I, Vermin: An Original WH40K fiction

[Rakashua]

Chapter 11: Vermin, Mine


The bright light of the Constantias' shields penetrates the gloom, revealing a sprawling chaos of metal shanties and tattered cloths, the refuge of the forsaken. This is a realm where the desperate cling to survival, a place I once called home.

The sight triggers something primal in me, a stirring of memories I've fought hard to suppress. My gaze sweeps over the teeming masses that scurry from the floodlights' intrusion like vermin flushed from hiding. Some halt and bow, worshipping us, others huddle in terror.

Sister Helena's voice cuts through the maelstrom, clear and commanding. "Form a perimeter. Push them back and spread. Secure the area. Engage only if threatened." Her orders are a lifeline thrown in the chaos, and I cling to them, trying to focus on duty over rising nausea.

The Constantia move swiftly, their shield phalanx a wall of unyielding faith and ceramite. They advance into the fray, their armored forms a stark contrast to the ragged desperation before us. The residents of this underhive, many sick or mutated, begin to part before the procession like a sea of lost souls, opening a larger and large circle now lit by the glowpacks of dozens of cadets, jr. commissars, Gilead's Gravedigger veterans, and the rest as we disembark.

Beside me, Valeria remains a beacon of calm in the storm. I help her carry medical supplies and machines out into the open area. Her armor remains somehow pristine against the filth that I quickly find myself covered in. I'm pulled into motion alongside her as we're ordered to begin to clear an area for the field hospital tent to be erected.

Every overturned crate or swept aside dwelling twists a knife in my gut. These are not just objects; they're the fragments of lives being brushed aside in the name of Imperial order. The process of sorting the inhabitants begins with mechanical efficiency. Men, women, children are herded like livestock, separated by the potential value of their service or the threat of their existence.

My task veers into the grotesque as I help dismantle the shanties. Each piece of discarded plastic, every crude doll or tiny Imperial icon, is a story ended, a life disrupted. The dispassionate efficiency of it, the sheer unfeeling procedure, churns my stomach.

Caught in the act of destruction, my hands falter. My gaze meets those of a woman, her eyes hollow with despair, her arms clutching a child too thin, too pale. In that moment, I see not the face of the underhive's detritus but a mirror reflecting my own fate, had I not been plucked from this misery.

I drop the scrap metal from my hands, the clang of it louder in my ears than the din around us. Moving to Valeria's side, I seek refuge in the familiarity of her presence. But even here, amidst the preparations for healing, there is a grim undertone.

"What will happen to them?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper over the noise.

Valeria pauses, her actions measured as she arranges her surgical tools. "The fit will be taken to the surface, treated, fed, prepared for reeducation and service," she explains, her tone clinical. "Rehabilitated, if possible. The rest..." Her words trail off, but the conclusion hangs heavy between us.

A full Hospitaller nearby overhears and interjects with a harsher tone. "The Emperor's mercy is for the pure," she states coldly. "Those tainted, in body or spirit, will be purged. It's a kindness, ending their suffering."

Her words are meant to reassure, to justify, but they land like blows. A kindness. A purge. This is the lexicon of my existence, the harsh vocabulary of my faith. And as I stand there, the echoes of my past colliding with the stark reality of my present, I feel the weight of my armor like never before—a burden, a shackle. My helmet, its faded aquila still reflecting the portable lights, feels like a symbol of doom, not of hope.

Blessed is the mind too small for doubts. But what right do I have to such words when in every face I see myself, myself before the Light Woman. Why me? Why not her, or her, or him? Did the Emperor value me any more than others? Does the Emperor only protect some and others like these go unnoticed, unprotected, unheeded? I can't stop the thoughts from racing round and round in my mind as I work to establish the tent where life and death will be decided by the cold eyes of those trained to make such evaluations, eyes like Sister Helena's and… as I stare into them, eyes like Valeria's.

What is wrong with me? Why can't I just have faith and push all this aside? Because it isn't my faith? My faith is in an Emperor who brought a little girl from this same squalor and made her a servant with a purpose. But isn't that what we're doing here?

As the area clears and the cries of the underhive fade into resigned murmurs, I am left with a hollow victory. Each displaced relic, each terrified face, is a testament to the cost of the faith the Emperor demands. The child's gaze that met mine haunts me, a specter of what could have been, of what still might be.

My chest is a maelstrom of emotions, raw and biting as the cold winds that sweep through the underhive's open spaces. With hands that still recall the warmth of life, I pass out food and water to those deemed worthy of the Emperor's mercy—a mercy I now question as I hand a small, coarse loaf of bread to that same, trembling child who held my gaze earlier. Her presence in the group deemed worthy of life is the slightest of balms against the harsh reality of our task.

The girl, no more than five or six, clutches my leg, her small fingers sticky from the nutrient paste I gave her. Tears carve clean paths down her dirt-streaked face as she looks up at me with wide, terrified eyes. "Please, mommy, I want my mommy," she sobs, the words tugging like hooks in my heart.

I kneel, the weight of my armor pressing down on me as though the gravity of this forsaken place has grown stronger with her plea. "Where is your mommy, little one?" I ask, my voice gentle, betraying the turmoil inside me.

She points with a tiny, shaking hand towards a crowd penned in by the Gravedigger veterans—men and women whose fate has been sealed by the cold judgment of those who see them as nothing more than chaff to be culled.

I freeze, the implications of her gesture sinking into me like the chill of the underhive's damp. They haven't told them yet. They don't know they're waiting for death. How do I tell this child her mother is marked for execution? How do I hold her gaze?

"Go sit over there, sweet one," I say, my voice barely more than a trembling whisper as I point to a makeshift seating area. "Eat your bread, and I'll... I'll see what I can do."

But she doesn't move, only grips tighter, her small fists pounding against my leg. "No! I want Mommy! Bring Mommy back! Give her back!"

Before I can react, before I can comfort her, the air is split by the sharp crack of a lasgun. The bolt slams into the girl's chest, and her small body jerks violently, a dark, burnt crater where her heart should be. She crumples to the ground, a broken doll discarded in the dirt.

Lucius strides up, his face set in a mask of dispassionate duty. With a swift kick, he moves her body aside, as if she were merely debris obstructing the path. "No assault on the Emperor's faithful will be tolerated," he intones, sneering at the nearest denizens.

The shock of it numbs me, roots me to the spot. Around me, men, women, and children begin to wail and moan, a cacophony of grief and fear swelling in the air. Panic flares in their eyes, a fire that threatens to ignite into chaos.

Commissar Swartz approaches, his expression stern as he addresses Lucius. "You should have used your baton, Cadet," he scolds, his voice a controlled rumble. "We maintain order, not incite terror."

Lucius bristles, his satisfied smirk vanishing, his jaw clenching. "She was weak, sir. A baton would have killed her just as dead, and slower at that. Besides, it sets an example for the rest of the rats."

Swartz's gaze hardens. "An example, yes, but of what? We are the Emperor's hand, not his clenched fist. You've failed to consider the repercussions of your actions—the panic, the possible retaliation. Return to your squad. Now. I want three alternative courses of action before your rations."

As Lucius walks away, the slight rebuke seemingly ignored, I remain frozen, staring at the small, lifeless form lying discarded on the ground. This girl, who sought nothing more than her mother's comfort, reduced to a lesson in trigger discipline.

"As you were, rat," I hear his whisper in my ear as he hurries back to his group.

I turn, spinning to… To do I don't know what but putting my augmetic hand through the space where Lucious heart clearly isn't sounds like a good start.

I feel Valeria's hand on my shoulder, her touch light, tentative. "Aurora," she whispers, her voice strong and firm. "Come away."

But I can't move. I can't unsee the girl's face, can't unhear her pleas. I'm tethered to this spot by chains of doubt and horror, forged by the very creed I've sworn to uphold.

"Why?" I finally whisper, not sure if I'm asking Valeria, the Emperor, or myself. Why her? Why any of us?

In the depths of the underhive, surrounded by the discarded and the doomed, I feel a rebellion stir within me. Not against my orders, nor against those who command me, but against the very nature of this merciless creed.

As I set my face, my decision forms like a blade being forged in the fire of my soul. I won't be a part of this any longer. Not this way. Not in His name. This can't be His will. It can't… because I can't abide it.

Turning my back on the scene, I step away, my armor heavy, my heart heavier. I don't know where this path will lead me, but I know I must follow it. For her. For myself. I know I'm right. I feel righteous anger, not against the tainted or mutated, the poor, the useless, but against the butchery I cannot condone. I'm right, righteously so, and I won't be a victim. I will advocate for the Emperor's mercy the way He would. He saved me. He lead me from this place. He wouldn't condone the opposite of what happened to me, not like that.

"Where are you going?" Valeria calls after me, confusion and concern warring in her voice.

I don't look back. "To make it right," I say, the words a vow, a promise, a promise to an Emperor and a faith I know isn't this!

I storm through the crowded encampment, my heart pounding in my chest like artillery fire. Captain Gaius, overseeing the fortifications, is surrounded by a whirlwind of activity, but I am undeterred. His back is to me, but I recognize the broad set of his shoulders, the commanding air that cleaves through the chaos.

"Captain Gaius!" My voice cuts across the clamor. He turns, irritation flickering across his features which softens when he recognizes me. "Sister Helena's tithe," he murmurs, a note of respect threading through his tone.

"Sir, I need to speak about what happened with Lucious and the girl," I say, my words rushed, my breath short.

He regards me for a moment, in confusion, an aide whispers something in his ear and his face hardens. "A regrettable loss, yes. But matters of discipline are for Commissar Swartz to handle. I am busy here, Aurora."

"But sir, it wasn't just—"

"Aurora," he interrupts, a firm hand on my shoulder steering me aside, "I am preparing for potential threats, specifically the coming attack that your master is out there in the dark delaying. This isn't the time. If you have grievances, take them to Swartz. That's the chain of command."

His dismissal is polite, probably a lot more polite than he had to be, but it still stings. I nod, pulling away from his grasp. The commissar is not far, directing the junior commissars as they scurry about, assigning tasks with a sharpness that slices the air.

"Commissar Swartz," I call out once the juniors have dispersed to their duties. My voice steadier now, tinged with a cold determination.

He turns, his gaze calculating as it lands on me. "Yes… Cadet? What's your concern?"

I take a deep breath, the air heavy with the stink of oil and despair. "Lucious killed a child, sir. A little girl. She posed no threat. She was scared and wanted her mother."

Swartz's eyes narrow, a flicker of concern passing over his features. "Regrettable," he agrees, his tone even. "This was meant to be a soft-knock operation. We're here to select, not slaughter."

