Date: 5.988.M41
Amidst the crushing darkness of the Space Hulk known as the "Son of the Void," which drifted aimlessly in the vacuum of space on the Eastern Fringe of Segmentum Ultima, the sound of heavy metal striking stone echoed down narrow corridors plagued by rust and the slime trails of alien lifeforms.
Arcas walked slowly, clad in jet-black Cataphractii Terminator Armour that possessed a faint, dark green sheen—the color of the deep forests of Caliban. In this era, his armor resembled a walking shrine. Ancient knightly tassels swayed with the rhythm of his stride. His pauldrons and chest plate were adorned with the pale bone hilts of Xenos species long extinct and enemies he had defeated—trophies from the Great Crusade, reminders of a time when he fought for hope, not merely to survive like a fugitive. These hilts were collectibles they had once favored, prizes of honor claimed upon victory.
He raised his right arm slightly. The dull blue glow of the Plasma Blaster mounted on his wrist illuminated the twisted tunnel walls, a signal that it was still functional despite signs of damage and corrosion.
"Rotten..." his rasping voice echoed inside his helm.
He thought of the Imperium in the current age, viewed through the eyes of an outcast. It was not the Empire of Reason he had helped build alongside his brothers. It was no longer an Imperium that liberated people from ignorance and superstition. Instead, it had become a prison filled with blind faith and a fanatical Ecclesiarchy. The Emperor was worshipped as a god.
"We fought to build a habitable realm based on reason, to purge superstition... but those damn zealots turned it into a breathing tomb," he muttered with disgust.
Although he had survived in this future for about ten years (subjectively), his mind was still trapped in the smoke rising over the skies of Caliban. The image of orbital bombardment raining down on his homeworld remained as clear as if it had happened yesterday.
"Why... Primarch Lion?" He asked the same question that cycled endlessly in his head. "We stood with Luther... protecting our world from abandonment. Why did the Primarch choose to destroy his own sons before listening to an explanation?"
He flexed the fingers of his Power Fist, creating a crackle of electrical discharge, while his other hand gripped the hilt of the Power Sword at his waist.
He knew that right now, the Dark Angels in their green armor were scouring the galaxy to hunt him and the other Fallen. They called him a traitor, a stain that must be washed away. But to Arcas, the Fallen were merely unfortunate victims born of misunderstanding. He knew the truth of what happened that day.
He walked deeper into the silence of the wreckage drifting at the edge of the Imperium. The faint taint of the Warp, the oppressive darkness, and the strange noises that emerged periodically were the only company he had.
Arcas stepped further into a corridor where the metal walls began to twist from the compression of dozens of fused ships. The ancient ventilation systems groaned like dying men. This was the uncharted depth, the seam between a Golden Age warship and a rotting freighter, which he had converted into a personal "secret fortress."
Along the way, Arcas passed memorials of failure. Wreckage of Indomitus Terminator Armour painted in bone-white and red—Space Marines of a new era he did not know—lay scattered on the steel floor soaked in dried blood. Some bore the rending claw marks of hungry Genestealers. But others... bore the scorch marks of Plasma that had melted through shoulder plates and chests—his own handiwork. Nearby, the corpses of numerous Genestealers lay dead in equal measure. He walked on, indifferent to the sickening crunch of his steel boots crushing their bodies into paste.
"You were brave... but foolish," he murmured as he stepped over the corpses of the Space Marines he had never known.
"Walking into forbidden territory with the false confidence you were taught." In his mind, the Space Marines of this era were like religious fanatics, no different from the Word Bearers of Primarch Lorgar. They followed the Codex Astartes written by Primarch Roboute Guilliman as if it were holy scripture.
Skree...
The sound of claws striking metal came from the ceiling above. A four-armed Genestealer descended with lightning speed. But it was too slow for a soldier who had weathered the Great Crusade.
Arcas didn't even break his stride. He simply shifted his weight with minimal movement. The Power Fist on his left hand swung in a short arc, impacting the center of the creature's torso. The sound of pulverized bone and rupturing flesh echoed through the corridor. Blood, bone shards, and viscera splattered against the ship's walls.
Simultaneously, he slashed the Power Sword in his right hand, decapitating another Genestealer lunging from the shadows without even looking.
He coordinated his weapons seamlessly, a dance of danger and power. The Plasma Blaster on his wrist fired a short burst, vaporizing a third Genestealer before it could screech to summon the brood.
"Annoying Xenos," he grumbled, though he was alone.
