the masses, ambushed deep within my own domain. My faithful slaughtered—nowhere near quadrant D," he spits.
"Any survivors?" I ask.
Trebor shakes his head. "None. A massacre, painted in red and blue—the signatures of those treacherous dogs! Attacks carried out simultaneously! Clear declarations of war!"
"Convenient that they left their marks all over these attack sites," I muse. "You're certain it wasn't a third party?"
He narrows his eyes. "Doubt me if you wish, Sergeant, but the signs are clear. You yourself brought the Harbinger with you, how is it that you are blind to the coming darkness?"
Valeria tilts her head. "Trebor, you mentioned 'dead men walking' when speaking of their attacks. What did you mean?"
He chuckles darkly. "I have eyes in their camps, I see, I hear, I know what they tell you, what stories they spread. They spin tales of men left alive but hollowed out—spirits drained; minds broken. Fantasies to garner your sympathy. Delusions to deafen you to the drums of war."
"Or truths they fear to face," she suggests gently.
He scowls. "Do not presume to know the minds of madmen, girl."
"Pot calling the kettle black," Briggs mutters under his breath.
Trebor's gaze snaps to him. "Ah, the jester speaks! Careful, lest your tongue lead you to ruin."
"That's enough," I interject. "We're here to prevent bloodshed, Trebor. An all-out war serves no one."
He rises from his throne, arms outstretched. "War is upon us whether you accept it or not! The flames of retribution are kindled, and I shall not be consumed quietly!"
"Your men are gearing up," I observe. "But think—if Gnarl and Lutefisk are truly conspiring, why alert us to the attacks? Why feign fear?"
"To stall," he hisses. "To keep you occupied while they prepare to strike me down!"
"Or perhaps there's another threat," Valeria proposes. "Something that endangers all of you."
He scoffs. "The harbinger speaks of unity? The herald of doom speaks of threats? How quaint."
She takes a step closer. "You called me 'harbinger' just now, and earlier. Why?"
His eyes gleam with feverish intensity. "Because you are the herald of doom! The masked angel of prophecy!"
I can see where this is headed. "Sister, perhaps we should—"
She holds up a hand. "What prophecy, Trebor? Please, tell me."
He grins wickedly. "The sky will blacken, the stars shall fall. The masked one appears and comes for us all." He leans forward, voice dropping to a raspy whisper. "You wear the mask, Sister. You bring the end."
"Cryptic nonsense," I snap.
"Do not mock me!" Trebor leaps from his throne and lands with the sound of chains on iron. "I have seen the rising tide these past few months. The whispers grow louder, the lurker in the black stirs, his seed festers. The Emperor responds in kind, the sacred lady whose heart is broken will wake once more and blood blood blood will flow up from the underhive to consume the wretches above! And you," he points to Valeria, "you are but a piece on the board but not insignificant, named, Harbinger, Herald, she who stands at the left hand of the Holy Lady, standing in mercy while slaughter flies in her right!"
"Enough of this." I step forward but a plated fist catches my chest and holds me back.
Valeria is undeterred. "When is this supposed to happen?"
He laughs again. "It unfolds even now! The eye opens, the abyss yawns wide. You cannot stop what is destined!"
"Sergeant," Bee interjects softly, "the individual displays signs of acute psychosis but exhibits no biological indicators of deceit."
"Great," I mutter. "He's crazy but believes every word."
Trebor begins pacing erratically. "You feel it, don't you? The tremors beneath your feet, the whispers in the void. The harbinger's arrival marks the beginning of the end of Sigma, of the Hive, of the stars in half the sky!"
"Trebor," I try to regain control of the conversation, "if there's a threat, we need to work together."
He whirls on me, eyes wild. "There is no 'together'! Only the faithful and the damned!"
"Your men will die needlessly," I warn. "War will bring this whole sector down. Is that what you want?"
He pauses, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. "Sacrifices must be made. I must serve the sacred lady, the masked girl, the sister who isn't a sister, her herald, yes, when the time comes," he turns once more to face Valeria's visor, "I will follow you!"
Valeria seems to freeze for a moment as Trebor unexpectedly bows down and kisses one of her ceramite boots.
"But not yet! No! Not yet!" He rises and walks back to his throne, suddenly seeming much calmer than before, "the sky is whole, the stars still shine, now is not, is not yet the time."
I take a deep, calming breath as Valeria's arm drops back to her side.
"Oh-kay," I begin, speaking as though to a child, "so if the time isn't now, and you're so certain that you have a role to play in some future prophecy—"
"Do not mock me, Tully. Or do you think I wish to be this way, to see what I see, to know madness and folly, to toil with these poor wretches, to play games with blind fools like you and Gnarl and Lutefisk while watching the end draw nigh?"
Damn, for a moment that almost sounded sane.
"I think," I say carefully, "that if you want to be around to see those prophecies of yours come to pass, going to war with Gnarl and Lutefisk is not in the cards."
"Unbeliever," he huffs, wrapping himself suddenly in his robe and, for the first time since I've seen him, looking very small and vulnerable.
"Well, I've got my own prophecy," I decide, determined to get through to him. "And that prophecy says, if you start a war, and the infrastructure down here suffers, then holy fire the likes of which your mad eyes have never imagined will descend from the upper hive and will consume everything down here, including me. I," I emphasize the word, "would like to prevent that from happening."
For a long moment nothing is said, and I work hard to slow my breathing. Think, Tully, deduct, investigate. I need to think twice as rationally in a place like this or lose my head. The damned hospitaller is already playing into Trebor's fantasies. We need to get out of here, the walls feel like they're closing in, the chemical air is suffocating.
"We need to see the attack sites." I say finally.
"I will accompany you." Trebor rolls off the throne and takes several steps on all fours before rising on feet. I get the distinct impression he's talking to the Sister, not me, "I will show you, everything."
"Fine," I say, moving in front of him and grabbing his arms. I Force them behind his back and cuff him. I don't know why. It's a crazy move, but everything seems to be slipping out of my control. "Don't give me reason to have you shot."
His followers tense but Trebor shows no sign of concern, he doesn't even seem to notice the cuffs. "It's alright," he says, his voice raised, "I go with the harbinger, I shall return."
I push him forward as Briggs and Diaz stare at me in shock, "move," I slap Diaz on the shoulder guard, "back to the Chimera, before our luck runs out."
We reach the second attack site after a grueling halting drive then another long trek through the labyrinthine depths of Trebor's territory. The air grows thicker here, heavy with the metallic scent of blood and the cloying stench of decay. Our boots crunch over scattered debris and the occasional discarded shell casing, though notably fewer than I'd expect from a firefight.
The train looms ahead, an ungainly beast of rusted metal and makeshift repairs. Its once-grey surface is now slathered in vivid red paint, dripping like fresh wounds. Bodies lie strewn about—Trebor's followers, their yellow robes stained dark.
Valeria moves ahead, her armor gleaming even in the dim light filtering through cracked overhead lamps. She kneels beside one of the fallen, her gauntleted fingers gentle as she examines him.
"Same as the first site," she reports, her voice tight, telling me only things I can already see for myself. "No defensive wounds. Blunt force trauma, some stab wounds. They died where they stood."
I survey the scene, unease gnawing at me. "No signs they even tried to fight back," I mutter.
Trebor stands nearby, his eyes alight with a mix of fury and vindication. "You see now?" he exclaims, gesturing wildly at the carnage. "Proof! Gnarl and Lutefisk conspire against me. First blue paint, now red. They mock me even as they strike."
"Or someone's trying to make it look that way," I counter.
He rounds on me, snarling. "Doubt all you like, Sergeant. The evidence is before you!"
Diaz steps forward, her gaze sweeping over the empty train cars. "Sir, the starch is gone," she notes. "Nearly two tons of wafers missing if the car was full."
"Emperor's teeth," Briggs whistles softly. "That's a lot of food."
"Exactly," Trebor snaps. "They aim to remove their reliance on me, to strip me of my only deterrence."
Diaz continues, "Moving that much cargo would've taken significant manpower and time. Coordinated effort, maybe even vehicles. It's not something that could be done quickly or quietly."
I nod slowly. "Good observation. If Gnarl and Lutefisk have the starch, they could feed their forces for months."
"Enough to wage war without worrying about supply lines," Diaz adds.
"But how did they penetrate this deep into your territory?" I press, fixing Trebor with a hard stare. "Your men are fanatical, your checkpoints numerous."
He bristles. "Are you questioning my security?"
"I'm questioning the plausibility," I retort. "An operation of this scale shouldn't have gone unnoticed."
Diaz interjects, "With respect, Sergeant, the checkpoints focus on main roads and thoroughfares. In a sector this vast, there are countless ways to navigate unseen. Old tunnels, maintenance shafts, collapsed structures—it's very possible they found a route."
"Possible," I concede, though doubt still lingers. "But it doesn't match the pattern of the other attacks. Gnarl and Lutefisk reported no casualties, only their men left alive but incapacitated. Weapons taken, but infrastructure untouched."
Briggs scratches his chin. "Maybe they lied. Could be covering their tracks."
"Or setting the stage," I muse. "If they eliminate Trebor, they'd eventually turn on each other."
Valeria rises from examining another body, her expression troubled. "These men... they didn't even draw their weapons. There's no sign they tried to defend themselves."
"Could fear have immobilized them?" Diaz suggests.
"Unlikely," I shake my head. "Trebor's followers are zealots. They'd charge an Ork horde without hesitation."
Trebor's gaze snaps to me, a sly smile curving his lips. "Perhaps they saw something that shook even their faith."
I narrow my eyes. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
He shrugs theatrically. "The harbinger speaks. Shadows lengthen. Who can say what grips men's hearts in their final moments?"
"Enough with the riddles," I snap. "If you know something, spit it out."
He laughs softly. "I only know what the Emperor reveals."
I suppress the urge to throttle him. Turning to Valeria, I ask, "Anything else?"
"I'd have to run a more detailed chemical analysis, but the samples I took from the first site show levels of adrenaline consistent with hard labor, but not combat. Either they died without realizing they were in danger, or they didn't react to the danger in an automated biological way." She stands, "of course, there are a significant number of other things in their blood I can't readily identify, some of which may account for such an occurrence," but she doesn't believe it. She's telling me because she has the information, not because she thinks it changes the equation.
"Alright," Briggs says, stablight on his shotgun sweeping left and right. "What now boss."
I hear the actual statement in his tone, not his words. He's scared, he wants to leave. They all do. Well, all perhaps with the exception of the Sister, she's impossible to read under all that armor and probably as fanatical as Trebor's gangers, God Emperor help us...
"There's only one clue to follow," I say with a sigh, "the food. Wherever the food went, so did the attackers. We're not spreading out or splitting into teams, we're all going together, looking for—"
"I believe I can be of assistance in this endeavor," Bee chimes in.
"Yes?"
"I have detected corpse starch traces throughout the general area, the chemical signature is unique to the surrounding detritus."
"You can track where it went?"
"That is a distinct possibility," Bee replies, "please standby."
Bee hovers silently for a moment, optics flickering as if contemplating. "I have isolated the trail," it announces. Without waiting for a response, Bee glides away from the train wreck, leading us deeper into the maze of debris and shadows.
"Stay close," I order, gesturing for the squad to tighten up. Trebor follows obediently, cuffs clinking softly with each step. His eyes dart around, a mixture of curiosity and something else—anticipation, perhaps.
We move only a few dozen meters before Bee halts in front of a rusted hatch set into the ground. It's so encrusted with grime and corrosion that it blends seamlessly with the surrounding debris.
"This maintenance access point aligns with trace elements of the missing corpse starch," Bee reports.
Trebor lets out a low chuckle. "These hatches honeycomb the area," he says. "Built for maintenance servitors to tend the train systems, back when the Omnissiah's touch was fresh. They're all sealed now, machine spirits long dormant, power cables severed, inoperable."
"Are they now?" I muse.
Bee extends a data-tendril toward the hatch's control panel—a relic of cracked buttons and faded glyphs. "The machine spirit is indeed in a state of dormancy," he confirms. "However, I can attempt a reinitialization using my own auxiliary power."
Valeria steps forward. "Proceed, Bee."
The servo-skull emits a faint hum, a soft glow emanating from his data-tendrils as they interface with the ancient mechanism. For a tense moment, nothing happens. Then, with a groan of protest, the hatch shudders. Rust flakes cascade as internal gears grind back to life. The seal breaks with a hiss, and the hatch slowly swings open, revealing a dark shaft descending into the depths.
"After you," I gesture sarcastically to Trebor.
He grins. "Lead the way, Sergeant. This is your crusade too now."
I motion for Diaz and Briggs to follow me in. "Lamps on full. Watch your footing."
One by one, we descend the corroded ladder, boots slipping on rungs slick with centuries of neglect. The air grows colder, tinged with the damp scent of mold and stagnant water. After about two dozen meters, we reach the bottom—a wide tunnel stretching into darkness in both directions, partially collapsed in places but navigable.
"Where does this tunnel lead?" I ask aloud.
Bee hovers toward a wall-mounted terminal, its surface coated in grime. "I may be able to access schematics from this maintenance console," he suggests.
Valeria moves beside him, her hand wraps around to the back of the console and produces a set of severed and corroded cables. "Do you require additional power?"
"Affirmative," Bee replies. "The console's machine spirit requires a significant energy influx to awaken."
Without hesitation, Valeria extends a gauntlet, removing a coupling from her armor. Bee extends a tendril, linking itself, Valeria's power armor, and the console. The powerplant on Valeria's back whines as cooling fans kick into high gear. A soft glow envelops the terminal as the combined energies surge through it. The ancient runes flicker to life, screens displaying fragmented lines of code.
"Most data is corrupted," Bee reports. "However, partial schematics may be retrievable."
"Let's see what we've got," I say, stepping closer. The screen displays a convoluted map of tunnels and passages, lines intersecting like a tangled web.
"This main tunnel runs in two primary directions," Bee explains and a section of the map highlights. "To the east, it proceeds beneath Trebor's territory, extending under the corpse starch processing plant and then further out to the last station on the line, stopping adjacent to quadrant D."