"Soft-knock?" The term is unfamiliar, chilling.

He explains, his words methodical, "Every three months, we assess these settlements. Sometimes we bring the hospitallers, choose who will rise to serve the Emperor. Other times..." He pauses, the implication hanging heavy between us.

"Other times?"

"We cleanse," he says flatly, as though it should have gone without saying. "Anyone here is leeching from the Imperium's resources, the hive's power," he motions to the side where even now a trio of tech adepts are disconnecting wires and attempting repairs of the power station adjacent to the lift tube. "They're living on stolen time, time and resources stolen from the hive. If we did not cleanse them in their pitiful hundreds on a regular basis, they could amass such numbers as could threaten the efficiency of the hive, even spark revolution and spread further disorder and chaos to higher echelons of the hive."

A cold shiver travels down my spine. "And the girl? Was her death just another form of cleansing?"

Swartz sighs, the sound almost weary. "No, clearly that was a mistake of an over zealous and over eager charge of mine. I bear the responsibility, of course. But understand, Cadet…"

"Not a cadet, just Aurora, tithe to Sister Helena."

The commissar's frown deepens, disappointment clouding his face, "I would expect, that a tithe of Sister Helena's would understand that these... vermin," he gestures vaguely at the huddled masses, "their lives are nothing more than a drain on the Emperor's resources. Some may be uplifted from their squalor into useful service, but even those are often tainted by lives lived so far from the Emperor's light. We are their salvation, tithe Aurora. It is better to die—"

"For the Emperor than live for yourself." I finish, the words ringing with sudden hollowness.

His words are meant to be comforting, but they twist like a knife in my gut. Service? Suffering? This is not the mercy I know. This is not the Emperor I serve. This isn't the Emperor that would send the Light Woman to save the life of a single starving child with no skills and nothing to offer in return…

"Thank you, Commissar," I say, my voice empty of emotion.

He nods politely as I turn away from him.

I begin to walk.

At the edge of the encampment, I pause. The noise of the camp fades into the background, drowned out by the racing of my own heart. I reach up, unclasping my helmet, feeling the cool air against my skin. A breath, deep and shuddering, and then I'm moving, running, racing into the shadows that stretch out like open arms.

"Stay within the perimeter!" the amplified voice of a Constantia shouts behind me.

But I don't look back. My legs carry me faster, propelling me into the darkness, away from the light that no longer signifies salvation but oppression. Every step is a rebellion, a declaration. My Emperor…

The broken Guardian cuts into the palm of my left hand until it bleeds.

My Emperor…

They don't serve my Emperor. My Emperor would never let something like this happen, and if He did allow it, He would never allow it to be done in His name, with no consequence.

I don't know what I'm running towards, but I know what I'm fleeing from.

If that girl was vermin, a drain on the Emperor's resources and nothing more, then so am I and I would rather die than be party to the execution of everything I was on the altar of everything I'm expected to become.

 

[Rakashua]

Chapter 12: Lost and Found

I run, my breath tearing raggedly from my lungs, each step a desperate push away from the camp. Darkness engulfs me, a heavy, suffocating presence that presses against my skin. My heart thunders in my chest, each beat a drum of fear and adrenaline. The noise of the camp fades, swallowed by the oppressive silence of the underhive.

The ground beneath my feet is uneven, littered with debris. I trip, my ankle twisting painfully, and I crash to the ground. The impact jars my bones, and I taste blood. I scramble to my feet, ignoring the throbbing pain, and keep moving. Every shadow seems to reach out, clawing at me, trying to drag me back.

My vision blurs with tears, and I blink them away, refusing to let them fall. The distant lights of the perimeter are gone now, lost in the labyrinth of pipes and rusted metal. I stumble again, my hands scraping against rough surfaces. The scent of oil and decay is thick in the air, making it hard to breathe.

I slow down, my legs trembling with exhaustion. The silence here is different, heavier. It feels like the very air is waiting, watching. The occasional drip of water echoes like a distant heartbeat, and I realize how vast this place must be. The echoes bounce back at me, distorted, creating a disorienting symphony of sound.

A rustling noise to my left makes me jump. I freeze, my breath caught in my throat. In the darkness, shapes move, shadows within shadows. I can't see them clearly, but I can feel their presence. Eyes watching from the dark, the underhive's hidden inhabitants. My skin prickles with fear, and I force myself to move again.

Every step is a struggle, my body aching from the falls and the relentless pace. I run my hand along a wall, feeling the cold, damp metal under my fingers. The texture changes, slick with something I can't identify. I pull my hand back, shuddering.

The ground shifts beneath me, and I nearly fall again. I catch myself, my hands landing in something soft and squishy. The smell hits me immediately—rotting food, decaying matter. I gag, pulling my hands away, wiping them on my already filthy clothes.

"Emperor, help me," I whisper automatically, my voice trembling. The darkness feels like it's closing in, a living thing that wants to swallow me whole. I push forward, my pace slower now, more cautious. The distant hum of machinery is a constant reminder of where I am, the lifeblood of the hive city above flowing through these ancient veins.

I hear the faintest sound of laughter, high and eerie, echoing from somewhere unseen. It sends a chill down my spine. Who could laugh in a place like this? The thought is terrifying. I quicken my pace, my heart pounding even harder.

A sudden sharp pain in my foot makes me cry out. I look down, barely able to see the outline of a jagged piece of metal protruding from the ground. Blood seeps from the wound, and I bite my lip, trying to hold back the tears. I limp forward, each step a fresh wave of agony.

I slow, my legs heavy and weak. Ahead, a cluster of pipes descend into the floor, a tangle of metal that seems to offer a hiding place. I squeeze into the narrow space, my body trembling with exhaustion and fear. The pipes are cold against my skin, the metal slick with moisture. I huddle there, my breath coming in shallow gasps.

The sound of my own breathing is deafening in the confined space. I can hear the distant rumble of machinery, the occasional drip of water echoing like a taunt. My mind races, images of the child's lifeless eyes flashing before me. Her small body, discarded like refuse, haunts my thoughts.

"Why, Emperor?" I whisper, clutching the broken guardian icon to my chest. "Why did you let her die? Why let her die, but save me?"

Tears stream down my face, the salty trails mixing with the grime and blood. My heart aches with a pain deeper than any physical wound. I feel so small, so helpless. The weight of my armor presses down on me, reminding me of everything it stands for, everything I stand for. I feel bile rise in my chest and struggle out of the flack vest as though even the act of wearing it was offering a silent consent to the murder so callously committed and even more callously condoned.

The distant echoes of the underhive are a chorus of unseen dangers. I hear shuffling footsteps, whispers that seem to come from the walls themselves. The darkness is alive, filled with the unseen eyes of those who dwell here. It's a world of shadows and hidden threats, and I am just a small, terrified girl lost in its depths.

My thoughts churn, images of the girl, her eyes wide with terror, her small body crumpling to the ground. I can't shake the memory. It claws at me, demanding answers I don't have. I press my hands against my temples, trying to block it out, but it only grows louder.

"Do you even see us down here?" I demand, my voice cracking. "Do you care about the little lives that make up your Imperium?"

The only response is the distant drip of water, a mocking echo of my own despair. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my body shaking with the force of my sobs. The darkness offers no comfort, only the cold, unyielding silence.

"Please, take away this pain, this confusion," I beg, my voice hoarse. "Give me the peace I had when I believed without question. Show me it's all okay, that you have a plan, that there is mercy in your heart."

The tears flow freely now, unstoppable. I press my hands against my face, the broken guardian icon biting into my skin. The void feels like a living thing, pressing in on all sides, suffocating me.

"Don't abandon me, please," I whisper, my voice a broken plea. "Don't leave me alone in the dark. I have nothing but my faith, and even that is slipping away."

The silence is absolute. The darkness offers no answers, no comfort. I am alone, more alone than I have ever been. My heart aches with a pain deeper than any physical wound. The girl's face haunts me, her eyes wide with terror, her small body crumpling to the ground. I can't shake the memory.

"Why did you save me?" I ask, my voice barely more than a breath. "Why did the Light Woman bring me out of this place, only to leave me here again?"

There is no answer, only the oppressive silence. The laspistol is still clutched in my hand, a small, cold comfort in the vast, uncaring expanse.

I curl up against the warm pipe. Darkness envelops me, pulling me into a fitful sleep. My dreams are haunted by the child's face, my own reflection, and half remembered memories of a life that seems so distant and yet so close at hand.

A faint sound stirs me. My heart pounds in my chest as I listen intently, straining to make out the noise. Footsteps. No voices, just the steady, methodical tread of boots on the gritty floor. Panic flares in my chest, and I clutch the broken guardian icon tighter, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

Through the darkness, I see a faint glow, the lumen beam cutting through the gloom. I can hear them now, closer. The servo skull's eerie hum, its small, mechanical eyes scanning the ground. It holds my helmet in its grasper, and I know they're tracking me by my scent.

"She's close," a gruff voice whispers, and I recognize it as one of the Gilead's Gravediggers. "Blood trail here."

My heart races, and I press myself deeper into the pipes, willing myself to disappear. For a moment, fear grips me, and I worry they're coming to execute me for desertion. But then I hear the veteran's voice over his comm bead.

"We've got a blood trail. Inform Sister Helena that we'll be returning with Aurora shortly."

Relief floods through me, and I can almost breathe again. Another cadet's voice breaks the silence.

"Pretty stupid of her to run off," he mutters.

"More interesting that she left her helmet behind," Lucious's voice adds, dripping with disdain.

"Quiet," the veteran snaps, his lumen sweeping towards the pipes.

I know I can't hide much longer. Sleep has calmed some of my turmoil, though I'm far from peaceful. Faith or no faith, right or wrong, running off was probably the stupidest thing I've done, and I know I can't keep hiding. Taking a deep breath, I call out softly.

"I'm here. I'm coming out."

I push myself slowly from the pipes, wincing as my cut foot scrapes against the rough metal. Pain lances up my leg, but I grit my teeth and limp forward. The veteran steps forward, his eyes narrowing as the servo skull hovers closer, verifying my scent.

"There you are," the veteran says, his tone a mixture of relief and reprimand. The servo-skull hovers closer, the familiar scent of oil and incense filling the air as it verifies my scent.

The veteran opens his mouth to continue, but a lasbolt cuts him short. His face explodes in a spray of blood and bone, his body slumping forward onto me. I gasp, the warmth of his blood soaking into my clothes. The servo-skull follows, exploding into a shower of sparks.

Rough hands grab my shoulders, throwing me down beside the veteran's lifeless body. There's a muted scuffle, a third shot, and the body of a cadet falls beside me, his face a ruined mess.

