In the underhive, there was no such thing as time.
People lived numbly. Waking up meant the start of the day, searching desperately for food.
Finding food meant going home to rest, which was at night.
One cycle was one day.
When Philly woke, she saw Caelan sitting at the doorway, peering outside through a crack.
"Did you not sleep at all last night?" she asked timidly.
"I couldn't," Caelan replied. He wasn't used to the place, or its endless darkness.
Besides, someone had to keep watch.
Philly scooped half a bowl of thin porridge and pulled out a strip of rat meat from the cabinet, handing it to Caelan.
"I only have half a bowl left." Her voice was very low, her head hung even lower.
"You eat it. I'm not hungry."
"But you didn't eat yesterday either."
"It's fine. One day without food won't kill me."
"But Mama starved to death after two days without food."
At that moment, Curze stirred awake. The first thing he saw was Philly's face, on the verge of tears.
He spotted the porridge in her hands and swallowed. He was hungry.
He looked at Caelan, as if asking if he could eat.
"No," Caelan said firmly, pressing down on his head. "We're the guests here. Guests don't make their hosts go hungry."
Curze answered with an "oh," but Caelan understood well; he was still a growing boy. They couldn't let him starve. He decided he'd have to find food.
"Philly, do you know where the lifts are?" Caelan asked.
"The Bloodclaw gang controls them. That way." She pointed.
"Can you take us there?"
Philly nodded but added nervously, "It'll take three days. But… I don't have food left."
"I'll figure something out."
Philly glanced at the half bowl of "porridge" in her hand. She'd gone out searching for food yesterday, came back with nothing, and almost got assaulted.
If she stayed home, she would end up like her mother: starving to death within those walls.
She drank two mouthfuls, then tried to pass the bowl to Curze.
But Curze shook his head. He wouldn't take it. So she finished it alone.
She found it strange; clearly, they were hungry, yet they kept refusing food. People like that didn't survive long in the underhive.
Philly began packing. She had a gut feeling: if she left now, she might never return.
Not that she had much to pack, only a few strips of dried rat meat and three worn filters.
She replaced her respirator's filter with one, handing the other two to Caelan and Curze.
"You keep them," Caelan said. "We don't need them."
"You'll die without one," she whispered.
In the underhive, filters were more precious than food; without them, rotlung would claim you in no time.
"Don't worry. We're not like you."
Curze was a Primarch. The Emperor's hand sheltered him. Death would come one day, but not here.
Philly didn't argue. She strapped on her respirator, layered herself in all the clothes she owned, wrapping tightly before stepping outside.
She cast one last look at her home before leaving it behind, without hesitation, into the darkness.
Above, the spires of the hive changed with the extravagance of each new day.
Below, the misery of the underhive never changed.
The sights on their path were always the same: filthy streets, collapsing shacks, scavengers at work, and crime everywhere.
A man dragged a woman into an alley. After a round of panting and groans, he strangled her.
He was too hungry; he needed release, but even more, he needed food.
The woman stabbed him from behind, the blade slipping an inch wide of his heart.
The man retaliated. They grappled and fell into a reeking puddle.
Scavengers swarmed in, stripping their clothes, cutting meat with knives.
Philly pulled her cloak tight. She just wanted to leave as fast as possible, escape this cursed place.
But Caelan stopped. So did Curze.
"What do you think?" Caelan asked.
"They're committing crimes. I don't like it," Curze answered.
"You could stop them. You have the strength."
"But you told me, people must survive before they can speak of morality."
"I did. But you don't have to listen."
"I think you were right. So I choose to listen."
"Then are you just going to keep watching?"
Curze nodded, then shook his head.
"I don't like crime. I want to change it. What should I do?"
He looked to Caelan for answers. But Caelan gave him none.
"What do you think?" Caelan asked back.
"I'll make sure they have food. If they're fed, they won't need to commit crimes. They won't eat each other."
"That's good. So how will you do it?"
"By getting more food."
"And who has food?"
"The gangs," Curze said after thinking. "And the upper-hivers."
"Will they give it to you?"
"No."
"Then how will you get their food?"
"Take it."
"But isn't that crime too?"
Curze froze. He looked again at the crowd scrambling for scraps of flesh. Weren't they just taking too?
"They kill for it. You killed yesterday. What's the difference?" Caelan asked.
Curze lifted his little face, answering earnestly:
"They commit crime. I stop crime. They take to survive. I take so others can survive. That's not crime. That's revolution."
"Yes… and no," Caelan said, pointing upward at the unseen heights. "You know what class is, don't you? Then you should know class oppression. The hive itself is structured that way. The upper hivers are born with the power to oppress. Most of the tragedies you see are direct or indirect products of that oppression."
"Then should I destroy class?"
"As long as humans are different from one another, class will never disappear. So class oppression will always exist. And crime will never truly vanish; it's rooted in human nature. The key is who holds power. As long as they hold it, the world remains as it is. But what if the one with power… was you?"
"If I had power…" Curze's thoughts grew clear. "I would change it. Classes cannot vanish, but the gaps between them can be narrowed. Oppression will always exist, but it can be lessened. Crime will never disappear, but crime rates can be reduced."
"Is that truly what you want?"
Curze nodded firmly.
"Then follow it," Caelan said. "Live out your justice."
Primarchs were born knowing. They understood truths innately.
But the world held too many truths, too many contradictions. Some say "a rabbit doesn't eat grass by its own burrow." Others say "the pavilion closest to the water is the first to catch the moon." Some say "a great man bends when needed," others say "a true man dies before yielding."
All are true, and all are incomplete.
No one likes endless lectures, least of all those who already know much.
Primarchs were no different. They didn't need sermons. They needed guidance, lessons through action.
Curze would one day become the Dark Batman. Largely because the rotting world of Nostramo never gave him a guide to see it rightly.
The Primarchs knew too much. Curze refused to sink into corruption, refused to embrace darkness.
So he thought. And thought. And thought again.
But the more one thinks alone, the easier it is to spiral into dead ends.