"Of course it does," I mutter.
"And to the west?" Valeria prompts.
"The western route branches extensively," Bee continues and a number of lines light up. "It connects to a network of sub-tunnels beneath Quadrants A, B, and C—including regions containing substations beneath territory controlled by Gnarl and Lutefisk."
Briggs whistles softly. "So, this is how someone could move around unseen."
"Convenient," Diaz remarks. "Perfect for transporting large quantities without drawing attention, hiding troop movements, frack, even deploying gas."
I stare at the flickering map, the pieces clicking into place. An old maintenance network, forgotten by most, yet perfectly positioned to bypass surface checkpoints.
"Bee," I ask, already dreading the answer, "can you determine which direction the corpse starch traces lead?"
His optics pulse as he analyzes. "Trace elements indicate movement east, toward Quadrant D."
A heavy silence settles over the group. Even Trebor seems momentarily subdued.
"Quadrant D," Valeria repeats softly.
"Emperor damn it," I curse under my breath. The last place I wanted to go, and of course that's where the trail leads.
Trebor's eyes gleam in the dim light. "The abyss calls, Sergeant. Will you answer?"
I ignore him, turning to the squad. "Alright, listen up. We regroup topside, report back to the precinct, and—"
Valeria interrupts gently. "We can't turn back now. This is the lead we've been searching for; the trail is fresh, how long will it stay that way?"
I glare at her. "We're not equipped for a foray into the Black. You don't understand what—"
"I understand the risks as well as anyone since no one has ever gone in and come back to tell us about them," she insists. "But we have an opportunity to stop whatever's behind these attacks and prevent a war."
"She's right, Sarge," Briggs chimes in reluctantly. "If we back out now, the gangs will tear each other apart long before we can make it back here with reinforcements. Right now we've got Trebor cuffed, God Emperor I never thought I'd say it, but as long as he's with us… his zealots won't start a crusade."
I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling a migraine forming. "Fine. But we proceed with extreme caution."
Diaz checks her weapon. "Weapons hot?"
"Negative," I snap. "We don't know what's down there. Last thing we need is one of you to get trigger happy and startle something, disturb something, or wake something up."
"Something?" she echoes nervously.
"Could be scavvies, mutants, rogue servitors," I list off. "Or worse."
"Lovely," she mutters.
Valeria steps forward, her posture resolute. "I'll take point."
"Like hell you will," I retort. "This is my patrol. I lead."
She meets my gaze. "An effective and admirable quality, Sergeant, one of very few I credit you with, but I have the armor and equipment to best withstand potential threats. And," She hesitates. Frack… here it is… "As of this moment, I outrank you, Enforcer."
I want to argue, but she's not wrong. Her power armor is better suited for taking hits than our patched-up gear. She's also a sister and technically the rules don't make mention of the rank of visiting not-quite sister students… she might be right. She's also within her bounds to carve up anyone who disagrees, though she doesn't seem the homicidal fanatic type. You never know…
"Fine," I concede. "But stay within sight. No heroics."
"Understood."
Bee hovers between us. "I will maintain heightened augur protocols and alert you to any anomalies."
"Appreciated," I grumble and tap my vox bead, "Jaquelin?"
"Boss?" Her voice comes back crackling with static. We didn't leave the chimera that far behind… must be the damned tunnels. That knot in my gut gets just a bit tighter.
"Bug out," I order her, "get Bessy home, give her a once-over grab as many spare hands as she'll hold and sit on her, loaded for hell. Against my better judgement, I'm following a lead." I leave out where that lead is taking us, it won't matter if we never come back.
"Boss?" Surprise, fear, I sigh inwardly. The precinct isn't ready for this place to get nasty again.
"Just do it, and see if you can pull Arbiter Schultz out of whatever drug-crazed coma he's in. Tell him if he doesn't hear back from us in twelve hours… he's in charge."
"Technically, he's always in charge, sarge." Jaquelin quips.
I don't reply, and that tells her everything she needs to know.
"Frack me, alright, but God Emperor help you if I have to start writing your reports…"
"God Emperor help us all…" I mutter and cut the channel.
We form up, the tunnel stretching before us like the gullet of some vast beast. The air is stagnant, thick with the weight of untold centuries.
"Forward, then," I command.
As we move into the darkness, I can't shake the feeling that we're stepping over a threshold—from which there may be no return.
"Emperor protect us," someone whispers.
I echo the sentiment silently. The shadows seem to close in around us, the feeble beams of our lamp-packs swallowed by the void. Only the blessed beams of intense radiance from the Sister's armor seem to put the darkness in its place. Maybe it'll be different. We have a Sister, and her mechanicus companion. Maybe the trail will veer off or end before we get to quadrant D…
Behind me, Trebor hums a tuneless melody, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of excitement and madness.
"The harbinger leads the way," he murmurs.
"Shut it," I snap.
But his words linger, threading into the uneasy silence.
Chapter 8: The Repentia and the Unrepentant
New
Chapter 8: The Repentia and the Unrepentant
I stand in the dim chamber, the cold stone floor biting into my bare feet. The weight of the power armor lingers like a phantom embrace, like the final vestiges of a lie I'm about to shed.
Sister Helena faces me, her eyes stern yet shadowed with something I can't quite name. Beside her, Abbess Gloriana observes silently, her hands clasped before her. Sister Erin Explendia stands off to the side, quill poised over parchment, recording every moment.
At the edge of my vision, a soft outline shimmers, beckoning, impatient, waiting, anticipating with the same anticipation I feel welling up within me. The Light Woman shimmers softly near the small, ancient lift, her ethereal glow a beacon only I can see. Her presence fills me with a sense of purpose, affirming that I am exactly where I am meant to be.
Helena steps forward, a ceremonial blade glinting in her hand. "Do you understand the gravity of your transgressions, child?" she asks, her voice echoing in the hollow space. "The Emperor's gaze pierces all shadows. No deceit can hide from His sight."
I meet her gaze steadily, feeling a calm resolve wash over me. "I am unworthy of the Emperor's light. I have strayed far from His grace. I offer myself to the path of repentance. Before the Golden Throne, I have sinned—beyond forgiveness, beyond mercy." I recite, my voice steady. The words are expected, a script to be followed, but they hold no weight in my heart.
Helena begins to circle me slowly, scrutinizing every inch as if searching for cracks in my façade. I sense her confusion at my composure; she expected fear or regret, but I feel only the anticipation of freedom. My eyes drift back to the Light Woman. I look at her, and nothing else, staring through Helena as she comes to stand before me.
With deliberate motion, Helena begins to remove the armor, plate by plate, then the remnants of my gear, leaving me in a simple, tattered robe. Each piece discarded feels like a shackle falling away. The robe's coarse fabric scratches my skin, but it feels more honest than the armor ever did. "We strip you of your armor and arms, for you are no longer one of us," Helena declares. "Until you find redemption, you shall walk without the Emperor's protection."
"Confess your sins," Helena commands, her eyes narrowing. "Speak of the darkness that led you to stray from His light."
"I have allowed doubt to taint my soul," I say, my voice steady. "I seek to purge this corruption through penance and sacrifice." Inside, I know my only doubt was ever in myself, not in the Emperor's plan for me; the only darkness the shadows of the blindly faithful around me, cast over my soul, cast to blind but in the end, serving only to open my eyes fully.
Helena steps closer, raising the blade to my head. The rough slices are deliberate, almost harsh. I feel her hands trembling ever so slightly. I feel the cold metal against my neck. The strands of my hair fall around me like dark feathers, each slash a symbolic severing of ties that no longer bind me. I feel no regret, only a release, the shedding of a path that no longer defines me.
"Your past identity is cut away," she intones. "Until you are absolved, you are nameless—a shadow serving only penance."
I close my eyes, embracing the liberation that comes with each fallen strand. "See me and yet do not see me," I declare, my voice clear. "I am the Emperor's wrath incarnate against my own failings. I stand before you as a Sister Repentia, seeking absolution through any trial He deems fit."
Helena takes a step back, her expression unreadable. I catch a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes—perhaps confusion at the steadiness of my tone.
"When the Emperor deems you worthy, we shall welcome you back into the fold," she says. "Until that day, you walk sisterless and alone, guided only by your repentance, accompanied only by your shame."
"I accept this path, no matter how steep or dark," I reply, meeting her gaze. "I will shed my shame and prove my devotion through deeds, not words." I let out a long, slow breath, as if purging even the last air of the schola from my lungs. My eyes open once more and lock on the hazy, shimmering outline of a woman standing at the entrance to the lift.
I do not walk alone.
A heavy silence settles over the chamber. Abbess Gloriana nods solemnly, and Sister Erin's quill scratches softly against the parchment. The Light Woman waits patiently by the elevator, her presence a constant reassurance.
Helena spits at my feet—a final symbolic severance—and turns her back to me. "So it shall be. Let your journey into penance begin, that you may either find redemption or meet the Emperor's judgment."
I turn toward the exit, my bare feet stepping lightly over the cold stone. As I approach the elevator, I feel compelled to look back. Helena and Abbess Gloriana are watching me, their faces a mix of sternness and something else—.
I meet Helena's gaze directly. For a moment, time seems to slow. Her eyes widen ever so slightly, and she flinches as if struck by an unseen force. A surge of emotion wells up inside me—words not my own pressing against my lips.
"Be sure that my return is nigh. Guard yourselves lest you be found amongst the wanting." I say, the voice that emerges unfamiliar yet undeniably mine. The weight of the words hangs heavy in the air, and I see a flash of shock cross Helena's face.
A sudden anger flares within me, a fiery heat that I do not recognize. My scars burn with pain. I push it back, steadying myself against the entryway. Without another word, I step into the lift beside the Light Woman. The doors close with a soft hiss, sealing me off from the world above, banishing me to the darkness below.
As the elevator descends into the depths of Sector Sigma, I take a deep breath, the cool air calming my racing thoughts. The Light Woman stands serenely beside me, her gaze filled with understanding.
"What was that?" I whisper, more to myself than to her.
She offers a gentle smile, placing a translucent hand over my heart. The anger subsides, replaced by a renewed sense of purpose.
Find the basilica of Saint Jessamine Hallas, sanctify it, reconsecrate it, all impossible tasks, all mine to complete in honor or die in shame, alone, exiled. Hours pass as I consider the path ahead and find, to my surprise, I feel no doubt that it will all work out, somehow, no matter how long it takes. I shake my head.
"They do not understand," I murmur. "I am not going into exile… I'm going home."
The elevator comes to a halt, and the doors slide open—
"Welcome home, rat!"
My eyes widen as Lucious's face appears in the red emergency lighting, the same blade he used to carve abominations in my flesh gleams, still dull with my dried blood in a hand of twisted metal. My heart seems to freeze in my chest along with the blood in my veins. Fear spears into me like shards of hot ice.
I leap backwards, but something, someone catches me, holds me fast. I struggle and turn, finding the Light Woman, staring down at me from a face, a terrible face with no eyes, as red rivulets of light bleed from the mark carved into her forehead. I stare, turning back as Lucious' flesh hand presses against my cheek, gripping my jaw, holding me as the same knife moves towards my scars and—
I jerk awake, heart pounding, my scream still echoing in the silent expanse of the Basilica.
The familiar chill of the altar beneath me grounds me, my body trembling as I blink away the fragments of the nightmare—no, not just a nightmare. I know why I keep having it, and each time the fear claws deeper into me. Jessamine's presence—the Light Woman—is in my mind, pushing, urging me to accept her twisted path, coercing me with nightmares, stealing my body through sleepwalking, trying to pull me back down there…
I breathe in deeply, the air around me cool and stale. The heavy scent of incense clings to the dim chamber, mingling with the earthy scent of the old stone. I shift, feeling the restraints at my wrists and ankles—the coarse ropes, the only thing keeping my body from sleepwalking back down to that cursed mausoleum below. My scars burn, not just from past horrors but from the struggle over who controls my fate: Jessamine or me or the taint.
Shadows shift at the edge of my vision. I turn my head to find Riley seated nearby, a solitary figure in the dim glow of dying candles. Her eyes, shadowed and inscrutable, watch me with a mix of concern and something else—something I can't quite place.
Riley, high priestess of the cult of Jessamine, sitting there, staring at me like I'm the sum of all her fears, or the foundation of all her hopes. Myself, lying on the altar, tied down to keep the shattered mind of a mad saint from taking over when I sleep, from walking me back down into that cursed mausoleum, from making her control permanent.
"Another vision?" she asks softly, her voice barely more than a whisper in the vastness.
I nod, swallowing the dryness in my throat. "Nightmare," I correct, "the same," I manage to rasp. "Lucious... and her."
She leans forward, the flicker of candlelight catching the lines etched deep into her face—lines of duty, of doubt. "Do you remember?"
I close my eyes for a moment, steadying myself. The phrase we agreed on four nights ago comes haltingly. "My faith is not blind." I recite, proving that I am myself, again.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches her lips. Relief? Satisfaction? It's gone before I can decide. She rises gracefully, moving to untie the knots at my wrists. Her fingers work deftly, but I feel the slight tremor in them.
"Thank you," I murmur as the ropes fall away.
She says nothing, merely nods. I rub at the angry red marks circling my wrists, watching her from the corner of my eye. There's a tension between us, a silent undercurrent neither of us addresses.
"Did you sleep at all?" I ask, more to fill the silence than out of genuine curiosity.
Her gaze flickers to me, guarded. "Enough."
I swing my legs over the edge of the altar, feet touching the cold floor. "You don't have to stay up every night."
"It's necessary," she replies, the edge in her tone subtle but there.
"For whom?" I press.
Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see a storm behind them—a clash of faith and doubt, loyalty and uncertainty. "For all of us."
I nod slowly, the unspoken words hanging heavy between us. She turns away, busying herself with coiling the ropes. Her movements are precise, controlled. I wonder if she's avoiding looking at me, or if she's afraid of what she'll see if she does.
"Riley," I begin, hesitating.
"Yes?" Her back remains turned.