"Are we secure?" Lucious's voice, calm and collected, cuts through the panic.

Two boys in cadet uniforms take positions at the pipes, confirming their security. "Secure, sir."

"Good," Lucious steps into the light, his smile a cruel slash in the darkness. "Hello, little rat."

Lucious is… Lucious just…

It takes my scrambled thoughts so long to coalesce, I don't even notice my hand come up, but Lucious does. The augmetic snaps the lazpistol into a perfect firing position then hesitates for a split second as my screaming mind finally makes the connection and I pull the trigger.

Suddenly, Lucious isn't there, in fact nothing is there. Everything is white, and bright and… and I scream as the synaptic link to the augmetic bursts with sudden pain response, then it's shutting down, deadening the agony.

I'm on the ground again, my laspistol drops from limp metal fingers. I scrabble to pick it up, the arm twitches, attempting to re-route signal around fused control circuits.

Laughter, high-pitched, inhuman, shrieks into the air and lances into my mind like cold needles. My gaze is forcibly drawn to my right where I see Lucious, rising from the ground, laspistol still clutched in his right hand. His left hand is holding… is holding his right arm, like a baton. Twisted, blackened flesh solders where his shoulder used to be.

I stare in horror as Lucious continues to laugh, waving his cauterized arm around like it's the funniest thing he's ever seen.

"Look at this!?" His hand, still clutching the laspistol in a death grip comes down, once, twice, three times as I desperately try to defend myself with my remaining arm but find my movements hampered significantly by the heavy dead weight of the agmetic hanging uselessly from my fused shoulder.

Lucious tosses the arm away and leers down at me. "Your little friend Valeria told everyone you'd taken it upon yourself to find your master. But I've been watching you, little rat. I've had my friends watch you. Scurrying about, cleaning, polishing, crying. Always crying." He bends down so I can see the stump of his shoulder, "do I look like I'm crying, little rat?"

He straightens with a sneer, looming over me. "You almost ruined my fun when you threw yourself off that balcony. But you lived, little heretic. We can't have that, can we?" His face curls into a sneer, "You're a little heretic, aren't you? A sewer rat, polluting everything you touch." His words are a litany of hate, each one a dagger. "You don't belong up here. You belong down there, with the other rat I shot."

I snarl, trying to launch myself at him, but my augmetic fails to respond. Lucious kicks me in the face, sending me sprawling back to the ground.

"I suppose I should thank you, little rat," Lucious says, pulling out a small, worn piece of dried skin from what looks like a book of some sort. "I was worried I'd have to kill you in camp, but you made it easy, running off like this." He glances at the dead veteran and the cadet, then back at me, laughing at my confusion.

"But you were fast, weren't you, not a complete waste of all that time the Holy Sister spent abusing you for her own twisted enjoyment?" He chuckles, pulling the skin-like substance free of the book like a torn page. "Oh yes, Helena's time will come, the sister who cares more for her pet rat, and the enjoyment of your pain than she does for her charge to train her novitiates? Heretical…"

"And the others?" He continues with a nod towards the bodies around me, "that veteran, he didn't care anymore. A traitor, blowing his pay on drugs." Lucious points to the cadet, "And him, Markus…" he shakes his head and tuts, "poor Markus, he put personal feelings above the great work of purifying the Imperium."

Lucious's eyes bore into mine. "But you, Aurora, you're the worst. A heretic, a rat. Feeding off the Imperium's lifeblood. I saw it the first time we met. I see everything, little rat. I've been chosen, chosen by the Emperor to undertake a great cleansing, a crusade, to rid the imperium of the complacent, the self-serving, the heretic, and those who sympathize with heretics."

"You see, the Emperor chose me, revealed himself to me," He holds up the dried skin and something on it, or maybe in it, moves and twists, not on the skin, but in my mind as I stare at it. I yelp in shock and turn away, a sudden migraine splitting my senses and for a moment, I black out. When I come to, Lucious is there, filling my vision, the flap of skin now situated over his left eye, glaring down at me, into me, through me, burrowing inside me. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn't help.

He tosses away his severed arm, "you know, I was going to just kill you," he says drawing a knife. I whimper, trying to shuffle back, but he steps on my wounded ankle, and I cry out in pain.

"I see you," Lucious whispers, "I see it in you, in so many, the heresy, the self-serving thoughts, the desire for comfort and mercy and love and pity and pleasure and—"

I lash out with my good arm, the Broken Guardian grasped between my fingers like a tiny dagger. It bites into his ankle just above the boot. I twist, he laughs and casually sets his other foot down on my hand, tearing the Broken Guardian's wing from his flesh and compressing my fingers until I have to let go, or lose them.

"Shhhh," Lucious whispers, kneeling beside me, his face a mad rictus of a grin. "I'm not going to kill you; I'm not even going to torture you. I am the seer, only rarely allowed to pile skulls before the Emperor's bloody throne." He hesitates, as if listening to another voice, one I can't hear.

"You were mine, but now, well," he glances at his missing arm, "now I'm going to be the selfish one and let you live, because what comes next will amuse me so... We're almost even, after all, an arm for an arm. But you had to do just a little more cutting so… I guess I'll have to balance us out again." The knife inches towards my forehead and I hold suddenly and perfectly still. His eye, an eye, his and not his, stares down into me, freezing my mind, my thoughts, my body. "Another will come to purge you, little heretic, hopefully your own master. I simply need her to see what I see… the truth… now… hold still."

 

[Rakashua]

Chapter 13: Purge

I wake to darkness, deeper and more suffocating than before. My body screams in protest as I move, every inch of me aching. My mind is feverish, fragmented. Lucious's cruel laughter echoes in my head, blending with the whispers of the underhive. I can still feel his touch, the cold bite of the broken guardian's wing as it carved into my flesh.

My flesh…!

Something is crawling under my skin, writhing and alive. It slithers through my veins, coiling around my bones, spreading its poison. I claw at my arms, my legs, trying to dig it out, but it only burrows deeper, laughing at my feeble attempts. My hand trembles as I lift it to my face, and I see the mark, glowing faintly, sickeningly. Then I feel them, more than one, pulsing with a light that is wrong, twisted, and malevolent. They feel… good, and that terrifies me more than anything.

"Emperor, save me," I whisper, my voice cracking. "Please, save me from this evil."

My prayer is desperate, a plea from the depths of my soul. The darkness presses in, and I feel the weight of a thousand eyes that aren't eyes, watching, judging, anticipating. I try to stand, but my legs buckle, and I collapse onto the cold, hard floor. My eyes dart around, seeking, searching for something, anything to help me.

My head feels like it's on fire, burning, not with heat, but hunger, hunger for things I can't and don't want to understand.

My fingers brush against a metal pipe, and I recoil at the heat. It's scalding, almost burning to the touch. But it's exactly what I need. Without hesitation and with a desperate cry I press my palm against the pipe, directly over the mark. The pain is immediate, white-hot, searing through my hand and up my arm. My vision darkens, and I grit my teeth, moaning to keep from screaming. The stench of burning flesh fills the air, acrid and nauseating.

"Emperor, save me," I sob, tears streaming down my face. "Please, make it stop. Make it go away."

I hold my hand there, as long as I can stand it, until my vision blurs and my head swims. The mark sizzles, the flesh blistering and peeling away. I pull back, gasping, and collapse against the wall, my body trembling. The pain is excruciating, but it's a small victory. One mark down. The thing inside me writhes and pain lances through my spine, throwing me to the ground, my body shakes and twists with a will not mine.

I force myself up again, crawling towards the pipe. My forehead throbs and I know the next mark is there, pulsing with that same sickening light. I press it against the pipe, the heat blinding, overwhelming. I scream this time, unable to hold it back, the sound echoing through the underhive, a cry of pure agony and somehow, in some way, victory.

"Emperor, why!?" I scream out, a prayer ripped from ragged lungs. "Why are you letting this happen?"

I pull away, collapsing once more, my breath ragged and shallow. The world spins, and I can barely see through the haze of pain and tears. But I can't stop. I have to keep going. I have to purge this evil.

My shoulder is next, the last mark. I drag myself up, using the wall for support, and press the mark against the pipe… except I don't.

Why would I? Why serve such a hypocritical Emperor?

The thought comes unbidden to my mind. No pain, no throbbing in my spine, no spearing agony throwing me to the ground, just a thought, just a question, one more to join the many other unanswered questions that brought me here, to these pipes, away from the camp.

Why serve an Emperor who only cares when he feels like it, only loves to make you serve him, only gives so he can take?

My vision swims and my ears burn as I feel my whole body alive with fire, a fire that chases away the pain, the doubts. A throne, not golden but white, bleached white, a throne of skulls. "Come, drink of the red rivers," the voice that utters from my lips isn't my own. "Drink and be free, drink and be reborn, serve that which rewards, that which hears, that in which there is no falsehood only the pure, cleansing simplicity of rage."

My eyes feel drawn upwards, from the rivers of red that flow through the valley of bones to the base of the mountainous throne. Gravity itself pulls me up, drawing my gaze to one sitting on the throne like light caught in a black hole.

"I see the one who sits enthroned. The emperor of skulls, the lord of blood. His name is—"

With a terror beyond mortal reckoning I throw myself against the pipe. The white hot pain lances through my arm, burning as I press harder, harder, harder. The pain, tears through me with every second. Spots swim before my eyes, dark and growing, the vision of blood and bone fades and is replaced by darkness, the oppressive darkness of the underhive now seemingly bright, welcoming, and warm.

My body shakes, and I feel myself go, my heart give out, my glands drained of adrenaline, everything shutting down….

I hit the ground and feel my heart beating, slowly, exhaustion in every cell of my being and torment in every fiber of my soul.

"Please, Emperor," I whisper, my voice inaudible even to me. "Please, don't abandon me. I need you. I need your light."

The marks burn, the flesh charred and blackened, but the light remains, taunting me. Another mark, there's still another, somewhere beneath my chin. I collapse to the floor, completely spent. My vision swims. I feel liquid running down my cheeks from my eyes, ears, and nose, hot, wet, sticky, final. In the dim haze of my vision I see the faint outline of Sister Helena's helmet, the eye lenses glowing chrimson in the darkness.

Ceramite boots crunch nearer, echoing through the underhive. Heavy, deliberate steps. They come, and I feel a hand on my shoulder, rough , cold ceramite. I can't look up, but as my head lolls back, my vision blurry, I hear the hiss of pressure seals and see the cold, unyielding gaze of Sister Helena, staring down at me.

Sister Helena's gaze pierces through the haze of my pain and fear, locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my blood run cold. Her hand rests heavily on my shoulder, the chill of ceramite seeping through my flesh, grounding me in this nightmare. Her voice, a harsh whisper, cuts through the oppressive silence of the underhive.