"Do you—" I stop myself. Do you believe me? Do you trust me? Do you see me as a threat or a savior? The questions tangle on my tongue. Four days now we've spent every waking moment together, me, trying to convince her of the truth of what I saw, of what we saw in that cursed crypt. Her, regaling me with the oral history of her people, opening to me the journals of high priestesses before her. I try to convince, she deflects and fears. She tries to convince, I aggress and challenge, my resolve only strengthening.
She sighs softly, straightening up. Our unspoken conversation flowing between us with a mere look that exhausts us both. "We should eat. The others will be expecting you."
"Expecting me for what?" I ask, unable to keep the bitterness from seeping into my voice. "Another sermon? More prophecy? They don't believe me."
She faces me then, eyes sharp. "More have come, the full weight of our number, high priestesses of each of the twelve tribes to include me. They… we, need guidance."
"Guidance," I echo. "From an eleven year old girl who can't control her own dreams."
I close my eyes, trying to push away memories that refuse to go, held in place like a wedge driven into my mind by the mind of another. I can see every moment in perfect clarity, more than memory, like a pict recording, constantly playing through my mind, visible whenever I'm not purposely looking away.
I remember the lift opening, the walk through darkness, following the Light Woman, Her light. The arrival at the chapel, the doors that opened at the Light Woman's approach, the way the machine spirits responded to her presence—ancient gates that had been sealed for centuries, coming to life as if they recognized her authority.
I remember the descent of a thousand steps, the vast seal of purity broken and crumbling, the foreboding doors of the mausoleum and worst, the sight of Jessamine Hallas, her withered form perched atop that grotesque throne, her mind reaching out to mine, filled with a fractured desire for cleansing, for a crusade that would consume everything.
And the armor—the relics of the Saint herself—I can still feel the echo of the madness that radiated from them when I touched them. The raw, untamed fury, the brokenness that wanted to use me, to make me an avatar of a long-dead woman's zealotry.
I shudder, the memory of vivid visions as our minds had touched, visions of Helena bowing before me alongside thousands of bloody and broken, repentant sisters, haunts my thoughts. It's not a future I can allow. Not for myself, not for anyone.
Her expression softens just a fraction as if she's able to see the pain behind my closed eyes. "It's why they look to you. Because you're... touched."
I bristle at the word. "Touched by what? Madness?"
She steps closer, studying me intently. "By something greater. Something we don't fully understand."
"Jessamine, you mean," I say, the name tasting bitter as I broach the subject yet again.
"Yes, by the saint," she concedes, though her tone is cautious.
I hold her gaze, searching for cracks in her façade. "And you? What about today? Do you still believe I'm her? The saint reborn? Your savior? A heretic? A vessel? What?"
A shadow passes over her features. "I believe you are important."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have right now," she admits, a hint of frustration creeping in.
Silence stretches between us. The distant hum of ancient machinery fills the void. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly feeling exposed.
"They're afraid of me," I say quietly.
"They're afraid of what you represent," she corrects. "Change. Uncertainty."
"Are you afraid?" I ask.
Her eyes harden slightly. "Fear is a luxury I cannot afford."
"That sounds like a yes."
She exhales slowly, tension visible in the set of her shoulders. "We should join the others."
I don't move. "Why do you tie me up every night?"
She hesitates. "To keep you safe."
"Or to keep everyone else safe from me?"
Her silence is answer enough.
I step closer, narrowing the distance between us. "You think I might hurt them."
"I think Jessamine's influence is..." she trails off, pinching the bridge of her nose, "I no longer know what to think. I'm being cautious, giving you the chance to prove that…" She shakes her head, trailing off again.
"You're not sure whether to trust me or to deliver me to her," I say, the accusation hanging heavy.
Her jaw tightens. "I'm doing what I believe is best."
"For whom?" I challenge.
She meets my gaze unflinchingly. "For my sisters. For you."
I search her face, looking for deceit, for betrayal. All I see is conflict—a battle waged behind her eyes. "I don't want to be your saint," I whisper.
"And I don't know if you have a choice," she replies rigidly, "I don't know if any of us do anymore."
I turn away, the weight of her words pressing down. "Why? Because you think I can save you? Or because you think I might be her?"
"Does it matter?" she asks, a note of desperation slipping through.
"It does to me."
She sighs, weariness etched into every line of her face. "I don't have all the answers, Aurora. I'm trying to do what's right."
"Right for whom?" I ask again.
She closes her eyes briefly, composing herself. "Come. The others are waiting."
Deflection. I want to press further, to peel back the layers of her guardedness, but the exhaustion of four restless nights tugs at me. "Fine," I relent.
We walk side by side through the dim corridors, the silence thick. I steal glances at her—at the tightness in her jaw, the way her fingers twitch slightly as if resisting the urge to reach for a weapon or perhaps a comfort that's no longer there. She can't be more than three times my age, but her face is lined by worry and her eyes shrouded in the black circles of carrying a heavy burden.
As we near the gathering hall, muffled voices reach us. She pauses at the threshold, turning to me. "Just... be yourself," she says, almost pleading.
I arch an eyebrow. "And who is that, exactly? Aurora your savior? Aurora Jessamine's avatar? Jessamine herself?"
Her lips press into a thin line. "Someone they can believe in, someone we all can believe in."
I shake my head, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. "I'm not what you think I am, Riley."
"Maybe not," she concedes. "But you're what we have."
I reach out and take hold of the door with my augmetic arm, holding it fast against her attempt to open it.
She meets my gaze, eyes shadowed and sighs heavily. "Faith isn't easily unraveled, Aurora."
I snort softly. "Faith in a lie is no faith at all."
Her expression tightens. "Be careful with your words."
"Why? Afraid the saint will hear?" I retort, gesturing to the decaying grandeur around us. "Jessamine's influence permeates this place, rotting it. You know that now as well as I do."
She looks away, jaw clenched. "What I know is that our people have believed in her sacrifice for generations."
"And that belief has been twisted," I press, lowering my arm. "She's not the saint you think she is."
Her eyes snap back to mine, a flash of anger there. "I saw what you saw. The decay, the... abomination. But understanding takes time. You presume to know much for one who has been here only five days."
Before I can respond, she pushes open the heavy door. Warm light spills out, along with the hushed murmur of eleven voices that fall silent as we enter. All eyes turn to us—or rather, to me.
I feel their gazes like weights, each one laden with hope, fear, suspicion. The air is thick with unspoken questions.
Riley steps forward, addressing the assembly. "Our sister has joined us."
Sister. The word feels hollow.
An older woman steps forward, eyes narrowed. "Has the blessed child had another vision?"
Riley glances at me, then back to the woman. "She continues to experience the saint's presence."
Whispers ripple through the crowd.
I swallow hard. "I don't—"
"Tell us," someone calls out, new, a woman I haven't seen before, one of the newly arrived priestesses. "What does Jessamine command, when will she reveal herself?"
"She demands me," I snap, frustration boiling over. "I deny her."
A murmur of discontent spreads. Faces blur together—some curious, others hostile.
Riley raises a hand, silencing them. "Give her time."
"You can't keep saying it and hoping the repetition will make it true," I reply coldly.
Riley bends to my level and whispers harshly into my ears. "And you can't keep antagonizing them."
"They need to know the truth." I shoot back.
"And what truth is that?" she demands, her voice a terse whisper. "That everything they've believed is a lie? That their saint is a monster?"
"Yes," I say firmly.
I take a breath, softening my tone. "She was a hero, Riley. She saved the hive, she sacrificed herself for its survival. But that sacrifice is no longer needed, it should have ended long ago. She should have been allowed to rest, to become a symbol, not... that thing."
Riley nods, but I can see she's struggling.
"We should eat," Riley says finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "The others are waiting."
I turn back to the group, all eyes on us, on me. I take a deep, shaking breath, and nod. Once more… I'm not sure how many times I can endure this.
The meal is simple—lichen and fungus gathered from the walls of the underhive, and a thin, grey gruel that does little to warm me. I sit beside Riley, the others watching me with a mixture of awe and fear, their gazes lingering on the scars on my forehead, hand, and shoulder, my augmetic arm gleaming in the firelight. They stare at me as though I were the God Emperor Himself, come to sup with them.
Emperor help me…
Riley clears her throat, and the murmurs die down, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the distant hum of machinery from the Basilica's depths. She raises her hands, her voice steady as she begins to speak, reciting the ancient history as it has been passed down through generations, an abbreviated version of what I've spent the past several days reading in the annals and journals of her ancestors.
"In the days when the hive was dying, when the very ground beneath our home shifted. When the geothermal systems failed and the cold began to creep in, it was Jessamine Hallas who saved us," she says, her eyes distant as if she can see it all unfolding before her. "The Mechanicus, in their wisdom, devised a great machine, a chair of power that could sustain the hive, but it required a sacrifice—an unending source of life and faith to keep the systems running until the planet could stabilize."
She looks around at the others, her gaze lingering on each of them before continuing.
"Jessamine offered herself, her lifeforce, her faith, her very soul, to the machine, to Emperor and Omnissiah. She became the Heart of the Saint, her body linked to the geothermal systems, her spirit keeping the hive alive. It was her sacrifice that kept us from freezing, her sacrifice that gave us hope. And so, she became more than just our founder, our saint, my sisters—she became our savior."
Riley pauses, her voice growing softer, almost reverent. "And we, her daughters, have kept that sacrifice alive. We have given what is needed, the lives of our sons, so that her spirit may endure, so that one day, she might return, born among us and lead us to salvation."
There is a murmur of agreement from the gathered women, their eyes shining with devotion.
"After Jessamine took to the holy throne, the Mechanicum's war began. The device she sat upon, a marvel of technology, was seen by many as tech-heresy—a blasphemous contraption that defied the sacred tenets of the Omnissiah.
Sects within the Mechanicum turned on each other, accusations of heresy igniting a brutal civil war. Records were destroyed in the fighting, and with them, the knowledge of what truly lay below our lady's temple. During the chaos of the civil war, Jessamine endured. She continued to power the hive for a century while the world above fought and forgot her existence."
Then came the Inquisition. They descended upon us, the true faithful, aided by our traitor sisters. They sought to purge us, true followers who believed in her sacrifice and the prophecy of her rebirth. The purges were merciless; they put our forebearers to death, seeking to stamp out the blasphemy they saw in the sacrifices needed to sustain the saint. But even as they killed our mothers and rewrote our histories, some escaped. They tried and they failed to piece the trail back together and find where Jessamine remained, bound to the device that sustained her, as through it she sustained the hive. Our mothers went silent to their deaths, true martyrs, giving nothing away of the oral knowledge of this sacred place. The last records died with them as the mechanicum's war came to a brutal end and with it the destruction of all knowledge of this temple and its holy purpose.
As the hive grew, the world above continued to build on the ruins of war, layer upon layer, until what was below was buried even deeper, sealed away both in ignorance and in fact. The knowledge of Jessamine's sacrifice was lost to all but a few, and the forgotten Sector Sigma became just another part of the underhive, a place of shadows and silence and secrets. Yet we, the faithful, endured—descendants of those few who survived the Inquisition's purges, who passed down the story of Jessamine and the salvation she brought.
Here we are, her daughters, keeping that fragile flame alive in the dark. Waiting for the prophesied day when a daughter born of our blood would rise to lead us. When the great seer would come into power. When the girl with eyes seeing Jessamine's form and hearing her voice would come and lead us in the great purging."
Riley sits and all eyes now turn to me in wonder, reverence, and suspicion.
I take a deep breath, my hands trembling slightly as I push myself up, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on my shoulders. I look at the gathered priestesses, their faces a mix of expectation, confusion, and fear. I have spoken the truth before, but now there are even more of them, and the words feel heavier every time I say them. This truth needs to be said, no matter how painful.
I step forward, my gaze steady, my voice clear as I begin.
"I have heard the histories and read what your ancestors have written down. I am the girl your writings speak of. I can see the saint, her spirit, as it wanders these halls, indeed the whole hive, keeping you safe, wandering and looking, until it found me. I can hear her in my mind, feel her desires, see fragments of her memory. But this is what your histories leave out," I say, pausing as I look into the eyes of each of the priestesses, "the planet healed. The geothermal systems that Jessamine sacrificed herself for—they healed. The hive does not need her sacrifice anymore. The power flows, the heat warms us; the hive lives, unaware of Jessamine's presence. It has for over a thousand years."
A murmur ripples through the group, a mix of disbelief and fear. Riley's eyes widen, but she remains silent, her gaze locked on me.
"Jessamine's sacrifice was a noble one, a necessary one," I continue, my voice gaining strength. "But it was meant to be temporary. She was supposed to die—a martyr for the survival of the hive. She should have allowed herself to rest, but instead, she directed your mothers in ages past to keep her alive. She demanded tribute—your sons—fed to the machine that sustains her—long after she knew it was no longer necessary, and even to this day. She has lingered, kept alive by your sacrifices, for far too long."
The murmurs grow louder, some of the priestesses exchanging uneasy glances. I can feel the tension in the room, the weight of centuries of belief grinding against the truth of the present.
"She has filled your minds with the prophecy of her return, a child capable of bearing her soul, a reincarnation in her own lifetime, a vessel to arrive at a time of greatest darkness and lead you all into the light." I say, my voice steady, "but that prophecy must not come to pass. Her mind is filled with rage. Rage against her own Order of the Sanctified Shield, who labeled those that kept her alive as heretics. Rage against the Inquisition, who purged her followers. Rage against the Mechanicum, who destroyed not only all those who could have freed her from that throne but also all reference to its existence."
I pause, my eyes meeting Riley's, searching for understanding, for belief. Riley's face is pale, her expression conflicted.
"For hundreds of years, Jessamine has been forced to endure, clinging to that abominable device. But she is no longer doing so to save the hive—the hive is thriving, and it doesn't even know she exists. Instead, she has been searching, seeking among your daughters for a mind that she can reach, a soul she can take, a vessel to become her avatar. Me. Your prophesied messiah, the one who can see the saint, hear her voice. Even now I speak of things I barely know as though remembering them from a lifetime ago. She is here," I tap my head, "pushing her memories on me, trying to get in here," I place my hand over my heart, "She wants to use me to lead a crusade, not against heresy, not against darkness, but against those she believes wronged her." I pause, "she is broken, her mind shattered, her body failing. She doesn't comprehend the time that's passed or what's gone on. All that remains is the desire, the need, to endure and the hate for those that stopped her long ago and are now themselves forgotten as she is."
My voice hardens, my gaze sweeping across the gathered women. "She would use me—use all of you—to wage a war against the Emperor's faithful. Those who revere her as a saint without knowing the truth, who believe she died a martyr fighting a cult. But that cult was us. It was your mothers, your grandmothers, all those who kept her alive."
The silence that follows is deafening. The priestesses stare at me, their faces reflecting a mix of shock, confusion, and fear. Riley's gaze is fixed on the floor, her brow furrowed.
I take a deep breath, the weight of the truth pressing on my chest. "I know it is hard to hear. I know it is not what you have been taught to believe. But Jessamine is not the salvation you seek. She is a shadow of what she once was, twisted by centuries of pain and rage. She believes her own version of what happened. She can't accept that she was wrong, wrong to believe that hers was the only voice that could keep her order in the Emperor's light. She cannot accept that at the end, it was her faith that was wanting, not that of her sisters. If she is allowed to rise again, it will be to bring destruction—not salvation."
The room falls silent, the tension thick enough to choke on. The priestesses begin whispering to each other, glancing at Riley for guidance. Riley remains still, her eyes fixed on the cold stone beneath our feet. The murmurs grow, and the air feels heavy, a building storm of uncertainty.
Finally, Riley steps forward, her eyes meeting mine, a glint of something raw and pained within them. She raises her hand to quiet the others, her voice low but commanding as she begins to speak.
"I watched you, Aurora. I watched from the shadows when you came to this, our temple, five days ago. I saw you walk through the chapel, pass through doors that are forever sealed. I saw those doors open of their own accord, as though they knew you, as though they welcomed you." Her voice softens, but I can hear the strain in it, the disbelief she's trying to make sense of. "I saw you walk into the most sacred chamber, where none of us dare tread, where the saint herself rests, and I saw you lay hands upon her armor. I watched you flee, and I found you beneath the altar, terrified and crying."
Her voice wavers, and she takes a breath, steadying herself. "I can believe you saw what you saw because I saw those things with my own eyes. I saw what no one else did. But they—" she gestures to the other priestesses, their pale faces turned towards her, eyes filled with suspicion and fear, "—they cannot. They do not believe. They say you are lying, that your visions are heretical. They think you should be put to death… and perhaps, me as well, even though I doubt your interpretation. I… cannot deny my own eyes."
A chill runs down my spine, and I clench my jaw, trying to suppress the rush of fear and anger. My gaze locks with Riley's, and for a long moment, we simply look at each other—a girl and a women standing at the edge of a precipice, a thousand years of tradition, belief, and sacrifice pushing us both closer to our respective edges.
Riley shakes her head, her eyes filled with something that almost looks like regret. "If you want to convince them, Aurora, you will have to show them. Show them that what you say isn't a lie. Prove that you can see the saint, that you are the one they have been waiting for. That you, are she who comes in the likeness of the saint."
My breath catches, my heart pounding painfully in my chest. "You want me to take them down there…" My voice comes out strained, almost a whisper. "You want me to take them to the mausoleum? Even after everything, the restraint at nights, the pain, the visions, the chance that I will lose myself? After what we saw? You would risk me becoming… that thing."
Riley nods slowly. "Yes. You must take them down there, into the place our ancestors sealed off too all but the high priestess line and stopped entering hundreds of generations ago. Show them the truth. Prove that you are the reincarnation of the saint."
I shake my head, my body trembling. "I'm not her reincarnation," I protest, "I'm not Jessamine. She's not even dead! I don't want her rage, her madness. I'm not here to fulfill her vendetta."
Riley looks at me, her eyes searching mine. "Maybe you are not what she became," she says quietly. "Maybe you are what she was supposed to be—what she could have been if she had let go, if she had allowed herself to die, to become a true saint. Perhaps you are the reincarnation of the part of her that passed on, while another part of her clung to life."
She steps closer, her voice a whisper now, barely audible over the murmurs of the priestesses behind her. "Maybe you are here to put things right, Aurora. Maybe you are the answer to the prophecy—but not in the way we thought. Maybe the salvation we've all been waiting for… is not for us but for Jessamine herself, to finally be put to rest."
The words hang in the air between us, and I feel a strange mix of hope and terror twisting in my chest. I close my eyes, my mind racing, my heart aching with the weight of it all.
Riley steps back, her gaze never leaving mine. "If you are right, Aurora, and expect us to believe you, then you must also realize that you are the reincarnation of what Jessamine should have been—the part of her that let go. And you must show us. You must show me the truth, even if it means facing her once more."
I open my eyes, meeting Riley's gaze, the fear and determination in her eyes a mirror of my own. I take a deep breath, steadying myself.
"Alright," I say, my voice trembling but resolute. "I will take them below. I will show them."
The room is silent, every eye on me. I can feel the weight of their doubt, their fear, their desperate need for something to believe in. And despite everything—despite the terror that grips my heart—I know I must do this. I must lead them down, into the darkness, where Jessamine waits.
I swallow hard and straighten up. "I need an aquila," I say, my voice firm, cutting through the silence. The priestesses exchange uneasy glances, unsure of what to make of my request. Finally, Riley reaches into her robe and pulls out a small, battered aquila—its edges worn smooth by countless hands. She steps forward, her hand trembling as she offers it to me.
My breath catches as I take it. It's strangely identical to the one I grew up with, the one my mother pressed into my hand when I was just a child and not for the first time I wonder if my own mother was, perhaps is, connected somehow to this place. I push the thought aside. Right now I don't have time to be sentimental, to feel even the kindling of hope that this place encourages me towards. I cannot imagine my mother, alive, somewhere, perhaps close, not while I feel Jessamine's presence pushing at the corners of my mind.
I need… focus. I turn the Aquila over in my hand.
Hello, old friend.
I hold it in my left hand, my augmetic fingers feeling the cold metal of its two-headed form. Then, with a swift motion, I bring my augmetic hand down and twist, shearing off one of the wings.
The sharp snap echoes in the quiet of the chapel, and I hold the broken aquila in my right hand—my flesh-and-blood hand. I close my eyes, bowing my head, and I pray. I pray to the Emperor for strength, for clarity. For a faith that is not blind, but steadfast enough to do His will, to follow His path, no matter how dark it may seem. Not Jessamine's will. Not even my own. Only His.
The aquila feels warm in my grasp, almost like a heartbeat, and I take a deep breath, drawing from it what courage I can. I open my eyes and look at Riley. She nods, her face a mixture of fear and determination.
I turn and my gaze catches on the Light Woman, still standing at the entrance to the thousand steps, her glow faint and patient, her eyes steady, unblinking, fixed on me. I glare at her, my jaw set. This ends now.
"If you want the truth," I say, my voice ringing out in the silence, "then it's time. Now, follow me."
I take a step towards the entrance, and the sealed doors begin to rumble. Dust shakes loose from the old stone as the heavy doors grind open, revealing the darkness beyond. The thousand steps, leading down into the depths of the mausoleum.
The air grows colder as I approach, and I glance back at the gathered priestesses. Riley stands tall, her expression resolute, but the others… fear has settled into their eyes, their faces pale and trembling with a terrible, morbid curiosity. They glance at each other, then at the darkened entrance. None of them move.
I take a breath, stepping through the threshold, the cold air washing over me like a wave. "Follow me," I repeat, my voice echoing down the ancient steps. "If you truly believe, you must have no fear of truth."
Slowly, reluctantly, they begin to follow. One by one, their feet shuffle forward, their faces stricken with fear. Only Riley walks with her head held high, her steps steady as she moves in behind me.
The stairs descend into darkness, the shadows growing thicker, swallowing the dim light from above. I lead them down, step after step, the ancient stone cold beneath my feet. My heart pounds in my chest, the silence pressing in, broken only by the soft shuffle of footsteps behind me.
I whisper a prayer to the Emperor as we descend, my voice barely audible, a mantra against the fear that gnaws at my insides. I can feel the Light Woman behind me, her presence like a cold wind at my back, urging me on, whispering to me. I hear Jessamine's voice, a terrible, mad lilt to her words.
"You know what must be done, Aurora," her voice echoes in my mind, and I grit my teeth, shaking my head. "You must finish what I began. You must cleanse them. Purify them."
"No," I whisper, my voice trembling. "I'm not your puppet. I am not here to carry out your vengeance."
The air grows colder still, the darkness pressing in. The whispers grow louder, more insistent, and I clench my fists, my lips pressed tightly together, my face drained of color.
I won't let you in.
I won't let you have me.
The steps finally come to an end, and we cross into the antechamber—a vast room, its ceiling lost in shadow. The walls are lined with statues, larger-than-life figures of Jessamine, her face serene, her gaze cast upwards in eternal devotion. Murals cover the walls, depicting the death of the geothermal plant, the cold creeping in, the desperation of the hive.
My eyes move over the images, the story they tell—a story of sacrifice, of faith. Of Jessamine taking her seat on the throne, her face filled with determination, the Mechanicus figures surrounding her, their faces hidden beneath their cowls. And then, the sacrifices—men, boys, their forms sucked of life, staring in blank undeath from behind empty eyes as they give their souls to sustain her.
A shiver runs down my spine, and I glance back at the priestesses. Their faces are pale, their eyes wide as they take in the murals, the truth of their histories displayed in terrible detail.
"This is what you have been told to revere," I say, my voice echoing in the vast chamber. "A sacrifice that became a demand. A demand that has taken your sons, your brothers, for uncounted generations."
Riley's gaze meets mine, her eyes filled with sorrow, and she nods, her expression grim.
I turn to the door at the far end of the chamber, a massive slab of metal, its surface covered in a single, enormous purity seal. The wax is cracked and faded, the parchment brittle with age and broken where I first touched it five days ago. I step forward, placing my hand against it again, feeling the cold metal beneath my fingers.
The seal crumbles further at my touch, falling away in a cloud of dust, and the door shudders, slowly swinging open. Beyond it lies the tomb—a chamber filled with sarcophagi, each one marked with the name of one of Jessamine's honor guard. Their armor stands before their tombs, the metal dull and lifeless, relics of a forgotten age.
In the center of the room lies a single sarcophagus, a statue of Jessamine reclining atop it, her face serene, her hands folded over her chest. I move forward, my footsteps echoing in the silence, the priestesses following behind me, their breaths coming in shallow gasps.
"This is what we have been told," I say, my voice soft, filled with a sadness I can't suppress. "That she was a martyr, dead, at peace at the Emperor's side. That her spirit watches over her Sororitas."
I turn to the final door, the symbol of the Mechanicus etched into its surface—the cog and skull of the Omnissiah. The metal is freezing beneath my hand, the air around us growing colder still, the shadows deepening, our breath crystalizing.
"But this is the truth, your truth." I say, my voice barely a whisper. "She is not resting. She is not at peace."
The door swings open, the sound echoing through the tomb, and I step into the final chamber. The air is like the icy fingers of death, the light dim, the—
The air is warm and scented with incense. Brilliant golden light radiates outwards as the door opens, more beautiful than any sunrise on Terra.
The light radiates out from the Light Woman seated on the throne, its brilliance floods every crevice of the room, turning the cold, mechanical space into something that seems almost divine. The stone walls appear smooth, adorned with glorious murals that speak of Jessamine's noble sacrifices. Every carving shines in exquisite clarity, purified and vivid, depicting a history that is pristine, unmarred by doubt. The symbols of the Mechanicus and Imperial icons are pristine, whole, and full of reverence.
The throne that lies at the chamber's heart is magnificent, sculpted from brilliant silver and gold, with intricate inlays that glisten in the light. It is a throne befitting a saint, ethereal and seemingly untouched by time or decay. The base flows from the floor, rising smoothly, a flawless tribute to the holy union of flesh and machine. It appears as if it were crafted by the Emperor's own hand—an immaculate testament to Jessamine's devotion and sacrifice. Engravings of her greatest deeds cover its surface, each one beautiful, each one true.
The network of tubes and pipes looks like a gentle lattice, extending from the throne and embracing Jessamine's form. They pulse with a soft blue light, an energy that appears peaceful, a gift that sustains her in an eternal vigil. Wires, golden and delicate, extend from her skull into the divine apparatus, their glow a soft halo around her brow.
Jessamine herself is breathtaking, a living saint radiant in her vigil. Her skin glows with a healthy hue, her face composed, tranquil, every line of it noble. Her eyes are closed, not in pain, but in contemplation, a serene meditation that speaks of her boundless connection to the Emperor's will. Her lips, softly parted, reveal the barest hint of breath, as though she is merely sleeping—a holy woman at rest, guarded by her faith. The tubes that enter her chest rise and fall in a graceful rhythm, each breath a hymn of her devotion.
To my right, an altar stands, resplendent with relics of her glory. The Armor of Saint Jessamine, known as the Sanctified Plate, gleams in the holy light, the High Gothic scripture engraved upon it legible in shimmering lines. The armor's breastplate glows, the emblem of the Emperor of Mankind—a two-headed aquila—radiant and alive, its wings spread protectively, embodying the Emperor's eternal watchfulness. Every joint, every plate of the armor appears untouched by time, a testament to Jessamine's unbroken faith. The gauntlets end in elegant talons, still sharp, still ready to defend against the darkness.
The Blade of Penance, resting against the mannequin, shines as though newly forged. Its massive form exudes righteous power, the green alloy now an iridescent emerald, the runes of sanctity along its length glowing with renewed energy. It seems alive with purpose, a weapon forged not for war, but for justice, for bringing the Emperor's light to the darkest corners of the imperium. The hilt, wrapped in fresh, supple leather, looks like it could still be wielded by Jessamine herself—a saint unbroken by time.