"Aurora," she says, each syllable a hammer striking an anvil. "Did you kill them?"

My throat constricts, and my voice wavers, barely more than a whimper. "Did not kill, did not kill, did not kill kill kill…" A giggle floats up my throat and I cough and twitch in her grip.

Sister Helena's eyes narrow, scrutinizing me with an unrelenting intensity. She kneels beside me, her movements precise and deliberate, each action measured and controlled. Through the haze of pain and exhaustion, I watch her examine the mutilated bodies of the veteran and the cadet and the marks on their skin. Her fingers trace the ragged wounds, the charred edges of flesh, and then return to me and trace the seared and scorched flesh of my hand, shoulder, and forehead, her eyes flit to the pipe where strips of skins till smolder and bubble.

Her hand reaches for the broken guardian around my neck, the string cutting into my skin, drawing blood. I flinch at the contact, a fresh wave of pain washing over me. She removes it, her expression unreadable, and holds it up to the flickering light. The guardian, my guardian, once a symbol of my faith, now defiled with the mark of chaos, dangles from her hand like a mockery of my beliefs.

"What should be done with this?" she asks, her voice cold and detached, as if she is speaking of an inanimate object, not the last remnant of my past.

Tears stream down my face, mingling with the blood and grime. My voice, broken and raw, emerges in a sing-song whisper, a desperate chant. "Burn burn burn burn burn burn burn…"

Sister Helena's eyes flicker with something I cannot name. Without hesitation, she sets the guardian on the ground and ignites her hand flamer. The flames roar to life, consuming it in an instant, reducing it to slag and ash. The sight is visceral, searing into my mind in a way a hot pipe never could. I watch through feverish haze the final destruction of my last tether to the person I once was.

The smell of burning flesh and metal fills the air, acrid and nauseating. My heart clenches painfully, each beat echoing the loss of my faith's physical manifestation. The guardian, the symbol of my mother's love, the focus of my childhood prayers, gone in a blaze of purifying fire. I feel hollow, a void where my faith once anchored me.

Sister Helena's gaze returns to me, unwavering, unyielding. "And what about you, Aurora?" she asks, her voice as cold as the void of space. "What should be done with you?"

The question hangs in the air, heavy with implication. My mind is a whirlwind of pain, fear, and overwhelming loss. I can barely think, barely breathe. The thought of being consumed by those same flames, of having my existence reduced to ash, terrifies me. Yet, a part of me wonders if that is my fate, if that is the only way to purge the heresy from my soul.

I stare up at her, my vision swimming, my thoughts disjointed. The pain, the fear, the sense of betrayal all blend into a single, overwhelming sensation. I can't find words, or perhaps the flickering twitches of the thing under my skin stops my mind from using them. In the end all I can manage is to repeat a single verse of the prayers my mother taught me to say before bed each night…

"In the sky so high above,

He watches over us with love.

Keep us safe eternally,

Burn away the heresy…"

 

[Rakashua]

And now... the conclusion of book 1... and the setup for book 2...

I hope you've all enjoyed the journey

 

[Rakashua]

I, Vermin: Chapter 13.5: Horde (Helena's POV)



The underhive swallows all light. My helm's lumen cuts a narrow path through the oppressive darkness as I cradle Aurora's limp form. Her skin is marred with burns and blasphemous symbols—a mockery etched into her flesh. The stench of scorched meat and the taint of heresy cling to her.

"Emperor guide me," I whisper, adjusting my grip. The servos in my power armor whir softly, compensating for her weight. A tremor courses through the ground—a rhythmic pulse inconsistent with the underhive's usual instability. Again… Again… Repeatedly, growing…

My helm's auspex flickers. Seismic activity detected. Unnatural. I engage my jump pack, ascending swiftly to the rooftop of a decaying hab-structure. From this vantage point, I switch to thermal imaging. The underhive's labyrinthine corridors bloom into a tapestry of heat signatures—rivers of warmth converging toward our location.

A horde.

"Emperor preserve us," I growl, adrenaline lighting up my nervous system. The magnitude is greater than any gang skirmish. This is organized. This is planned.

I key into the vox. "Constantia units, this is Sister Helena. Hostiles inbound in massive numbers. Fall back to nearest strongpoints and reinforce Imperial Guard positions. Prepare to repel attackers. Armaments unknown."

Acknowledgments crackle back, tense but disciplined.

I arc through the air, the roar of my jump pack echoing off the corroded structures. The vast manufactorum looms ahead—the site of our operation, an ancient edifice with gaping entrances over a hundred meters high. Once a place of industry, now a hollow shell sheltering shadows.

I land near the outer perimeter, marked by a hasty barricade of debris and portable defense emplacements. Cadet commissars and Militarum cadets scramble under the barked orders of veteran Gravediggers. High-intensity lamp packs flood the immediate area with harsh light, casting long shadows out and away from the factorum.

"Hold your lines!" a veteran sergeant bellows. "Keep those lamp packs steady!"

"Check safeties, off! Set power levels to three-quarter power, adjust as necessary. Set additional munitions at convenient intervals. Keep your heads down encase the enemy have their own munitions! The Emperor Protects!" A cadet commissar shouts with a voice still cracking from puberty.

I push through, making for the central strongpoint where a heavy stubber emplacement stands ready. The weapon's crew, three cadets, eye the darkness nervously.

"Report," I command.

"M-Ma'am," one of the cadets stammers, "locked and loaded, two-thousand rounds. Commissar Swartz and squad were back in the headquarters tent with Captain Gaius..."

I nod, clamping a gauntleted hand on her shoulder. "Steady yourself. I'm sure the Commissar won't want to miss the opportunity for some live target practice." I keep my tone light, "I have to report to Captain Gaius myself, try to keep a few of them alive for my return."

I watch as some of the nervous fear in their eyes is replaced by bravado and the assertion of training, "the Emperor Protects!"

I return her salute with a nod and stride toward the inner perimeter, entering the yawning maw of the manufactorum. Inside, the atmosphere changes—the air thicker, the sounds muted. The inner perimeter is secured by barricades funneling any approach into three choke points: the main entrance and two auxiliary gates on either side. Beyond that lies the freight elevator, our only route back to the surface.

I open a channel to Captain Gaius. "Captain, we have a massive mob of hostiles advancing on our position. You have operational command, but I suggest we begin immediate evacuation procedures."

His voice comes back steady, tinged with skepticism. "Sister Helena, our position is highly defensible. We're inside the manufactorum—a fortress in its own right. Three narrow approaches, clear lines of fire extending three hundred meters across an open shipping yard. It's flat terrain with little to no cover. We could hold off a horde of Orks from here with little difficulty, let alone a rabble of malnourished underhive scum wielding pipes and clubs."

I grit my teeth. "Captain, what I saw out there is likely a mere fraction of what's coming. This isn't a gang of desperate beggars. We're facing a horde, possibly numbering in the thousands, potentially organized."

He pauses before replying. "Our heavy stubbers are strategically placed. The cadets are positioned at the perimeters under veteran guidance. We've ample ammunition and the high ground, not to mention your esteemed self and eight of your own constantia equipped with the exact sort of gear to handle this sort of incursion." He pauses and I can hear it in his voice, the certainty, but not certainty of victory, certainty of a fight, something memorable, something worth drawing the short straw and getting stationed in an instructor position in the schola, never to see action, not real action anyways. "Evacuation isn't necessary—we can stand our ground."

"Your confidence is noted, but misplaced," I snap. "My gut tells me this is more than a simple mob bent on taking our supplies. There's a malign influence at work here, mark me."

He huffs. "With respect, Sister, guts don't win battles. Strategy and firepower do."

I clench my fist, the servos in my gauntlet whirring. "I found Aurora injured—brutalized. The aquila she wore was defiled with the marks of Chaos. I also discovered the bodies of your Gravedigger veteran Sergeant Akall and one of the cadets from the search party, slain with signs of heretical ritual." I leave out that the only signs of heretic ritual were on Aurora herself. "Lucious and the other two cadets are missing."

There's a heavy silence on the line. "You're certain about the mark?" he asks, his tone shifting.

I feel a surge of anger. "Do not dare question my experience, Captain. I've seen the face of the Enemy more times than I can count. I know a Chaos symbol when it's carved into the flesh of one of my own."

He exhales sharply. "That does change the situation."

"You're damn right that changes the situation," a new voice cuts in.

"Explicator!" Gaius quickly recovers, his tone confirming he didn't know the inquisitorial adept was eavesdropping.

"The taint of the arch enemy does not present itself here, on a world at the heart of our system, without intent, without plan. It hides, it waits, it schemes, it burrows into the mind of such unfortunates as live in this hell-hole. The fact that any mark at all was left to be discovered is proof that this is no mere ragged mob. Might I remind you, Captain, that our failure here will leave a freight elevator shaft, one temporarily opened and made operational for our quarterly use, open and vulnerable to exploitation…" Sullivan finishes.

"Exactly. We cannot underestimate this threat. The warp's touch could mean corruption beyond mere numbers." I agree, finding the man's judgement to be spot on, if not a bit overdramatic.

Gaius deliberates for a moment. "Very well. I'll order a general evacuation. But understand this will not be swift. With nearly a thousand denizens added to our number, we'll need at least three lifts to get everyone topside. The medicae and Mechanicus will need time to pack essential equipment."

"Prioritize the evacuation of the approved denizens, faculty, and any students not trained for combat," I urge. "We need to get the vulnerable out first.

"Agreed," he concedes. "I'll have the cadets assist in breaking down camp and organizing the evacuees."

"I'm returning to the front to buy us time," I inform him. "Ensure the lifts are loaded to capacity each trip. Leave non-essential gear behind if necessary."

He sighs. "Understood, Sister Helena. Emperor be with us."

"And with you, Captain," I reply, cutting the link and glance down at Aurora's still unconscious form. Her lips are trembling, moving like she's crying, or trying to speak, but nothing comes out.

Navigating through clusters of personnel dismantling equipment, I reach the medical tent. Inside, the air is thick with antiseptics and urgency. Rows of denizens await processing, eyes wide with fear and hope.

I enter the medical tent, the sharp scent of antiseptics mingling with the underlying odors of blood and fear. Rows of denizens await processing, their faces etched with desperation and a flicker of hope. The novices move among them like ghosts, administering aid under the stern guidance of their superiors.

Sister Superior Amara, Chief Hospitaller of the schola, stands at the center of the controlled chaos, her presence commanding despite her age. Augmetic legs support her with unwavering stability, and three surgical mechadendrites extend from her left shoulder, each one deftly attending to a different task. Lines of experience carve her face, and her eyes—steel gray and unyielding—narrow as she notices my approach.