On the altar lies the Censer of Eternal Vigil, its golden surface bright and without blemish, shaped as a serene visage, eyes closed in contemplation. The chains are pure silver, unbroken, each link engraved with canticles, a tribute to her piety and devotion. The scent of sanctified oils still lingers, fragrant and comforting—a reminder that her holy purpose has never faded. Beside it, the Tome of the Penitent Flame lies, its leather cover smooth and well-kept, the Aquila on its cover proud and untarnished. The script beneath speaks clearly of her vows, the sacrifices she made, and the purity of her service to the Emperor.
Other relics, too, are pristine. The Gilded Tapestry, atop its plinth, shimmers with golden light, its delicate weavings a celebration of her honor guard, whose souls rest within. Her own Rosarius hangs upon the wall to my left, its power field aglow, the rosary beads lined up neatly, each one shining in remembrance of martyrs gone by.
Even the murals on the walls are bright, unblemished, telling the story of Jessamine's rise, her glorious deeds, and the creation of her throne. The figures within them are majestic, their faces serene, their forms proud and unyielding. The statues of Jessamine in her prime look flawless, untouched by time, their eyes holding an expression of endless devotion, watching us with love and strength.
The priestesses gasp in awe, stepping closer, their faces full of wonder. Some drop to their knees, tears springing from their eyes, overcome by the beauty before them. The room feels lighter, filled with an energy that uplifts, as if the very air itself vibrates with the echoes of Jessamine's holiness, a song of sacrifice and grace.
But I know better.
Liar!
I feel the cold press of fear against my spine, a shiver that defies the warmth of the Light Woman's glow. I have seen this before—the facade, the illusion. I know the truth that hides behind the veil. My right hand tightens around the battered aquila. I can feel it—the rage, the twisted need for control that lurks beneath the surface of the holy vision before me.
This is not the truth. This is not salvation. This is an farce—a mask that hides the monstrosity beneath.
I force myself to speak, my voice trembling but growing stronger with each word. "This is not what it seems," I say, my voice echoing through the chamber. The priestesses look at me, their eyes wide, questioning. The light flickers, and I can almost feel Jessamine's presence grow colder, the warmth of the Light Woman becoming something else—something demanding.
I take a step forward, my eyes locked on Jessamine's radiant form. The Aquila bites into my hand, blood drips down my arm as I raise it aloft. "Look closer," I urge, my voice breaking into the illusion. "This is not salvation. This is not sacrifice. This is a lie!"
The light flickers again, the illusion wavering, and for a moment I see the truth—the decaying flesh, the grotesque throne, the twisted machinery keeping her alive. The priestesses gasp, their awe turning to confusion, then fear, then terror. The golden light dims, then fades, then vanishes altogether.
Then, ancient lumens awaken, their lights flickering to life one by one, like long-forgotten stars emerging from the abyss. The chamber is slowly unveiled as they brighten, a creeping revelation, as shadows of golden light recede and the truth is bared in biting florescence.
The walls are lined with metal columns and carvings, detailed with the twisted iconography of the Mechanicus, ancient runes, and symbols of purity mingling with foreboding scripts that almost seem to shift as the light passes over them. As the lumens reach full strength, the room is awash in a cold, sterile light that exposes every terrible detail.
Jessamine herself is a horrific vision. Her skin is parchment-thin, with patches of darkened, decaying flesh clinging desperately to her emaciated form. Her face is hollow, her once-proud features now sunken into the skeletal mask of death denied. Her eyes are closed, yet they twitch beneath the lids, as if she were dreaming—or worse, listening. Her lips, dried and cracked, are slightly parted, revealing teeth that are little more than yellowed shards. The tubes that enter her chest rise and fall with the slow, unnatural rhythm of her breath, each inhalation sounding like the rasping wind through a desolate wasteland. A network of tubes and pipes, some organic in texture and others mechanical, extend from the throne and into Jessamine's frail body. The tubes pulse, filled with an ominous black ichor, as if feeding something ancient and terrible within her. Wires like thorns extend from the back of her skull, their ends vanishing into the depths of the throne. Her skull, once crowned with the laurels of sainthood, now bears a rusted halo of iron, fixed to her head by jagged metal bolts.
To my right, the Armor of Saint Jessamine is dull, its once gleaming surface now weathered with time and covered in a patina of decay. The breastplate bears not a two-headed aquila, its wings spread protectively, but now a carrion bird looming over the battlefield. The gauntlets end in talons, stained a dark, reddish hue—testaments to the blood they ache to spill.
Leaning against the mannequin the Blade of Penance glints a sickly green beneath the lumen light. Its edge is chipped, as though it has seen battle without rest, and the hilt is wrapped in cracked, worn leather, the grip of a saint whose fury cannot be contained. Runes of sanctity are etched along its length, some of them glowing faintly, others darkened and inert, their power long since spent.
On the altar the Censer of Eternal Vigil, a gilded incense burner, shaped like a screaming skull, lies on its side, eyes hollow and empty. The chains of blessed silver, each now stained with black. The censer no longer burns, but the scent of sanctified oils still lingers around it, a pungent odor of decay, a mere reminder of its once-holy purpose. Beside it is the Tome of the Penitent Flame, its pages yellowed with age, a chronicle of devotion twisted into something monstrous by the centuries.
The Rosarius is cracked open, as though by some great force, and the rosary beads have scattered across the altar like marbles
The throne itself is the most terrifying of all. It looms, monstrous in its construction, an abominable fusion of ancient Mechanicus design and something more primal, almost organic. Tubes pulse and throb, connecting Jessamine to the machine, and arcane glyphs glow dimly along the throne's surface, casting eerie reflections across the chamber. The machinery that stretches from the throne into the dark recesses of the ceiling seems almost to breathe, expanding and contracting, filling the room with a deep, rhythmic hum that reverberates through my bones. The throne's back is adorned with massive cogitators, their keys worn smooth from centuries of use, their screens cracked but still alight with shifting, indecipherable runes.
The lumens flicker for a moment, and shadows dance across the walls, giving life to the many murals and statues that depict Jessamine's story. The murals have darkened with age, and they seem to twist under the shifting light, as if the figures within them are writhing in agony. Statues of Jessamine in her prime are all are marred by time. Cracks run through the marble, and in the dim light, it seems as if the stone eyes follow us, judging.
The priestesses gasp as the full scene is revealed, some stepping back in fear, others falling to the ground in terror.
The room seems to pulse with an unnatural energy, an almost suffocating presence, as if the air itself were thick with the weight of centuries of sacrifice, faith, and madness. Jessamine Hallas, the Saint of the Sanctified Shield, is neither alive nor dead, her body trapped in a perpetual stasis, her spirit somehow bound to the device, manifesting as the Light Woman, forever watching, forever waiting, forever wanting.
I feel the cold press of fear against my spine, but I fight it down. I have seen this before, have felt the rage and the madness emanating from the armor and the throne. I know what Jessamine has become—a relic that refuses to die, a saint who would not let go of her purpose even when it was fulfilled, a spirit that has festered into something twisted.
I take a step forward, Riley just behind me trembling, hesitant to follow. I'm not sure what I'm going to do, but I feel like something needs to be done before I leave this place, if I want to leave it as myself.
I clench my jaw, my right hand tightening around the battered aquila. I force myself to speak, my voice echoing in the oppressive silence. "This is the truth," I say, my voice trembling but growing louder with each word. "Look at her. This is not salvation. This is not sacrifice. This is a saint who should have died but chose instead to become something monstrous."
The priestesses are silent, their eyes wide, their faces are as pale as death itself in the lumens' light.
I feel what I must do. I have to show them the truth—not just in words, but in actions. I take another step forward, my heart pounding, my eyes fixed on Jessamine's withered form. The path ahead is terrifying, but I know there is no turning back. I will face Jessamine, I will face the truth, and I will show these women that their faith has been twisted, their sacrifices made in vain.
"This is what she has become," I say, my voice trembling. "Not a saint, not a savior. Just a woman, clinging to life, sustained by your sacrifices."
I take another step, my scars burn as the Light Woman stares into me, daring me to defy her. "This is the truth. This is what you have been fighting for. Not salvation, but vengeance. Not faith, but fear."
The Light Woman stands beside the throne. I feel Jessamine's presence in my mind more clearly now, her whispers growing louder, more insistent. Somehow I know that if she weren't mad, her mind not so disjointed, she would have taken me with force by now.
"You know what must be done, Aurora," she says, her voice in my head like a banshee's wail. "Finish it. End this farce. Take your place, and lead them."
I close my eyes, my hands trembling, the broken aquila warm in my grasp, blood running down my white knuckles and dripping to the floor as the severed wing bites into my palm. I take a deep breath, the cold air filling my lungs, and I open my eyes, meeting the gaze of the woman who saved my life for her own selfish purpose.
"No," I say, my voice strong, unwavering. "I will not be your puppet. I will not be your vessel."
I step forward, the aquila held high, and I glare at the Light Woman, my voice ringing out in the silence. "In the name of the Emperor, I reject you. I reject your lies, your rage, your hatred. I will not be the weapon of your vengeance."
The Light Woman's eyes widen, her form flickering, and I feel a surge of anger, of hate. Just another false hope, just another bully, just another person out to make me a victim. Another step, the aquila burning in my hand, and I shout, my voice echoing through the chamber.
"I am Aurora. I am not your savior. I am not your martyr. I am not your vengeance. I am no one's victim!" I'm screaming now against a gale of air rushing suddenly through the room. "In the name of your master, the God-Emperor I hold you in contempt!"
I thrust the Aquila forward, broken wing like a small dagger, bloody arm and hand pushing towards her heart.
Before I can make contact, before I even get within three feet, the Light Woman screams, her form shattering into a thousand pieces and slamming into me. For a moment I feel weightless, then a sudden pain and the sharp stab of nothing.
I stand in the dim chamber, the cold stone floor biting into my bare feet. The weight of the power armor lingers like a phantom embrace, like the final vestiges of a lie I'm about to shed.
Sister Helena faces me, her eyes stern yet shadowed with something I can't quite name. Beside her, Abbess Gloriana observes silently, her hands clasped before her. Sister Erin Explendia stands off to the side, quill poised over parchment, recording every moment.
At the edge of my vision, a soft outline shimmers, beckoning, impatient, waiting, anticipating with the same anticipation I feel welling up within me. The Light Woman shimmers softly near the small, ancient lift, her ethereal glow a beacon only I can see. Her presence fills me with a sense of purpose, affirming that I am exactly where I am meant to be.
Helena steps forward, a ceremonial blade glinting in her hand. "Do you understand the gravity of your transgressions, child?" she asks, her voice echoing in the hollow space. "The Emperor's gaze pierces all shadows. No deceit can hide from His sight."
I meet her gaze steadily, feeling a calm resolve wash over me. "I am unworthy of the Emperor's light. I have strayed far from His grace. I offer myself to the path of repentance. Before the Golden Throne, I have sinned—beyond forgiveness, beyond mercy." I recite, my voice steady. The words are expected, a script to be followed, but they hold no weight in my heart.
Helena begins to circle me slowly, scrutinizing every inch as if searching for cracks in my façade. I sense her confusion at my composure; she expected fear or regret, but I feel only the anticipation of freedom. My eyes drift back to the Light Woman. I look at her, and nothing else, staring through Helena as she comes to stand before me.
With deliberate motion, Helena begins to remove the armor, plate by plate, then the remnants of my gear, leaving me in a simple, tattered robe. Each piece discarded feels like a shackle falling away. The robe's coarse fabric scratches my skin, but it feels more honest than the armor ever did. "We strip you of your armor and arms, for you are no longer one of us," Helena declares. "Until you find redemption, you shall walk without the Emperor's protection."
"Confess your sins," Helena commands, her eyes narrowing. "Speak of the darkness that led you to stray from His light."
"I have allowed doubt to taint my soul," I say, my voice steady. "I seek to purge this corruption through penance and sacrifice." Inside, I know my only doubt was ever in myself, not in the Emperor's plan for me; the only darkness the shadows of the blindly faithful around me, cast over my soul, cast to blind but in the end, serving only to open my eyes fully.
Helena steps closer, raising the blade to my head. The rough slices are deliberate, almost harsh. I feel her hands trembling ever so slightly. I feel the cold metal against my neck. The strands of my hair fall around me like dark feathers, each slash a symbolic severing of ties that no longer bind me. I feel no regret, only a release, the shedding of a path that no longer defines me.
"Your past identity is cut away," she intones. "Until you are absolved, you are nameless—a shadow serving only penance."
I close my eyes, embracing the liberation that comes with each fallen strand. "See me and yet do not see me," I declare, my voice clear. "I am the Emperor's wrath incarnate against my own failings. I stand before you as a Sister Repentia, seeking absolution through any trial He deems fit."
Helena takes a step back, her expression unreadable. I catch a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes—perhaps confusion at the steadiness of my tone.
"When the Emperor deems you worthy, we shall welcome you back into the fold," she says. "Until that day, you walk sisterless and alone, guided only by your repentance, accompanied only by your shame."
"I accept this path, no matter how steep or dark," I reply, meeting her gaze. "I will shed my shame and prove my devotion through deeds, not words." I let out a long, slow breath, as if purging even the last air of the schola from my lungs. My eyes open once more and lock on the hazy, shimmering outline of a woman standing at the entrance to the lift.
I do not walk alone.
A heavy silence settles over the chamber. Abbess Gloriana nods solemnly, and Sister Erin's quill scratches softly against the parchment. The Light Woman waits patiently by the elevator, her presence a constant reassurance.
Helena spits at my feet—a final symbolic severance—and turns her back to me. "So it shall be. Let your journey into penance begin, that you may either find redemption or meet the Emperor's judgment."
I turn toward the exit, my bare feet stepping lightly over the cold stone. As I approach the elevator, I feel compelled to look back. Helena and Abbess Gloriana are watching me, their faces a mix of sternness and something else—.
I meet Helena's gaze directly. For a moment, time seems to slow. Her eyes widen ever so slightly, and she flinches as if struck by an unseen force. A surge of emotion wells up inside me—words not my own pressing against my lips.
"Be sure that my return is nigh. Guard yourselves lest you be found amongst the wanting." I say, the voice that emerges unfamiliar yet undeniably mine. The weight of the words hangs heavy in the air, and I see a flash of shock cross Helena's face.