"State your purpose, Sister Helena," she says curtly, her voice cutting through the ambient noise with obvious displeasure. "This is a sanctified, sanitized, holy space of healing. Your presence…" she pauses and wrinkles her nose at the grime on my boots and the exhaust burning out of my jump pack's power plant, "is an affront to those things."

I step forward, cradling Aurora's limp form in my arms. The girl's burns hide but do not completely obscure the blasphemous symbols etched into her flesh, flesh that stands out starkly under the harsh lumen strips.

"We are under imminent threat," I announce, my tone leaving no room for doubt. "A horde approaches. You must begin immediate evacuation. Prioritize the approved denizens and unarmed personnel. Use the freight elevator, we will—"

Amara's mechadendrites pause in their tasks, retracting slightly as she folds her arms. "I must, do no such thing." She interrupts coldly. "We have over two hundred souls yet unprocessed Abandoning them is not an option. Nor will we leave behind the Emperor's blessed equipment entrusted to our care."

"The enemy numbers in the thousands," I retort. "We don't have time to complete processing. Lives are at stake—including yours."

Her gaze hardens and I immediately realize this was the wrong approach. "Our duty is to these people, Sister Helena. We are the Emperor's mercy made manifest. I will not turn my back on those we came to save, nor will I forsake the sacred tools of our mission." She steps forward, her face mere inches from mine. "I have survived countless battlefields, saved the lives of sisters and soldiers alike. I do not need a lesson in danger from you."

I step back, trying to open the space and show that I didn't mean it as the insult she so definitively received it as. The servos in my power armor humming softly. "By the authority vested in me as Canoness Commander, I order you to initiate evacuation immediately."

She lifts her chin, unimpressed. "Your rank is noted, but here, you hold no command. You are a teacher on respite, not my superior. I answer only to the Abbess."

Frustration wells within me, but I keep my voice even. "This isn't about hierarchy. I have seen signs of Chaos—heretical symbols carved into flesh. If I am right we cannot stand up against what is coming, organized, planned, prepared aggression by a foe who outnumbers us a hundred to one with naught but a handful of veterans and students between us? Students who have never faced a true battle much less the heresy of the arch enemy!?"

Her mechadendrites twitch, reflecting her agitation. "If these students, as you call them, are not ready to die for the Emperor here and now, then we have failed as their instructors. And what of our mission? Will you have us abandon it? The equipment we carry is sacred, irreplaceable, forged and blessed for our holy purpose."

"Equipment can be replaced." I snap. "We can return when the threat is assessed and—"

"Your haste could cost us our honor," she retorts.

Honor. That's when it hits me. God Emperor I've been away from the battlefield for too long. The stubborn goat isn't arguing with me about numbers and probabilities and survival, she's arguing because I've stepped into her domain, the heart of it, and made demands of her in front of the very students she's tasked with instructing. I should apologize, bend the knee, show humility… but I need to get back to the front line before the first shot is fired. Escalation is the only option now.

I reach for the bolt pistol at my side, my hand resting on the grip. I don't draw it, but the message, the insanity of the moment, is lost on no one. "Sister Superior Amara, you are hereby ordered to evacuate. As the ranking military figure present I am giving you a direct order, failure to comply will be considered insubordination of the highest order."

Her eyes widen slightly, a flicker of shock crossing her features. "You would threaten me?"

"No, I would bend the knee and beg your forgiveness on any other day," I state firmly. "but today I must act. Consider this conversation tabled for another day. Comply."

A tense silence settles between us, the surrounding bustle fading into the background. The distant rumble of the approaching horde grows louder, a grim reminder of our dwindling time.

She studies me, her gaze searching. "And if you're wrong? If this threat is less than you claim?"

"Then I will answer to the Abbess and accept any judgment she deems fit," I reply. "But I would rather face censure than risk the lives of everyone here and worse, access to the upper hive."

Her shoulders slump ever so slightly, the weight of responsibility pressing upon her. She exhales slowly, a decision forming in her eyes. "Very well, my canoness. We will begin evacuation procedures. But mark my words—I do this under protest."

"So noted," I acknowledge, releasing my grip on the bolt pistol.

She turns sharply, her mechadendrites snapping back into action. "Novices! Begin immediate preparation for evacuation! Prioritize the approved denizens and secure essential equipment only. We depart at once."

The tent erupts into organized chaos as her orders are carried out. Amara pauses beside Aurora, her gaze softening for a moment as she examines the girl's injuries.

"She's been touched by darkness," Amara observes quietly.

"I found her like this," I admit. "She needs care."

"Valeria!" Amara calls to a nearby novitiate. "Take this girl and see that she is placed on the first lift."

Valeria nods quickly, moving to assist.

Amara looks back at me. "If we survive this, sister of mine, there will be a reckoning."

"If we survive this," I echo, "then I will welcome it," I reply. "May the Emperor guide us both."

She gives a curt nod before moving away to oversee the evacuation.

As I exit the tent, I can't help but feel a grudging respect for Amara. Stubborn as she may be, her devotion is unquestionable. But now is not the time for pride or defiance.

I exit the tent, re-engaging my vox. "Captain Gaius, status update."

"Cadets are assisting with evacuation prep," he replies. "Defensive positions are manned. Commissar Swartz is overseeing the outer perimeter."

"Good. I'll join the front lines to buy us time."

"Understood. Emperor be with you, Sister."

I make my way back toward the outer perimeter. The ambient noise has shifted—a low, collective murmur emanates from the darkness beyond our lights. The cadets fidget nervously, gripping their las-rifles with white knuckled hands.

I approach Commissar Swartz, who stands out in front of the barricade like a granite pillar amidst the restless ranks. His weathered face is impassive beneath his peaked cap.

"Commissar," I greet him.

"Sister Helena," he nods. "We've got a storm coming, I'm told."

"Indeed. The enemy is vast in number. We need to hold until evacuation is complete."

He glances at the cadets. "They're green, but they'll stand. I've seen to that."

I look over the young faces, shadows of fear lurking in their eyes. "Their faith will sustain them, whatever the end."

A sudden silence falls. The murmuring from the darkness ceases. Then, a single, chilling chant rises—a guttural invocation that scrapes against the soul.

"Heretics," Swartz spits. "If I may, Sister, I refuse to be defeated even in this opening overture."

Commissar Swartz's gaze remains fixed on the darkness ahead, but he extends a gloved hand toward me. Understanding his intent, I offer my wrist, the vox-caster embedded in my armor humming softly as it links with his command channel.

He brings his lips close to the micro-bead. When he speaks, his voice is amplified not just by my armor, but echoed by the external vox speakers of the Constantia stationed at the other strongpoints. His words roll out across the assembly, reverberating through the cavernous expanse of the underhive.

"Soldiers of the Imperium!" his voice booms, each syllable crisp and unyielding. "Look upon the foe that gathers yonder—the heretics, the faithless, the damned who have turned their backs on the Emperor's light!"

The cadets straighten, eyes snapping to attention. Even the veterans among us seem galvanized by his authoritative tone.

"Tonight, we stand as the bulwark between righteousness and corruption!" he continues. "You may be young, untested, but the blood of heroes flows in your veins. The Emperor himself watches over you, His gaze upon your hearts and your trigger fingers!"

A low murmur ripples through the ranks, the cadets exchanging glances of steely determination.

"These heretics think us weak," Swartz declares, his voice dripping with contempt. "They believe they can overrun us with their numbers, their madness, their blasphemous chants. But we are the Emperor's wrath! We are His vengeance made manifest!"

He steps forward, unprotected and fearless before the looming threat. "Will you allow these traitors to defile His name? Will you falter and invite dishonor upon yourselves and the schola?"

"Never!" a cadet shouts, his voice cracking but resolute.

"Then steel yourselves!" Swartz commands. "Let courage ignite your souls! Let the purity of your faith be the shield that breaks their resolve!"

He pauses, his gaze sweeping over each face. "Know this: cowardice will not be tolerated. Desertion will be met with swift justice, both in this life and the next. But bravery—bravery will earn you glory in the eyes of the Emperor and a place at His side!"

The cadets nod, jaws set, knuckles whitening around their weapons.

"Prepare to unleash His fury!" Swartz raises his bolt pistol skyward. "Let them come and face the Emperor's justice!"

He turns back toward the encroaching darkness. "Together, we shall send these heretics into the abyss they so crave!"

Drawing in a deep breath, he bellows the rallying cry: "Ave Imperator! Deus Vult!"

"AVE IMPERATOR! DEUS VULT!" the defenders echo, voices merging into a thunderous chant that drowns out even the distant howls of the approaching horde.

My own heart pounds with renewed vigor. As the cadets take up the chant, a palpable shift occurs—a transformation of fear into unshakable resolve.

Commissar Swartz lowers his pistol, a grim smile touching his lips. "When the time comes," he says softly, meant only for my ears. "Don't you dare suggest I be anywhere but your side."

My own jaw tightens. The man is charismatic, correct, but no fool. "Plan for the worst case, eh?" I reply, gripping my bolt pistols. The air crackles with anticipation.

"The worst?" The commissar turns to me, a perfectly neutral expression on his face, "my dear Sister, the Emperor protects!"

I stare at him.

He shudders with a suppressed laugh and his face splits into a grin, "besides, worst case they all die before I get to bathe my chainsword in their blood. Best case I die on a mountain of corpses so high I can don't even need the Emperor to lift me up to be with him, and you have to give my eulogy. I expect real tears on that lovely face, by the way."

My jaw drops, fortunately, under the helmet, he can't see it.

The Horde has reached the edge of the massive transit station, empty ground broken only by disrepair and a million crisscrossing railway tracks. I watch through thermals as their heat signature builds as they mass for the first charge.

"Commissar Emanuel Swartz?"

"Yes, Sister Elsbeth Helena?"

"Would your schedule this semester support a clandestine exchange of alcohol and a game of Regicide?" I ask as the mass continues to build.

"Oh, after today, I think my superiors will find it in their cold black hearts to give me a bit of leave… Ask me tomorrow, sometime, today's plate is looking rather full."

Around us the Cadets continue to chant.

"AVE IMPERATOR! DEUS VULT!"

"I'll do that," I promise, stepping to the side as he moves behind the barricade and out of the line of fire of our heavy stubber.

"Hold the line!" Swartz commands. "For the Emperor!"

The cadets raise their weapons, las-rifles humming with charge.

The horde surges forward.

"Fire!" Swartz roars.

The battlefield unfolds before me like a grim tapestry of chaos and order clashing under the Emperor's gaze. The open expanse of the abandoned shipping yard stretches out, a wasteland of twisted rails and debris, illuminated by the harsh glare of our lamp packs. The horde surges forward, a seething mass of bodies driven by madness and heresy.

Las-fire slices through the darkness, the cadets' volley disciplined yet fierce. Red lances of energy streak into the front ranks of the enemy, felling them in droves. The heavy stubbers thunder beside me, their rhythmic chugging a percussive counterpoint to the high-pitched whine of lasguns. Brass casings clatter to the ground, forming gleaming piles at the feet of stoic gunners.

I scan the advancing tide, my helmet's autosenses highlighting targets and calculating distances. Two hundred meters and closing. The enemy charges without regard for the fallen, trampling their own dead and dying as they sprint across the uneven terrain. Their lack of coordination is offset by sheer numbers and fanaticism.

Through my magnified optics, I see their contorted faces—eyes wild with zealotry, mouths twisted in eternal screams. Their bodies are a canvas of heretical symbols and profane inscriptions carved into flesh, blood mingling with sweat to form a grotesque mosaic. Weapons range from rusty blades and spiked clubs to scavenged autoguns and laspistols of dubious condition.

"Emperor, grant me strength," I whisper, feeling the weight of the moment press upon me.

Ordinarily, I would hold my position, waiting for the enemy to close within a hundred meters before engaging. But instinct drives me forward. These cadets, brave as they are, have never faced such raw blasphemy. The closer the horde gets, the more the heretical markings will unsettle them.

I ignite my jump pack, the turbines roaring to life and sending a burst of displaced air around me. I surge upward, ascending above the defensive line. The cool, stale air of the underhive whips past me, and for a brief moment, I am suspended between the light of our encampment and the darkness beyond. I begin a recitation of the litanies of Seraphim, The Falling Star.

Ascent

"From the vault of heaven's light,
I plunge into the darkest night.
By the Emperor's will I fly,
A burning star across the sky."

Drawing my twin hand flamers, I assess the battlefield from above. Sections of the horde are faltering under concentrated fire, but others press on undeterred. I identify a knot of enemies on the left flank, partially shielded by a derelict cargo hauler—a blind spot in our fields of fire.

Decent

"Blazing trail of holy fire,
Cleansing sin and base desire.
Through the void and storm I soar,
His justice strikes forevermore."

I angle myself toward the gap, locking my armor's servos into impact configuration. With a thought, I cut power to the jump pack, allowing gravity to seize me. I plummet like a meteor, the weight of my ceramite armor turning me into a living weapon.

Impact

I crash into the midst of the horde, the force of my descent shattering bones and pulping flesh. The ground buckles beneath me, a shockwave radiating outward. For a heartbeat, there is no noise but the ringing in my ears. I unlock my armor, servos whirring back into full mobility. Rising from the crater, I unleash the fury of my hand flamers.

Flame

"Star of judgment, falling fast,
End their blight with fiery blast.
In His name, I cleanse, I sing,
Eternal is His wrath I bring!"


Gouts of blessed promethium erupt from the nozzles, washing over the heretics in a purifying inferno. Their screams pierce the cacophony of battle as flames consume them, flesh charring and heretical symbols burning away.

The heat sensors in my armor spike, warning runes flickering across my display. I pay them no heed. The enemy recoils, those not caught in the flames stumbling back in terror.

Satisfied, I engage my jump pack once more, launching upward before they can regroup. As I ascend, the temperature warnings subside, cooling systems cycling frantically to compensate.

From my aerial vantage point, I assess again. The left flank stabilizes as cadets redouble their fire, emboldened by my assault. The horde, however, is relentless. They surge over their fallen, a human tide washing against the bulwark of our defenses.

I spot another concentration of enemies on the right, where an old stack of shipping containers provides partial cover. They advance more rapidly there, less hindered by our suppressive fire.

Angling toward the new target, I repeat the maneuver, broadcasting the litany on my external vox as I shout the words over the sound of the jump pack.

I dive, harnessing momentum, and slam into their midst. Bodies crumple under the impact, and I rise amidst a circle of devastation. Flames roar from my weapons, casting shadows as the promethium engulfs foes in every direction.

Their faces contort in agony and fear, the heretical fervor giving way to primal terror. I take grim satisfaction in their rout, but there's no time to linger.

Again, I ascend.

The battle unfolds below me like a deadly ballet. Our lines hold firm, but the enemy's numbers are staggering. The uneven terrain slows their advance—the maze of rails and debris trips up their footing, creating bottlenecks we exploit with concentrated fire.

Yet, they keep coming.

"Emperor, how many are there?" I wonder, cycling through auspex readings. The data is inconclusive—too much interference from the underhive's dense infrastructure.

As I prepare for another strike, my thoughts drift momentarily. Commissar Swartz's earlier words echo in my mind. His jest about dying atop a mountain of corpses, his comment on my "lovely face."

"Was that genuine interest or mere battlefield bravado?" I muse.

I've never considered him beyond his service record—a commendable history of discipline and valor. Unlike me, he's aged naturally, every line on his face a testament to years of hard-earned experience. I, preserved by juvenat treatments, remain outwardly youthful despite my decades of service. If I'm honest, his lined face, chiseled with the hammer of war is quite handsome in a sort of roguish, battle-worn way.

"Focus, Helena," I chide myself.

I select my next target—a dense cluster pressing the center, where the cadets' fire is beginning to waver. The enemy is dangerously close, a mere fifty meters, their foul symbols now visible even without magnification. I can only imagine the impact on the young soldiers' morale.

Descending swiftly, I brace for impact.

This time, the enemy anticipates my tactic and my trajectory. A hail of crude projectiles arcs toward me—makeshift spears, thrown blades, sporadic gunfire. Most bounce harmlessly off my armor, but a few strikes register, warning runes flash.

I plow into them regardless, the force of my arrival scattering bodies like leaves before a storm. Rising amidst the chaos, I unleash the cleansing fire once more. The hand flamers roar, their fuel reserves depleting rapidly but to devastating effect.

"Hold the line!" I vox to the cadets, hoping my actions inspire renewed courage.

As flames consume the immediate area, I catch a glimpse of something. I don't know what, but it stops me and I falter, facing the flames towards the onrushing horde and turning to look more closely. There… what I thought at first was the glow of burning flesh, no, something more, something marked into the shipping yard itself. A line, as thick as my hand, and, if it's no trick of the light, it's glowing a dull red. Yes, as I stare, headless of the growing number of impacts against my carapace, my visor's cogitator makes an analysis, it's getting brighter…

A chill runs down my spine. My visor's display highlights the glowing lines etched into the ground—a labyrinth of warp-tainted symbols gradually revealed beneath the blood and ash. The more the heretics fall, the brighter the lines become, feeding off the death and carnage.

"Emperor preserve us," I breathe, realization dawning like a blade to the gut. We've been lured into a trap—a ritual site primed to unleash horrors beyond comprehension, an engine of warp sorcery just needing the fuel of bile and blood that our suppressive fire and the horde's mad rush are rapidly providing!

I engage my external vox, linking it to the vox-casters of the Constantia. My voice, amplified tenfold, cuts through the din like a clarion call.

"All units, this is Sister Helena! Immediate retreat to the secondary perimeter! Fall back with all haste! In the name of the Emperor fall back! Get inside the manufactorum, now!"

The urgency in my tone leaves no room for doubt or hesitation. Below, I see Commissar Swartz snap his head upward, his eyes meeting mine through the glare. He can't see what I see but he nods once, understanding that this is no act of cowardice but a dire necessity.

He raises his own vox. "All cadets, fall back! Execute emergency retreat to secondary positions inside the manufactorum! That is an order—move!"

Panic flickers across the faces of the young cadets. Their ranks waver, the disciplined lines threatening to dissolve into chaos.

"Hold formation!" Swartz bellows. "A firing, retreat, in order—do not break ranks!"

But I know the truth. These are inexperienced cadets, teenagers, children, facing an unimaginable threat. An ordered retreat is a luxury we won't be afforded, and the enemy are taking full advantage.

Switching channels, I address the Constantia. "My Constantia, no, my Sisters," I say, emphasizing the word, knowing it holds no less consequence than the orders I'm about to issue. "we must delay the enemy to buy time for the retreat and establishment of the secondary line. Engage the horde directly. Use all remaining promethium and grenades. Hold them as long as you can, then fall back to the inner perimeter."

There is a brief pause before Constantia Samara responds, her voice steady. "By your command, Sister Helena. Sisters!" She takes up the word with relish, "Charge!"

"Go with His light," I whisper.

From my vantage point, I watch as the eight Constantia break from their four positions, moving with coordinated precision toward the onrushing horde. Their ceramite shields gleam white against the sudden uninterrupted fusillade of las and hard rounds as we become the only thing to shoot at.

They charge, flamers unleashing torrents of holy fire. Explosions pepper the front lines of the enemy as grenades detonate, sending bodies and shrapnel skyward. The horde falters, if only for a moment.

"Emperor, give them strength," I pray.

Below, the cadets scramble back toward the manufactorum's massive entrances. Their movements are frantic, discipline giving way to sheer survival instinct. Some trip over debris or fallen comrades, but veteran Gravediggers and Commissar Swartz herd them onward, shouting commands and pulling stragglers to their feet.

"Captain Gaius, prepare the inner defenses!" I voxs urgently. "The enemy is exploiting a warp ritual—we cannot maintain this position!"

His reply crackles back, tension evident. "Understood. We'll hold the entrances. What in the Emperor's name is happening out there?"

"No time," I say emptying another set of clips as I hover, letting the kick drive me slowly backwards. "Just see that every person you have who can pull a trigger is on that line, and by all that is Holy hold your fire until Swartz gets the cadets inside, my sisters and I will delay them as long as we can."

The horde surges anew, undeterred by the Constantia's sacrificial assault. The glowing lines beneath them pulse with malevolent energy, fed by the carnage. I can feel the air itself growing heavy, a tangible distortion that sets my teeth on edge.

"Helena," Swartz voxs privately. "We're nearing the entrances, but the cadets are close to breaking."

"Do whatever it takes to get them inside," I urge, slamming home clips as quickly as I can empty them, not even bothering to aim into the rushing masses. "We cannot let the enemy breach the manufactorum."

I hear the mere hint of hesitation in his voice, then the sound of his bolt pistol barking, and not in the direction of our mutual foes. "Understood."

On the battlefield, my Sisters are being swallowed by the horde, baptized in a wave of blood and foul, filthy flesh. Their flamers sputter empty, and they draw bolt pistols and chain blades, fighting with fervor and grim determination. Back to back I watch them, letting my body fight on automatic as my mind watches the runes on my helmet. For every heretic they fell, ten more take their place. Shields are ripped away by masses of cultists and I realize I've run out of ammunition.