A sudden anger flares within me, a fiery heat that I do not recognize. My scars burn with pain. I push it back, steadying myself against the entryway. Without another word, I step into the lift beside the Light Woman. The doors close with a soft hiss, sealing me off from the world above, banishing me to the darkness below.
As the elevator descends into the depths of Sector Sigma, I take a deep breath, the cool air calming my racing thoughts. The Light Woman stands serenely beside me, her gaze filled with understanding.
"What was that?" I whisper, more to myself than to her.
She offers a gentle smile, placing a translucent hand over my heart. The anger subsides, replaced by a renewed sense of purpose.
Find the basilica of Saint Jessamine Hallas, sanctify it, reconsecrate it, all impossible tasks, all mine to complete in honor or die in shame, alone, exiled. Hours pass as I consider the path ahead and find, to my surprise, I feel no doubt that it will all work out, somehow, no matter how long it takes. I shake my head.
"They do not understand," I murmur. "I am not going into exile… I'm going home."
The elevator comes to a halt, and the doors slide open—
"Welcome home, rat!"
My eyes widen as Lucious's face appears in the red emergency lighting, the same blade he used to carve abominations in my flesh gleams, still dull with my dried blood in a hand of twisted metal. My heart seems to freeze in my chest along with the blood in my veins. Fear spears into me like shards of hot ice.
I leap backwards, but something, someone catches me, holds me fast. I struggle and turn, finding the Light Woman, staring down at me from a face, a terrible face with no eyes, as red rivulets of light bleed from the mark carved into her forehead. I stare, turning back as Lucious' flesh hand presses against my cheek, gripping my jaw, holding me as the same knife moves towards my scars and—
I jerk awake, heart pounding, my scream still echoing in the silent expanse of the Basilica.
The familiar chill of the altar beneath me grounds me, my body trembling as I blink away the fragments of the nightmare—no, not just a nightmare. I know why I keep having it, and each time the fear claws deeper into me. Jessamine's presence—the Light Woman—is in my mind, pushing, urging me to accept her twisted path, coercing me with nightmares, stealing my body through sleepwalking, trying to pull me back down there…
I breathe in deeply, the air around me cool and stale. The heavy scent of incense clings to the dim chamber, mingling with the earthy scent of the old stone. I shift, feeling the restraints at my wrists and ankles—the coarse ropes, the only thing keeping my body from sleepwalking back down to that cursed mausoleum below. My scars burn, not just from past horrors but from the struggle over who controls my fate: Jessamine or me or the taint.
Shadows shift at the edge of my vision. I turn my head to find Riley seated nearby, a solitary figure in the dim glow of dying candles. Her eyes, shadowed and inscrutable, watch me with a mix of concern and something else—something I can't quite place.
Riley, high priestess of the cult of Jessamine, sitting there, staring at me like I'm the sum of all her fears, or the foundation of all her hopes. Myself, lying on the altar, tied down to keep the shattered mind of a mad saint from taking over when I sleep, from walking me back down into that cursed mausoleum, from making her control permanent.
"Another vision?" she asks softly, her voice barely more than a whisper in the vastness.
I nod, swallowing the dryness in my throat. "Nightmare," I correct, "the same," I manage to rasp. "Lucious... and her."
She leans forward, the flicker of candlelight catching the lines etched deep into her face—lines of duty, of doubt. "Do you remember?"
I close my eyes for a moment, steadying myself. The phrase we agreed on four nights ago comes haltingly. "My faith is not blind." I recite, proving that I am myself, again.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches her lips. Relief? Satisfaction? It's gone before I can decide. She rises gracefully, moving to untie the knots at my wrists. Her fingers work deftly, but I feel the slight tremor in them.
"Thank you," I murmur as the ropes fall away.
She says nothing, merely nods. I rub at the angry red marks circling my wrists, watching her from the corner of my eye. There's a tension between us, a silent undercurrent neither of us addresses.
"Did you sleep at all?" I ask, more to fill the silence than out of genuine curiosity.
Her gaze flickers to me, guarded. "Enough."
I swing my legs over the edge of the altar, feet touching the cold floor. "You don't have to stay up every night."
"It's necessary," she replies, the edge in her tone subtle but there.
"For whom?" I press.
Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see a storm behind them—a clash of faith and doubt, loyalty and uncertainty. "For all of us."
I nod slowly, the unspoken words hanging heavy between us. She turns away, busying herself with coiling the ropes. Her movements are precise, controlled. I wonder if she's avoiding looking at me, or if she's afraid of what she'll see if she does.
"Riley," I begin, hesitating.
"Yes?" Her back remains turned.
"Do you—" I stop myself. Do you believe me? Do you trust me? Do you see me as a threat or a savior? The questions tangle on my tongue. Four days now we've spent every waking moment together, me, trying to convince her of the truth of what I saw, of what we saw in that cursed crypt. Her, regaling me with the oral history of her people, opening to me the journals of high priestesses before her. I try to convince, she deflects and fears. She tries to convince, I aggress and challenge, my resolve only strengthening.
She sighs softly, straightening up. Our unspoken conversation flowing between us with a mere look that exhausts us both. "We should eat. The others will be expecting you."
"Expecting me for what?" I ask, unable to keep the bitterness from seeping into my voice. "Another sermon? More prophecy? They don't believe me."
She faces me then, eyes sharp. "More have come, the full weight of our number, high priestesses of each of the twelve tribes to include me. They… we, need guidance."
"Guidance," I echo. "From an eleven year old girl who can't control her own dreams."
I close my eyes, trying to push away memories that refuse to go, held in place like a wedge driven into my mind by the mind of another. I can see every moment in perfect clarity, more than memory, like a pict recording, constantly playing through my mind, visible whenever I'm not purposely looking away.
I remember the lift opening, the walk through darkness, following the Light Woman, Her light. The arrival at the chapel, the doors that opened at the Light Woman's approach, the way the machine spirits responded to her presence—ancient gates that had been sealed for centuries, coming to life as if they recognized her authority.
I remember the descent of a thousand steps, the vast seal of purity broken and crumbling, the foreboding doors of the mausoleum and worst, the sight of Jessamine Hallas, her withered form perched atop that grotesque throne, her mind reaching out to mine, filled with a fractured desire for cleansing, for a crusade that would consume everything.
And the armor—the relics of the Saint herself—I can still feel the echo of the madness that radiated from them when I touched them. The raw, untamed fury, the brokenness that wanted to use me, to make me an avatar of a long-dead woman's zealotry.
I shudder, the memory of vivid visions as our minds had touched, visions of Helena bowing before me alongside thousands of bloody and broken, repentant sisters, haunts my thoughts. It's not a future I can allow. Not for myself, not for anyone.
Her expression softens just a fraction as if she's able to see the pain behind my closed eyes. "It's why they look to you. Because you're... touched."
I bristle at the word. "Touched by what? Madness?"
She steps closer, studying me intently. "By something greater. Something we don't fully understand."
"Jessamine, you mean," I say, the name tasting bitter as I broach the subject yet again.
"Yes, by the saint," she concedes, though her tone is cautious.
I hold her gaze, searching for cracks in her façade. "And you? What about today? Do you still believe I'm her? The saint reborn? Your savior? A heretic? A vessel? What?"
A shadow passes over her features. "I believe you are important."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have right now," she admits, a hint of frustration creeping in.
Silence stretches between us. The distant hum of ancient machinery fills the void. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly feeling exposed.
"They're afraid of me," I say quietly.
"They're afraid of what you represent," she corrects. "Change. Uncertainty."
"Are you afraid?" I ask.
Her eyes harden slightly. "Fear is a luxury I cannot afford."
"That sounds like a yes."
She exhales slowly, tension visible in the set of her shoulders. "We should join the others."
I don't move. "Why do you tie me up every night?"
She hesitates. "To keep you safe."
"Or to keep everyone else safe from me?"
Her silence is answer enough.
I step closer, narrowing the distance between us. "You think I might hurt them."
"I think Jessamine's influence is..." she trails off, pinching the bridge of her nose, "I no longer know what to think. I'm being cautious, giving you the chance to prove that…" She shakes her head, trailing off again.
"You're not sure whether to trust me or to deliver me to her," I say, the accusation hanging heavy.
Her jaw tightens. "I'm doing what I believe is best."
"For whom?" I challenge.
She meets my gaze unflinchingly. "For my sisters. For you."
I search her face, looking for deceit, for betrayal. All I see is conflict—a battle waged behind her eyes. "I don't want to be your saint," I whisper.
"And I don't know if you have a choice," she replies rigidly, "I don't know if any of us do anymore."
I turn away, the weight of her words pressing down. "Why? Because you think I can save you? Or because you think I might be her?"
"Does it matter?" she asks, a note of desperation slipping through.
"It does to me."
She sighs, weariness etched into every line of her face. "I don't have all the answers, Aurora. I'm trying to do what's right."
"Right for whom?" I ask again.
She closes her eyes briefly, composing herself. "Come. The others are waiting."
Deflection. I want to press further, to peel back the layers of her guardedness, but the exhaustion of four restless nights tugs at me. "Fine," I relent.
We walk side by side through the dim corridors, the silence thick. I steal glances at her—at the tightness in her jaw, the way her fingers twitch slightly as if resisting the urge to reach for a weapon or perhaps a comfort that's no longer there. She can't be more than three times my age, but her face is lined by worry and her eyes shrouded in the black circles of carrying a heavy burden.
As we near the gathering hall, muffled voices reach us. She pauses at the threshold, turning to me. "Just... be yourself," she says, almost pleading.
I arch an eyebrow. "And who is that, exactly? Aurora your savior? Aurora Jessamine's avatar? Jessamine herself?"
Her lips press into a thin line. "Someone they can believe in, someone we all can believe in."
I shake my head, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. "I'm not what you think I am, Riley."
"Maybe not," she concedes. "But you're what we have."
I reach out and take hold of the door with my augmetic arm, holding it fast against her attempt to open it.
She meets my gaze, eyes shadowed and sighs heavily. "Faith isn't easily unraveled, Aurora."
I snort softly. "Faith in a lie is no faith at all."
Her expression tightens. "Be careful with your words."
"Why? Afraid the saint will hear?" I retort, gesturing to the decaying grandeur around us. "Jessamine's influence permeates this place, rotting it. You know that now as well as I do."
She looks away, jaw clenched. "What I know is that our people have believed in her sacrifice for generations."
"And that belief has been twisted," I press, lowering my arm. "She's not the saint you think she is."
Her eyes snap back to mine, a flash of anger there. "I saw what you saw. The decay, the... abomination. But understanding takes time. You presume to know much for one who has been here only five days."
Before I can respond, she pushes open the heavy door. Warm light spills out, along with the hushed murmur of eleven voices that fall silent as we enter. All eyes turn to us—or rather, to me.
I feel their gazes like weights, each one laden with hope, fear, suspicion. The air is thick with unspoken questions.
Riley steps forward, addressing the assembly. "Our sister has joined us."
Sister. The word feels hollow.
An older woman steps forward, eyes narrowed. "Has the blessed child had another vision?"
Riley glances at me, then back to the woman. "She continues to experience the saint's presence."
Whispers ripple through the crowd.
I swallow hard. "I don't—"
"Tell us," someone calls out, new, a woman I haven't seen before, one of the newly arrived priestesses. "What does Jessamine command, when will she reveal herself?"
"She demands me," I snap, frustration boiling over. "I deny her."
A murmur of discontent spreads. Faces blur together—some curious, others hostile.
Riley raises a hand, silencing them. "Give her time."
"You can't keep saying it and hoping the repetition will make it true," I reply coldly.
Riley bends to my level and whispers harshly into my ears. "And you can't keep antagonizing them."
"They need to know the truth." I shoot back.
"And what truth is that?" she demands, her voice a terse whisper. "That everything they've believed is a lie? That their saint is a monster?"
"Yes," I say firmly.
I take a breath, softening my tone. "She was a hero, Riley. She saved the hive, she sacrificed herself for its survival. But that sacrifice is no longer needed, it should have ended long ago. She should have been allowed to rest, to become a symbol, not... that thing."
Riley nods, but I can see she's struggling.
"We should eat," Riley says finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "The others are waiting."
I turn back to the group, all eyes on us, on me. I take a deep, shaking breath, and nod. Once more… I'm not sure how many times I can endure this.
The meal is simple—lichen and fungus gathered from the walls of the underhive, and a thin, grey gruel that does little to warm me. I sit beside Riley, the others watching me with a mixture of awe and fear, their gazes lingering on the scars on my forehead, hand, and shoulder, my augmetic arm gleaming in the firelight. They stare at me as though I were the God Emperor Himself, come to sup with them.
Emperor help me…
Riley clears her throat, and the murmurs die down, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the distant hum of machinery from the Basilica's depths. She raises her hands, her voice steady as she begins to speak, reciting the ancient history as it has been passed down through generations, an abbreviated version of what I've spent the past several days reading in the annals and journals of her ancestors.
"In the days when the hive was dying, when the very ground beneath our home shifted. When the geothermal systems failed and the cold began to creep in, it was Jessamine Hallas who saved us," she says, her eyes distant as if she can see it all unfolding before her. "The Mechanicus, in their wisdom, devised a great machine, a chair of power that could sustain the hive, but it required a sacrifice—an unending source of life and faith to keep the systems running until the planet could stabilize."
She looks around at the others, her gaze lingering on each of them before continuing.
"Jessamine offered herself, her lifeforce, her faith, her very soul, to the machine, to Emperor and Omnissiah. She became the Heart of the Saint, her body linked to the geothermal systems, her spirit keeping the hive alive. It was her sacrifice that kept us from freezing, her sacrifice that gave us hope. And so, she became more than just our founder, our saint, my sisters—she became our savior."
Riley pauses, her voice growing softer, almost reverent. "And we, her daughters, have kept that sacrifice alive. We have given what is needed, the lives of our sons, so that her spirit may endure, so that one day, she might return, born among us and lead us to salvation."
There is a murmur of agreement from the gathered women, their eyes shining with devotion.
"After Jessamine took to the holy throne, the Mechanicum's war began. The device she sat upon, a marvel of technology, was seen by many as tech-heresy—a blasphemous contraption that defied the sacred tenets of the Omnissiah.
Sects within the Mechanicum turned on each other, accusations of heresy igniting a brutal civil war. Records were destroyed in the fighting, and with them, the knowledge of what truly lay below our lady's temple. During the chaos of the civil war, Jessamine endured. She continued to power the hive for a century while the world above fought and forgot her existence."
Then came the Inquisition. They descended upon us, the true faithful, aided by our traitor sisters. They sought to purge us, true followers who believed in her sacrifice and the prophecy of her rebirth. The purges were merciless; they put our forebearers to death, seeking to stamp out the blasphemy they saw in the sacrifices needed to sustain the saint. But even as they killed our mothers and rewrote our histories, some escaped. They tried and they failed to piece the trail back together and find where Jessamine remained, bound to the device that sustained her, as through it she sustained the hive. Our mothers went silent to their deaths, true martyrs, giving nothing away of the oral knowledge of this sacred place. The last records died with them as the mechanicum's war came to a brutal end and with it the destruction of all knowledge of this temple and its holy purpose.
As the hive grew, the world above continued to build on the ruins of war, layer upon layer, until what was below was buried even deeper, sealed away both in ignorance and in fact. The knowledge of Jessamine's sacrifice was lost to all but a few, and the forgotten Sector Sigma became just another part of the underhive, a place of shadows and silence and secrets. Yet we, the faithful, endured—descendants of those few who survived the Inquisition's purges, who passed down the story of Jessamine and the salvation she brought.
Here we are, her daughters, keeping that fragile flame alive in the dark. Waiting for the prophesied day when a daughter born of our blood would rise to lead us. When the great seer would come into power. When the girl with eyes seeing Jessamine's form and hearing her voice would come and lead us in the great purging."
Riley sits and all eyes now turn to me in wonder, reverence, and suspicion.
I take a deep breath, my hands trembling slightly as I push myself up, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on my shoulders. I look at the gathered priestesses, their faces a mix of expectation, confusion, and fear. I have spoken the truth before, but now there are even more of them, and the words feel heavier every time I say them. This truth needs to be said, no matter how painful.
I step forward, my gaze steady, my voice clear as I begin.
"I have heard the histories and read what your ancestors have written down. I am the girl your writings speak of. I can see the saint, her spirit, as it wanders these halls, indeed the whole hive, keeping you safe, wandering and looking, until it found me. I can hear her in my mind, feel her desires, see fragments of her memory. But this is what your histories leave out," I say, pausing as I look into the eyes of each of the priestesses, "the planet healed. The geothermal systems that Jessamine sacrificed herself for—they healed. The hive does not need her sacrifice anymore. The power flows, the heat warms us; the hive lives, unaware of Jessamine's presence. It has for over a thousand years."
A murmur ripples through the group, a mix of disbelief and fear. Riley's eyes widen, but she remains silent, her gaze locked on me.
"Jessamine's sacrifice was a noble one, a necessary one," I continue, my voice gaining strength. "But it was meant to be temporary. She was supposed to die—a martyr for the survival of the hive. She should have allowed herself to rest, but instead, she directed your mothers in ages past to keep her alive. She demanded tribute—your sons—fed to the machine that sustains her—long after she knew it was no longer necessary, and even to this day. She has lingered, kept alive by your sacrifices, for far too long."
The murmurs grow louder, some of the priestesses exchanging uneasy glances. I can feel the tension in the room, the weight of centuries of belief grinding against the truth of the present.
"She has filled your minds with the prophecy of her return, a child capable of bearing her soul, a reincarnation in her own lifetime, a vessel to arrive at a time of greatest darkness and lead you all into the light." I say, my voice steady, "but that prophecy must not come to pass. Her mind is filled with rage. Rage against her own Order of the Sanctified Shield, who labeled those that kept her alive as heretics. Rage against the Inquisition, who purged her followers. Rage against the Mechanicum, who destroyed not only all those who could have freed her from that throne but also all reference to its existence."
I pause, my eyes meeting Riley's, searching for understanding, for belief. Riley's face is pale, her expression conflicted.
"For hundreds of years, Jessamine has been forced to endure, clinging to that abominable device. But she is no longer doing so to save the hive—the hive is thriving, and it doesn't even know she exists. Instead, she has been searching, seeking among your daughters for a mind that she can reach, a soul she can take, a vessel to become her avatar. Me. Your prophesied messiah, the one who can see the saint, hear her voice. Even now I speak of things I barely know as though remembering them from a lifetime ago. She is here," I tap my head, "pushing her memories on me, trying to get in here," I place my hand over my heart, "She wants to use me to lead a crusade, not against heresy, not against darkness, but against those she believes wronged her." I pause, "she is broken, her mind shattered, her body failing. She doesn't comprehend the time that's passed or what's gone on. All that remains is the desire, the need, to endure and the hate for those that stopped her long ago and are now themselves forgotten as she is."
My voice hardens, my gaze sweeping across the gathered women. "She would use me—use all of you—to wage a war against the Emperor's faithful. Those who revere her as a saint without knowing the truth, who believe she died a martyr fighting a cult. But that cult was us. It was your mothers, your grandmothers, all those who kept her alive."
The silence that follows is deafening. The priestesses stare at me, their faces reflecting a mix of shock, confusion, and fear. Riley's gaze is fixed on the floor, her brow furrowed.
I take a deep breath, the weight of the truth pressing on my chest. "I know it is hard to hear. I know it is not what you have been taught to believe. But Jessamine is not the salvation you seek. She is a shadow of what she once was, twisted by centuries of pain and rage. She believes her own version of what happened. She can't accept that she was wrong, wrong to believe that hers was the only voice that could keep her order in the Emperor's light. She cannot accept that at the end, it was her faith that was wanting, not that of her sisters. If she is allowed to rise again, it will be to bring destruction—not salvation."
The room falls silent, the tension thick enough to choke on. The priestesses begin whispering to each other, glancing at Riley for guidance. Riley remains still, her eyes fixed on the cold stone beneath our feet. The murmurs grow, and the air feels heavy, a building storm of uncertainty.
Finally, Riley steps forward, her eyes meeting mine, a glint of something raw and pained within them. She raises her hand to quiet the others, her voice low but commanding as she begins to speak.
"I watched you, Aurora. I watched from the shadows when you came to this, our temple, five days ago. I saw you walk through the chapel, pass through doors that are forever sealed. I saw those doors open of their own accord, as though they knew you, as though they welcomed you." Her voice softens, but I can hear the strain in it, the disbelief she's trying to make sense of. "I saw you walk into the most sacred chamber, where none of us dare tread, where the saint herself rests, and I saw you lay hands upon her armor. I watched you flee, and I found you beneath the altar, terrified and crying."
Her voice wavers, and she takes a breath, steadying herself. "I can believe you saw what you saw because I saw those things with my own eyes. I saw what no one else did. But they—" she gestures to the other priestesses, their pale faces turned towards her, eyes filled with suspicion and fear, "—they cannot. They do not believe. They say you are lying, that your visions are heretical. They think you should be put to death… and perhaps, me as well, even though I doubt your interpretation. I… cannot deny my own eyes."
A chill runs down my spine, and I clench my jaw, trying to suppress the rush of fear and anger. My gaze locks with Riley's, and for a long moment, we simply look at each other—a girl and a women standing at the edge of a precipice, a thousand years of tradition, belief, and sacrifice pushing us both closer to our respective edges.
Riley shakes her head, her eyes filled with something that almost looks like regret. "If you want to convince them, Aurora, you will have to show them. Show them that what you say isn't a lie. Prove that you can see the saint, that you are the one they have been waiting for. That you, are she who comes in the likeness of the saint."
My breath catches, my heart pounding painfully in my chest. "You want me to take them down there…" My voice comes out strained, almost a whisper. "You want me to take them to the mausoleum? Even after everything, the restraint at nights, the pain, the visions, the chance that I will lose myself? After what we saw? You would risk me becoming… that thing."
Riley nods slowly. "Yes. You must take them down there, into the place our ancestors sealed off too all but the high priestess line and stopped entering hundreds of generations ago. Show them the truth. Prove that you are the reincarnation of the saint."
I shake my head, my body trembling. "I'm not her reincarnation," I protest, "I'm not Jessamine. She's not even dead! I don't want her rage, her madness. I'm not here to fulfill her vendetta."
Riley looks at me, her eyes searching mine. "Maybe you are not what she became," she says quietly. "Maybe you are what she was supposed to be—what she could have been if she had let go, if she had allowed herself to die, to become a true saint. Perhaps you are the reincarnation of the part of her that passed on, while another part of her clung to life."
She steps closer, her voice a whisper now, barely audible over the murmurs of the priestesses behind her. "Maybe you are here to put things right, Aurora. Maybe you are the answer to the prophecy—but not in the way we thought. Maybe the salvation we've all been waiting for… is not for us but for Jessamine herself, to finally be put to rest."
The words hang in the air between us, and I feel a strange mix of hope and terror twisting in my chest. I close my eyes, my mind racing, my heart aching with the weight of it all.
Riley steps back, her gaze never leaving mine. "If you are right, Aurora, and expect us to believe you, then you must also realize that you are the reincarnation of what Jessamine should have been—the part of her that let go. And you must show us. You must show me the truth, even if it means facing her once more."
I open my eyes, meeting Riley's gaze, the fear and determination in her eyes a mirror of my own. I take a deep breath, steadying myself.
"Alright," I say, my voice trembling but resolute. "I will take them below. I will show them."
The room is silent, every eye on me. I can feel the weight of their doubt, their fear, their desperate need for something to believe in. And despite everything—despite the terror that grips my heart—I know I must do this. I must lead them down, into the darkness, where Jessamine waits.
I swallow hard and straighten up. "I need an aquila," I say, my voice firm, cutting through the silence. The priestesses exchange uneasy glances, unsure of what to make of my request. Finally, Riley reaches into her robe and pulls out a small, battered aquila—its edges worn smooth by countless hands. She steps forward, her hand trembling as she offers it to me.
My breath catches as I take it. It's strangely identical to the one I grew up with, the one my mother pressed into my hand when I was just a child and not for the first time I wonder if my own mother was, perhaps is, connected somehow to this place. I push the thought aside. Right now I don't have time to be sentimental, to feel even the kindling of hope that this place encourages me towards. I cannot imagine my mother, alive, somewhere, perhaps close, not while I feel Jessamine's presence pushing at the corners of my mind.
I need… focus. I turn the Aquila over in my hand.
Hello, old friend.
I hold it in my left hand, my augmetic fingers feeling the cold metal of its two-headed form. Then, with a swift motion, I bring my augmetic hand down and twist, shearing off one of the wings.
The sharp snap echoes in the quiet of the chapel, and I hold the broken aquila in my right hand—my flesh-and-blood hand. I close my eyes, bowing my head, and I pray. I pray to the Emperor for strength, for clarity. For a faith that is not blind, but steadfast enough to do His will, to follow His path, no matter how dark it may seem. Not Jessamine's will. Not even my own. Only His.
The aquila feels warm in my grasp, almost like a heartbeat, and I take a deep breath, drawing from it what courage I can. I open my eyes and look at Riley. She nods, her face a mixture of fear and determination.
I turn and my gaze catches on the Light Woman, still standing at the entrance to the thousand steps, her glow faint and patient, her eyes steady, unblinking, fixed on me. I glare at her, my jaw set. This ends now.
"If you want the truth," I say, my voice ringing out in the silence, "then it's time. Now, follow me."
I take a step towards the entrance, and the sealed doors begin to rumble. Dust shakes loose from the old stone as the heavy doors grind open, revealing the darkness beyond. The thousand steps, leading down into the depths of the mausoleum.
The air grows colder as I approach, and I glance back at the gathered priestesses. Riley stands tall, her expression resolute, but the others… fear has settled into their eyes, their faces pale and trembling with a terrible, morbid curiosity. They glance at each other, then at the darkened entrance. None of them move.
I take a breath, stepping through the threshold, the cold air washing over me like a wave. "Follow me," I repeat, my voice echoing down the ancient steps. "If you truly believe, you must have no fear of truth."
Slowly, reluctantly, they begin to follow. One by one, their feet shuffle forward, their faces stricken with fear. Only Riley walks with her head held high, her steps steady as she moves in behind me.
The stairs descend into darkness, the shadows growing thicker, swallowing the dim light from above. I lead them down, step after step, the ancient stone cold beneath my feet. My heart pounds in my chest, the silence pressing in, broken only by the soft shuffle of footsteps behind me.
I whisper a prayer to the Emperor as we descend, my voice barely audible, a mantra against the fear that gnaws at my insides. I can feel the Light Woman behind me, her presence like a cold wind at my back, urging me on, whispering to me. I hear Jessamine's voice, a terrible, mad lilt to her words.
"You know what must be done, Aurora," her voice echoes in my mind, and I grit my teeth, shaking my head. "You must finish what I began. You must cleanse them. Purify them."
"No," I whisper, my voice trembling. "I'm not your puppet. I am not here to carry out your vengeance."
The air grows colder still, the darkness pressing in. The whispers grow louder, more insistent, and I clench my fists, my lips pressed tightly together, my face drained of color.
I won't let you in.
I won't let you have me.
The steps finally come to an end, and we cross into the antechamber—a vast room, its ceiling lost in shadow. The walls are lined with statues, larger-than-life figures of Jessamine, her face serene, her gaze cast upwards in eternal devotion. Murals cover the walls, depicting the death of the geothermal plant, the cold creeping in, the desperation of the hive.
My eyes move over the images, the story they tell—a story of sacrifice, of faith. Of Jessamine taking her seat on the throne, her face filled with determination, the Mechanicus figures surrounding her, their faces hidden beneath their cowls. And then, the sacrifices—men, boys, their forms sucked of life, staring in blank undeath from behind empty eyes as they give their souls to sustain her.
A shiver runs down my spine, and I glance back at the priestesses. Their faces are pale, their eyes wide as they take in the murals, the truth of their histories displayed in terrible detail.