"Fall back now!" I command them. "You've done enough!"

Sister Samara's voice comes through, strained but resolute. "Acknowledged. Retreating."

They begin a fighting withdrawal, but the enemy presses hard. One by one, their vox signals falter as they are overwhelmed.

My heart clenches. As I see a pair to my far left, Nadia and Haley. Nadia is borne down by the mob and Haley stops and turns, rushing back into certain death, clawing for her fallen Sister's hand beneath the writhing masses.

The same is repeated on the right, Challa and Rebecca vanish under a wave of filthy hands and crude blades.

In the center, I can see Samara dragging Manuela by the hand, sprinting hard as both girls empty the last of their ammunition into the nearing horde.

And in the midst of the horde, Riley and Kai have climbed to the top of a shipping container and are madly dispatching anything that tries to follow them but their shields are gone, they have no cover, and the enemy no qualms with firing into its own to hit them.

Time seems to stand still as I trigger the combat stim without realizing it. Some part of my mind disconnects from the reality of spinning teeth of my twin chain blades as I sweep and hack into a mob no less certain to bring me down than my charges.

I can't save them all.

My pack erupts in fire, melting the flesh off those immediately around me as I rocket into the air, trailing bile and a few heretics too stupid or mad to let go.

I can try!

I angle to the center first, closest and slam into the ground next to Samara, the shock of it slamming my teeth together and making me see stars.

"Run!" I shout at her and grab Manuella by the arm, triggering my pack as I throw myself forward over the distance to the central entrance, the ceramite from Manuella's battered armor screaming against the ground as sparks fly around us and the machine spirit of Seraphim screeches in protest at the added weight. I make the door and pivot on one foot, my knee servo snarling through a turn as I throw Manuella bodily towards the inner barricades.

I turn and blast backwards, not waiting to watch how she lands as I race out and up. My helmet identifies the mound of heretics that marks the position of Nadia and Haley. I hit the pile at full speed. Haley's life-signs have already flatlined but still I find Nadia gripping her sister's arm, pushing shoulder-down into the mob, refusing to be borne down by sheer grit and the blessed stubbornness of her armor's ancient machine spirit.

"Let go!" I grip her around the waist and slam my shoulder into her arm, breaking her grip even as I fire the pack and throw us through the mob and out the other side, sliding across the floor on a slick of bile and heretic blood.

"No!" Nadia screams and I feel her gauntleted fist slam into my side over and over, but the stim dulls the pain and my own grip only intensifies.

We've gained a scarce ten meters when I let the screaming jump pack begin a cooldown sequence and throw Nadia to her feet, pushing her stumbling towards the Manufactorum, "Go, Now!" I scream over the local vox and she obeys even as I hear the sobs in her voice.

Warning runes flash across my vision as I ignite my pack again and I ignore them. The machine spirit is dying, perhaps I'm dying too, between the stim and the adrenaline I don't really feel anything anymore nor do I have time to take note of every armor breach warning or my own spiking vitals.

Air is rushing in and out of my lungs and… and I feel it on my neck? My helmet's seal is failing and when it does flight won't be an option.

I ignore all of this again and my head snaps around trying to locate the cargo container. My vision and my mind swim in the drug induced battle haze and the disorientation threatens to knock me out of the sky just as surely as enemy fire.

"Helena, it's too late!" Swartz voice crackles over the com and I see him, standing at the main entrance, crouching just inside the doorway, firing his bolt pistol indiscriminately. "Get inside!"

But I can't abandon them.

A searing pain rips across my back—a lucky shot from a stubber finding a gap in my armor even as a dozen more whiz and ping off the ceramite, eating tiny chunks of my divine protection.

"Helena, fall back!" Swartz's voice is insistent now.

"No!" I shout, eyes locking onto Riley and Kai. The two ceramite forms are prone, minimizing their target silhouettes while fighting hand to hand from the ground up into the wash of foes climbing the pile of bodies around the edges of the container to get to them.

"Riley, Kai!" I shout, screaming out over the horde as I fly as low as I dare. "Arms up! The moment we hit, lock armor and don't unlock it until we're clear!"

I don't get an acknowledgement but a moment later, both girls raise their arms. Less than a second later I'm over top of them, flying over the crate as fast as the jump pack can take me. Time slows, senses sharpen, my left hand locks with Kai's arm, gripping her wrist, my left hand doing the same around Riley's armored wrist. Movements that my real arms and hands could never have made snap into place in the space of less than a heartbeat. Then I squeeze, feeling my own gantlets crack under the maximum pressure that fingers master crafted by Magos Harspes himself can generate.

Then the shock hits as their arms snap forwards and I hear them scream even as my Seraphim's machine spirit screams and I pray it lasts just seconds longer. We arch into the air, my momentum carrying us up over the horde for a bare moment before the added weight sends us plunging down again. We hit just before the main entrance.

"Go, Go!" I lift Riley and Kai to their feet and push them forward. As soon as I let go, their arms fall limply to their sides. Pride swells within me even as I see them lope into a stumbling run, grabbing their limp arms and locking the armor so their arms fasten across their chests.

I glance at my HUD and it takes a moment for the world to stop swimming so I can see. My Constantia, my Sisters… five icons blink red, three are black. I rip off my helmet and scream out a curse. Challa and Rebecca didn't make it.

I didn't make it, to them.

"Emperor forgive me," I whisper, and turn from the foe, rushing inside.

As I near the inner barricade, I see the cadets and remaining defenders hastily forming a new line. Heavy stubbers are repositioned, and lasguns are trained on the advancing enemy.

"Hold them here!" Captain Gaius shouts from the barricade closes to the center of the room. "Do not let them pass!"

I leap the barrier and land beside him. "Captain, we can't let them enter the manufactorum. The ritual site may extend inside—we must seal the entrances."

He looks at me, sweat and fear streaking his face. "Seal them how? The doors haven't moved in centuries!"

"Explosives," I suggest. "Bring down the archways. It's our only chance."

He hesitates. "We'll be trapping ourselves inside, and there's no guarantee we won't drop the roof while we're at it."

"Better than allowing a warp breach within these walls," I counter.

Swartz joins us, his expression grim. "We've got them penned!" His voice echoes through the room over multiple vox repeaters, "engage them just before they reach the doors, pile them up, make a wall of death, clog the choke points with them! Fire! Fire! Fire!" He turns the vox off and nods to Gaius "She's right. We'll figure out an exit later."

Gaius nods reluctantly. "Sergeant Thorne! Take Murdoc and McTavish, grab whatever explosives we have and bring them here, now!"

"Yes, sir!"

The defenders brace as the horde reaches effective firing range. The inner perimeter erupts with a withering hail of fire. Lasguns, stubbers, and the few remaining flamers unleash their wrath.

"Hold nothing back!" Swartz bellows. "This is our stand!"

The enemy crashes against our defenses. The cadets fight with desperate courage, the earlier panic replaced by a fierce will to survive.

I take position atop a makeshift barricade next to swartz and find, to my relief, my pistols are still maglocked to my armor. I draw them and accept a box of clips Swartz shoves my way with his boot.

"Patersday," Swartz yells from beside me as I load both clips and begin to pick targets.

"What?"

"Patersday," He repeats, "next week, I think I have a half day of office-hours I can cancel on Patersday, if you're still up for that clandestine meeting."

"What!?"

He turns to me and smiles with his teeth then nods behind me as two troopers come panting forward. They drop four satchel charges at their feet, then, turn and begin firing their lasrifles even as the third one reports.

"Four charges sir, it's all we've got with us." Sergeant Thorne states, then turns and takes a knee, firing along the main entryway.

"Emperor's teeth!" Gaius curses, "that's enough to bring down one doorway, maybe. This place was built to last!"

"Two choke points is better than three," Swartz comments, his pistol barking in rapid succession.

"Make it zero choke points," I comment, starting to feel like my head is screwed on straight again.

"Sister?" Swartz raises an eyebrow.

"Captain Gaius, have your men use the four charges on our left ingress. I will handle the right, and center, be prepared to shift everyone further back, towards the elevator. If this works…" I turn from the battle, noting to my dismay that the first lift hasn't even returned from the surface yet. We don't need to buy minutes… we need hours, hours!

I spot what I'm looking for and jog up to one of the two tech adepts I recognize from the repairs to the lift's power systems. I approach the mechanicus adept and pick my words carefully.

"Adept," I intone, making the sign of the aquila, "I require your assistance. The machine spirits of my war gear, and that of my sisters are all but spent, however, there is still a way in which they can bring death to the enemies of the Imperium and preserve the lives of those here."

"Interogative," the adept replies immediately, as though waiting for me to finally finish my words, "will this action ensure the safety of the sacred lift?"

"The… sacred lift?" I pause, blinking rapidly and shaking my head, "yes, yes, presumably if we live the lift lives too, you can consider the two mutually reliant on one another."

"How may this one be of assistance?"

A few minutes later it was ready.

The horde was beginning to thin out but those that did crest the growing mounds of their own dead had eyes glowing with unnatural light. The air was humming with warp energy, the very atmosphere tainted.

"Charges set!" Sergeant Thorne reports.

"The adept isn't happy, but we're ready on this side too," I vox in, watching as the adept says a last prayer over the Seraphim and one armor power plant we've stacked by the two main support pillars of the right arch.

"I don't think I've seen a mechanicus cogboy cry before, but we're set here as well," Swartz voxes from the main entrance where the four remaining power plants of the armor my Sisters have now discarded lay against the pillars there.

"On my mark! Detonate!" Gaius roars.

A deafening explosion tears through the entrance. The ground shakes violently as the archways collapse, massive chunks of rockcrete and steel crashing down to seal the breach. Dust and debris billow outward, obscuring everything.

Silence, save for the settling rubble and the muffled sounds of the horde beyond.

We stand there, catching our breaths. The faces of the cadets are ashen, eyes wide with shock and exhaustion in the light of the lumens.

"Casualty report," Gaius orders, coughing hoarsely.

The few remaining Medicae personnel begin tending to the wounded, whispers of prayers and stifled sobs filling the air.

The numbers come in and they aren't pretty. Eighteen cadets killed or unaccounted for, three sisters slain, and what started out as twenty-four members of Gilead's Gravediggers is down to seven surviving veterans.

I turn to Swartz. He shrugs and sits, "you said do whatever it takes to get them inside. It took twelve men, firing on full auto with grenades in their hands, pins pulled, to get them all inside."

I nod, feeling suddenly numb now that the shooting had temporarily stopped.