"This is what you have been told to revere," I say, my voice echoing in the vast chamber. "A sacrifice that became a demand. A demand that has taken your sons, your brothers, for uncounted generations."
Riley's gaze meets mine, her eyes filled with sorrow, and she nods, her expression grim.
I turn to the door at the far end of the chamber, a massive slab of metal, its surface covered in a single, enormous purity seal. The wax is cracked and faded, the parchment brittle with age and broken where I first touched it five days ago. I step forward, placing my hand against it again, feeling the cold metal beneath my fingers.
The seal crumbles further at my touch, falling away in a cloud of dust, and the door shudders, slowly swinging open. Beyond it lies the tomb—a chamber filled with sarcophagi, each one marked with the name of one of Jessamine's honor guard. Their armor stands before their tombs, the metal dull and lifeless, relics of a forgotten age.
In the center of the room lies a single sarcophagus, a statue of Jessamine reclining atop it, her face serene, her hands folded over her chest. I move forward, my footsteps echoing in the silence, the priestesses following behind me, their breaths coming in shallow gasps.
"This is what we have been told," I say, my voice soft, filled with a sadness I can't suppress. "That she was a martyr, dead, at peace at the Emperor's side. That her spirit watches over her Sororitas."
I turn to the final door, the symbol of the Mechanicus etched into its surface—the cog and skull of the Omnissiah. The metal is freezing beneath my hand, the air around us growing colder still, the shadows deepening, our breath crystalizing.
"But this is the truth, your truth." I say, my voice barely a whisper. "She is not resting. She is not at peace."
The door swings open, the sound echoing through the tomb, and I step into the final chamber. The air is like the icy fingers of death, the light dim, the—
The air is warm and scented with incense. Brilliant golden light radiates outwards as the door opens, more beautiful than any sunrise on Terra.
The light radiates out from the Light Woman seated on the throne, its brilliance floods every crevice of the room, turning the cold, mechanical space into something that seems almost divine. The stone walls appear smooth, adorned with glorious murals that speak of Jessamine's noble sacrifices. Every carving shines in exquisite clarity, purified and vivid, depicting a history that is pristine, unmarred by doubt. The symbols of the Mechanicus and Imperial icons are pristine, whole, and full of reverence.
The throne that lies at the chamber's heart is magnificent, sculpted from brilliant silver and gold, with intricate inlays that glisten in the light. It is a throne befitting a saint, ethereal and seemingly untouched by time or decay. The base flows from the floor, rising smoothly, a flawless tribute to the holy union of flesh and machine. It appears as if it were crafted by the Emperor's own hand—an immaculate testament to Jessamine's devotion and sacrifice. Engravings of her greatest deeds cover its surface, each one beautiful, each one true.
The network of tubes and pipes looks like a gentle lattice, extending from the throne and embracing Jessamine's form. They pulse with a soft blue light, an energy that appears peaceful, a gift that sustains her in an eternal vigil. Wires, golden and delicate, extend from her skull into the divine apparatus, their glow a soft halo around her brow.
Jessamine herself is breathtaking, a living saint radiant in her vigil. Her skin glows with a healthy hue, her face composed, tranquil, every line of it noble. Her eyes are closed, not in pain, but in contemplation, a serene meditation that speaks of her boundless connection to the Emperor's will. Her lips, softly parted, reveal the barest hint of breath, as though she is merely sleeping—a holy woman at rest, guarded by her faith. The tubes that enter her chest rise and fall in a graceful rhythm, each breath a hymn of her devotion.
To my right, an altar stands, resplendent with relics of her glory. The Armor of Saint Jessamine, known as the Sanctified Plate, gleams in the holy light, the High Gothic scripture engraved upon it legible in shimmering lines. The armor's breastplate glows, the emblem of the Emperor of Mankind—a two-headed aquila—radiant and alive, its wings spread protectively, embodying the Emperor's eternal watchfulness. Every joint, every plate of the armor appears untouched by time, a testament to Jessamine's unbroken faith. The gauntlets end in elegant talons, still sharp, still ready to defend against the darkness.
The Blade of Penance, resting against the mannequin, shines as though newly forged. Its massive form exudes righteous power, the green alloy now an iridescent emerald, the runes of sanctity along its length glowing with renewed energy. It seems alive with purpose, a weapon forged not for war, but for justice, for bringing the Emperor's light to the darkest corners of the imperium. The hilt, wrapped in fresh, supple leather, looks like it could still be wielded by Jessamine herself—a saint unbroken by time.
On the altar lies the Censer of Eternal Vigil, its golden surface bright and without blemish, shaped as a serene visage, eyes closed in contemplation. The chains are pure silver, unbroken, each link engraved with canticles, a tribute to her piety and devotion. The scent of sanctified oils still lingers, fragrant and comforting—a reminder that her holy purpose has never faded. Beside it, the Tome of the Penitent Flame lies, its leather cover smooth and well-kept, the Aquila on its cover proud and untarnished. The script beneath speaks clearly of her vows, the sacrifices she made, and the purity of her service to the Emperor.
Other relics, too, are pristine. The Gilded Tapestry, atop its plinth, shimmers with golden light, its delicate weavings a celebration of her honor guard, whose souls rest within. Her own Rosarius hangs upon the wall to my left, its power field aglow, the rosary beads lined up neatly, each one shining in remembrance of martyrs gone by.
Even the murals on the walls are bright, unblemished, telling the story of Jessamine's rise, her glorious deeds, and the creation of her throne. The figures within them are majestic, their faces serene, their forms proud and unyielding. The statues of Jessamine in her prime look flawless, untouched by time, their eyes holding an expression of endless devotion, watching us with love and strength.
The priestesses gasp in awe, stepping closer, their faces full of wonder. Some drop to their knees, tears springing from their eyes, overcome by the beauty before them. The room feels lighter, filled with an energy that uplifts, as if the very air itself vibrates with the echoes of Jessamine's holiness, a song of sacrifice and grace.
But I know better.
Liar!
I feel the cold press of fear against my spine, a shiver that defies the warmth of the Light Woman's glow. I have seen this before—the facade, the illusion. I know the truth that hides behind the veil. My right hand tightens around the battered aquila. I can feel it—the rage, the twisted need for control that lurks beneath the surface of the holy vision before me.
This is not the truth. This is not salvation. This is an farce—a mask that hides the monstrosity beneath.
I force myself to speak, my voice trembling but growing stronger with each word. "This is not what it seems," I say, my voice echoing through the chamber. The priestesses look at me, their eyes wide, questioning. The light flickers, and I can almost feel Jessamine's presence grow colder, the warmth of the Light Woman becoming something else—something demanding.
I take a step forward, my eyes locked on Jessamine's radiant form. The Aquila bites into my hand, blood drips down my arm as I raise it aloft. "Look closer," I urge, my voice breaking into the illusion. "This is not salvation. This is not sacrifice. This is a lie!"
The light flickers again, the illusion wavering, and for a moment I see the truth—the decaying flesh, the grotesque throne, the twisted machinery keeping her alive. The priestesses gasp, their awe turning to confusion, then fear, then terror. The golden light dims, then fades, then vanishes altogether.
Then, ancient lumens awaken, their lights flickering to life one by one, like long-forgotten stars emerging from the abyss. The chamber is slowly unveiled as they brighten, a creeping revelation, as shadows of golden light recede and the truth is bared in biting florescence.
The walls are lined with metal columns and carvings, detailed with the twisted iconography of the Mechanicus, ancient runes, and symbols of purity mingling with foreboding scripts that almost seem to shift as the light passes over them. As the lumens reach full strength, the room is awash in a cold, sterile light that exposes every terrible detail.
Jessamine herself is a horrific vision. Her skin is parchment-thin, with patches of darkened, decaying flesh clinging desperately to her emaciated form. Her face is hollow, her once-proud features now sunken into the skeletal mask of death denied. Her eyes are closed, yet they twitch beneath the lids, as if she were dreaming—or worse, listening. Her lips, dried and cracked, are slightly parted, revealing teeth that are little more than yellowed shards. The tubes that enter her chest rise and fall with the slow, unnatural rhythm of her breath, each inhalation sounding like the rasping wind through a desolate wasteland. A network of tubes and pipes, some organic in texture and others mechanical, extend from the throne and into Jessamine's frail body. The tubes pulse, filled with an ominous black ichor, as if feeding something ancient and terrible within her. Wires like thorns extend from the back of her skull, their ends vanishing into the depths of the throne. Her skull, once crowned with the laurels of sainthood, now bears a rusted halo of iron, fixed to her head by jagged metal bolts.
To my right, the Armor of Saint Jessamine is dull, its once gleaming surface now weathered with time and covered in a patina of decay. The breastplate bears not a two-headed aquila, its wings spread protectively, but now a carrion bird looming over the battlefield. The gauntlets end in talons, stained a dark, reddish hue—testaments to the blood they ache to spill.
Leaning against the mannequin the Blade of Penance glints a sickly green beneath the lumen light. Its edge is chipped, as though it has seen battle without rest, and the hilt is wrapped in cracked, worn leather, the grip of a saint whose fury cannot be contained. Runes of sanctity are etched along its length, some of them glowing faintly, others darkened and inert, their power long since spent.
On the altar the Censer of Eternal Vigil, a gilded incense burner, shaped like a screaming skull, lies on its side, eyes hollow and empty. The chains of blessed silver, each now stained with black. The censer no longer burns, but the scent of sanctified oils still lingers around it, a pungent odor of decay, a mere reminder of its once-holy purpose. Beside it is the Tome of the Penitent Flame, its pages yellowed with age, a chronicle of devotion twisted into something monstrous by the centuries.
The Rosarius is cracked open, as though by some great force, and the rosary beads have scattered across the altar like marbles
The throne itself is the most terrifying of all. It looms, monstrous in its construction, an abominable fusion of ancient Mechanicus design and something more primal, almost organic. Tubes pulse and throb, connecting Jessamine to the machine, and arcane glyphs glow dimly along the throne's surface, casting eerie reflections across the chamber. The machinery that stretches from the throne into the dark recesses of the ceiling seems almost to breathe, expanding and contracting, filling the room with a deep, rhythmic hum that reverberates through my bones. The throne's back is adorned with massive cogitators, their keys worn smooth from centuries of use, their screens cracked but still alight with shifting, indecipherable runes.
The lumens flicker for a moment, and shadows dance across the walls, giving life to the many murals and statues that depict Jessamine's story. The murals have darkened with age, and they seem to twist under the shifting light, as if the figures within them are writhing in agony. Statues of Jessamine in her prime are all are marred by time. Cracks run through the marble, and in the dim light, it seems as if the stone eyes follow us, judging.
The priestesses gasp as the full scene is revealed, some stepping back in fear, others falling to the ground in terror.
The room seems to pulse with an unnatural energy, an almost suffocating presence, as if the air itself were thick with the weight of centuries of sacrifice, faith, and madness. Jessamine Hallas, the Saint of the Sanctified Shield, is neither alive nor dead, her body trapped in a perpetual stasis, her spirit somehow bound to the device, manifesting as the Light Woman, forever watching, forever waiting, forever wanting.
I feel the cold press of fear against my spine, but I fight it down. I have seen this before, have felt the rage and the madness emanating from the armor and the throne. I know what Jessamine has become—a relic that refuses to die, a saint who would not let go of her purpose even when it was fulfilled, a spirit that has festered into something twisted.
I take a step forward, Riley just behind me trembling, hesitant to follow. I'm not sure what I'm going to do, but I feel like something needs to be done before I leave this place, if I want to leave it as myself.
I clench my jaw, my right hand tightening around the battered aquila. I force myself to speak, my voice echoing in the oppressive silence. "This is the truth," I say, my voice trembling but growing louder with each word. "Look at her. This is not salvation. This is not sacrifice. This is a saint who should have died but chose instead to become something monstrous."
The priestesses are silent, their eyes wide, their faces are as pale as death itself in the lumens' light.
I feel what I must do. I have to show them the truth—not just in words, but in actions. I take another step forward, my heart pounding, my eyes fixed on Jessamine's withered form. The path ahead is terrifying, but I know there is no turning back. I will face Jessamine, I will face the truth, and I will show these women that their faith has been twisted, their sacrifices made in vain.
"This is what she has become," I say, my voice trembling. "Not a saint, not a savior. Just a woman, clinging to life, sustained by your sacrifices."
I take another step, my scars burn as the Light Woman stares into me, daring me to defy her. "This is the truth. This is what you have been fighting for. Not salvation, but vengeance. Not faith, but fear."
The Light Woman stands beside the throne. I feel Jessamine's presence in my mind more clearly now, her whispers growing louder, more insistent. Somehow I know that if she weren't mad, her mind not so disjointed, she would have taken me with force by now.
"You know what must be done, Aurora," she says, her voice in my head like a banshee's wail. "Finish it. End this farce. Take your place, and lead them."
I close my eyes, my hands trembling, the broken aquila warm in my grasp, blood running down my white knuckles and dripping to the floor as the severed wing bites into my palm. I take a deep breath, the cold air filling my lungs, and I open my eyes, meeting the gaze of the woman who saved my life for her own selfish purpose.
"No," I say, my voice strong, unwavering. "I will not be your puppet. I will not be your vessel."
I step forward, the aquila held high, and I glare at the Light Woman, my voice ringing out in the silence. "In the name of the Emperor, I reject you. I reject your lies, your rage, your hatred. I will not be the weapon of your vengeance."
The Light Woman's eyes widen, her form flickering, and I feel a surge of anger, of hate. Just another false hope, just another bully, just another person out to make me a victim. Another step, the aquila burning in my hand, and I shout, my voice echoing through the chamber.
"I am Aurora. I am not your savior. I am not your martyr. I am not your vengeance. I am no one's victim!" I'm screaming now against a gale of air rushing suddenly through the room. "In the name of your master, the God-Emperor I hold you in contempt!"
I thrust the Aquila forward, broken wing like a small dagger, bloody arm and hand pushing towards her heart.
Before I can make contact, before I even get within three feet, the Light Woman screams, her form shattering into a thousand pieces and slamming into me. For a moment I feel weightless, then a sudden pain and the sharp stab of nothing.
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