"I'm sorry for your lost Const—"

"Sisters," I cut him off, shaking my head, "sorry…"

"To your lost Sisters then," Swartz suggests, and I suddenly realize he's pushed a flask into my hand. I close my ceramite fingers around it and give him a questioning look.

"Well, I can't threaten to shoot you, and I'm just about out of glorious speeches," he shrugs, "what do you expect me to do?"

I huff, then again, and can't help but let the hint of a smile twinge across my lips. I take the flask and note with no surprise that he's holding a second one.

"Emergency morale supply, does wonders for the men, for me too, I think."

I shake my head and raise the flask, "to those who died doing their duty," I suggest.

"And those of us who probably will in the next few minutes or so," he agrees, amiably but in a tone only I can hear.

The taste is harsh and flat, something distilled for the alcohol content not the flavor. It burns down my throat but does little to help cure me of the growing nausea in my stomach. I know he can feel it to. They all can.

"We didn't stop it…" I mumble, just as quietly.

He shakes his head.

Maybe we slowed it, maybe we kept it out, for a while, but we can both feel the growing static in the air, the way that every breath feels more and more like breathing underwater, the oppressive presence of the warp, seeping slowly in around us.

As if in confirmation, a low, sinister hum permeates the air, growing in intensity.

"What now?" Gaius asks, fear creeping into his voice. I realize in that moment just how young the captain looks. Could it be that this is his first brush with the arch enemy, or at least with chaos sorcery? It very well could…

I focus, sensing the warp energies building. "The ritual—it didn't need us to kill all of them. Sealing the doors may have only delayed the inevitable."

A horrific screech echoes from beyond the rubble—a sound not of this world.

"Daemons," I state grimly. "They're breaching the veil."

Swartz rises slowly, his weary form seeming to draw strength from some unseen reserve. He takes the voxcaster from a nearby cadet, his movements deliberate. Without preamble, he activates it, his voice echoing throughout the cavernous manufactorum.

"Listen up," he begins, his tone flat but carrying the weight of absolute authority. "I won't waste your time with pretty words or false hope. The truth is simple: when those daemons breach that rubble—and they will—we're outnumbered, outgunned, and out of time."

A hush falls over the assembled soldiers. The cadets, some barely old enough to shave, look up at him with wide eyes. The veterans stand stoic, their faces etched with the grim acceptance of those who've seen too much.

"And that's okay," Swartz continues. "Because this is what we were born for. Every one of us. A chance like this doesn't come to just anyone. We have the honor—the privilege—to stand against the darkness. To fight the enemies of the Emperor with every last breath in our bodies."

I watch the faces around me change. Fear gives way to something else—a steely resolve, a quiet pride. Even the most terrified cadets straighten their backs, gripping their weapons a little tighter.

"Think about it," Swartz says, pacing slowly. "How many in the Imperium get to die like this? Side by side with brothers and sisters, defending humanity against its greatest foes. Our deeds here will echo in eternity. Not in some dusty hall or on a forgotten roll of honor, but in the Emperor's own sight."

He stops, letting his gaze sweep over the crowd. "Names carved on walls don't matter. Medals and commendations won't follow us where we're going. What matters is the stand we make here and now. The courage we show in the face of oblivion."

A murmur of agreement ripples through the ranks. I can feel the atmosphere shift—an almost tangible unity forming among us.

"So don't despair," Swartz says, his voice softening just a fraction. "The Emperor protects. I've believed that all my life, through every battle, every loss. And I believe it now. Whether we see His miracle today depends on us—on our faith, our actions, our willingness to lay down everything in His name."

He pauses, then adds, "Let's make it count."

Silence follows, but it's a charged silence, filled with unspoken oaths and renewed determination.

I find myself moving to stand beside him as the soldiers disperse, each heading to their positions along the forward barricades. The stones blocking the entrances begin to glow with a sickly pink light, unnatural shadows flickering across the walls.

"You have a way with words, Commissar," I say quietly. "Missed your calling in the Ecclesiarchy, perhaps. You'd give any preacher a run for his throne gelt."

He chuckles without humor. "Came from a long line of ecclesiarchs, actually. Couldn't stand them. Figured the Commissariat was as far from that life as I could get."

"No regrets?"

"None whatsoever," he replies, eyes fixed on the pulsating glow ahead. "I prefer actions over sermons."

"Well, your words just gave them something real to hold onto," I admit. "Even me."

He glances at me, a hint of surprise in his tired eyes. "You? I thought you were unshakable."

"I'm human," I remind him, offering a faint smile. "Just like the rest."

"Well," He pauses, "one regret then."

"Oh?"

"I'm finding myself very much regretting that clandestine drink and game of regicide next week." He says, his face cracking into a wide grin.

I snort through my nose, "sorry commissar, looks like my dance card is full for the next… eternity."

A deafening crack echoes through the manufactorum as a fissure splits the rubble, oozing tendrils of warp energy seeping through. The air grows thick with the stench of sulfur and corruption.

"Time's up," Swartz says, his hand resting on the hilt of his chainsword.

I nod, feeling the weight of my own weapons. My bolt pistols feel heavier than ever, the metal cold despite the lingering heat of battle.

We move to the barricades, standing shoulder to shoulder. Around us, the cadets and remaining soldiers take their places. I catch sight of Nadia, Kai, Riley, and Manuella, their faces grim but resolute. They nod to me, and I return the gesture. They look suddenly so small, so young, without the power armor.

Samara lifts her chin at me, performing a last-minute functions check on the lasrifle she's been given. "Don't worry sister," she says with a straight face, "have faith, this isn't to be our end."

I pause, something about how she says it, so sure, so certain. I find I don't share her confidence. Instead, I key my vox.

"Targets will be unpredictable," I announce, raising my voice so all can hear. "Aim for center mass. Don't hesitate. Don't stop firing once you start."

"Yes, Sister!" comes the unified response.

Swartz leans slightly toward me. "Got any last-minute miracles up your sleeve?"

I shake my head. "Fresh out. You?"

He smirks. "Just the Emperor's good graces."

"That'll have to do."

The glowing fissure widens, and with a gut-wrenching howl, the first of the daemons bursts through—a towering abomination of blue claws and writhing pink flesh, eyes burning with malevolent fire.

"For the Emperor!" I shout, raising my pistols.

"For the Emperor!" the defenders echo, their voices steady.

We open fire. Bolts of searing light and explosive rounds tear into the monstrosity, but more pour through behind it—twisted, gibbering horrors that defy sanity.

Behind us there's a crashing sound and I turn for a split second, expecting to see a second breach point. Instead, I see a widening beam of light as the lift doors retract to reveal the headlights of a trio of chimeras a stylized 'I' painted white against their all-black bodies.

A voice suddenly erupts over the local vox, drowning out all other conversations.

"This is interrogator Faust of the Ordo Malleus." The same voice in the vox also booms into the room as it projects from a small swarm of servoskulls that stream out of the elevator shaft. "In the name of the God Emperor, get the hell out of my way."

The Chimeras lurch forward and our lines break as everyone races to their right or left to clear the line of fire, dragging their fellow sisters or stunned classmates with them.

The sudden roar of three multilasers is only slightly drown out by the sensory explosion of light in what was moments ago the gloom of dust and failing lamp packs.

The three Chimeras rush forwards and form a blocade, end to end, their multilasers tracking through the room, eliminating anything moving ahead of our position before focusing on the glowing pink gap in the stones and pouring relentless fire into it.

As soon as they halt the back hatches on the far two immediately bang open and eighteen soldiers in black armor with the symbol of the Ordo Malleus rush out, hellguns blazing in time with the multilasers.

A man in a black robe with one burning yellow eye leaps from the middle chimera and makes his way over to where Swartz and I are urging euphoric or disbelieving cadets towards the lift.

"Explicator Faust?" I make the sign of the Aquila as the man approaches. You don't forget a man with a face like Fuast's, or, more accurately, half a face, with he left side replaced by such a bare, set of augmetics that, from the front, he looks like half his face is indeed missing.

"Interrogator now," he corrects me and gives Swartz a once-over and nods, "commissar, get everyone topside, I'm placing you in command. My Lord, Inquisitor Angstrom, has decreed that everyone from this scene be interviewed for signs of taint." He nods to the two of us, "I have suggested that I be allowed to interview you both and save all of us a lot of time and resources."

Swartz glances at me.

I shrug, "I've run into Angstrom a few times since coming here, apparently I've seen things that spark his fancy."

"Indeed, and he sends his greetings and will be most relieved to know that you've survived." Faust continues.

"At great cost," I bite out.

Faust nods agreeably, "indeed, now, as for the interview. In the name of the God Emperor, are either of you tainted, corrupted by the warp, or otherwise in league with forces who are?"

Swartz and I glance at one another. The inquisition and simple questions aren't really things that go together. "No?" We chime.

"Excellent, interview concluded, get these children out of here. I'm sure we'll be seeing one another quite a bit in the coming months as this investigation unfolds."

"Months?" I ask.

"Investigation?" Swartz prods.

"Yes, indeed. How did you think we got done here so quickly? Minutes after you passed into the vox dead zone there was a number of coordinated incidents on campus, a faculty member was hung, the prima libra was bombed, there was—"

A roar from the other side of the stones shakes the air.

"You get the idea. Now, get out of my way and get these children out of the area. I have a trio of tech priests maintaining the sanctity of this lift. It will not fail your ascent."

I nod, now both mentally and physically numb, "good hunting, Interrogator."

Faust waves a hand dismissively, and saunters nonchalantly back to his chimera.

"Ladies first?" Swartz suggests.

"You're in charge," I remind him, "which means as soon as we get topside, I'm out."

We step into the lift and the doors begin to close.

"Pressing business?"

"I lost three today, I know that doesn't seem like a lot, comparatively, but—"

"You don't need to justify it to me," Swartz nods solemnly.

"Anyways, I have one more from the first lift, likely in critical condition. I need to see her."

"Aurora?"

"Yes?"

Swartz shrugs, "not prying. She just struck me as…"

I wait for a full ten count.

"Well, I suppose she reminded me of myself," he admits eventually, "do tell me her condition when you have time."

"I will."

"Perhaps over a clandestine drink next week?"

"You can bet on it."

 

[Rakashua]

Well that's it for part 1 or book 1 whichever you like to call it.

Do yall want me to continue in this thread? Or make a new one? I assume I'm supposed to make a new one for the next bit.

The next one is currently 140K words and I'm in the middle of writing the finale.

 

[Rakashua]

I, Repentia: An Original WH40K Fiction [Book 2 of The Aurora Archive (See I, Vermin, Book 1)]

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...

forums.sufficientvelocity.com

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...