He moved his right arm slightly to vent the heat from the wrist-mounted gun, which was beginning to degrade; he lacked the knowledge to fully repair it. The combat skills honed on Caliban remained sharp and un-dulled. For him, killing these creatures was not a challenge, but a tedious exercise on the way back to his hideout. In his view, these Xenos posed no threat compared to the horrors like the Rangdan he had once fought. He was lucky to have survived that campaign—a source of pride, though he knew arrogance could be fatal. Even these lesser Xenos could kill him if he let his guard down for a second.
Finally, Arcas walked past the last bend of the steel tunnel into a vast hall that had once been the Hangar Bay of an ancient warship. The area, once filled with twisted scrap and debris, had been cleared by the immense strength of his Cataphractii armor over the past ten years, turning it into a strangely clean hideout.
Amidst the dim light of modified electric lanterns, a powerful transport ship stood tall in the center of the hall. It was a black Stormbird, an early model. A heavy assault craft that was the heart of the Great Crusade before being replaced by the Thunderhawk, which was easier to produce and more versatile.
Arcas walked toward the silent iron bird. Its metal skin bore scars from battle and laser burns, but those wounds had been welded shut and polished until nearly smooth. He reached out with his Power Fist, stroking its hull gently.
"You are still waiting to fly again, aren't you...?"
He was no Techmarine and possessed no complex Servo-arm. He could not repair intricate machinery easily. But with hundreds of years of battlefield experience and the necessity of maintaining his own wargear while abandoned, he possessed some mechanical knowledge. Relying on salvaged ancient technical manuals and a warrior's intuition, he had been repairing the propulsion system piece by piece.
He looked at the hull plating, welded with a skill that, while not as exquisite as the disciples of Mars, was durable and practical. This ship was his only ticket out of here alive if the Unforgiven ever discovered his hiding place.
Arcas slumped onto a metal crate beside the ship. He removed his helm, revealing a scarred face and eyes filled with the exhaustion of an endless escape. He looked at the Stormbird—the last symbol of the era he was proud of—before picking up his tools to fix a stubborn cooling valve. It seemed like only a few more repairs were needed before it would be operational. However, he lacked certain materials. Perhaps he would have to explore the uncharted sections of the Space Hulk and hope for luck... or maybe he had stored the materials somewhere in this room.
With that thought, Arcas immediately began searching the storage boxes.
Hours passed. After pouring sweat and effort into finding what he needed, Arcas stood up, stretching until the joints of his Cataphractii armor groaned in protest. Accumulated fatigue began to bite. It seemed the materials weren't here; he would have to go out into the unexplored zones. But now, even his transhuman physiology, capable of long periods of fasting, was reaching its limit.
He looked at the supply shelf in his makeshift quarters... it was heartbreakingly empty.
"From a Knight of Caliban to a sewer rat gnawing on scraps... how ironic," he chuckled dryly in the silence. It was a bitter laugh. Now he had to walk the corridors of the unexplored ships, scavenging for any leftover food. It was pathetic.
Arcas re-engaged his helm, locking it tight. The red light of his auto-senses flared in the darkness. He secured his Power Sword at his waist and checked the readiness of his Plasma Blaster—it was functional, though in dire need of maintenance. He stepped out of the hangar, heading toward a maze-like area filled with danger.
He walked over decaying steel plates, crossing the seam between a survey vessel compressed against a massive cargo hauler. His eyes scanned for the emblem of a supply fleet or containers marked with the Departmento Munitorum symbol that might have been lucky enough to become part of this Space Hulk.
"Back then, we were warriors of the First Legion, bestowed with countless devices and advanced technology by the Emperor," he muttered as he used thick metal fingers to pry open a twisted bulkhead, looking for a secret passage. "But now, I pray to find a crate of canned food that hasn't spoiled in this floating junk pile."
The feeling of ignominy gnawed at him as much as the hunger. In the Great Crusade, they were the favored Legion, entrusted with forbidden technology. Even their rations were of high quality. But in this era, branded as 'Fallen,' he had to trade slaughtering Genestealers for a piece of hard bread or scavenge through floating garbage without honor.
Suddenly, his armor's sensors sent a faint warning of heat radiating from ahead. It wasn't body heat, but the scent of ozone—electricity leaking from a secure vault that still had reserve power.
Arcas stopped still. The smell of machine oil and frozen metal drifted through his air filtration system.
"Let it be a supply cache..." he prayed softly. "Not an empty armory, or the grave of another brother."
He walked to a door and inspected it. It was locked from the inside, with no way to open it normally.
He activated his Power Sword and drove it into the door. His analysis confirmed the door was made of Adamantium. A standard power sword would struggle to scratch it, but the weapon he wielded was a Master-Crafted blade, a reward for slaying an enemy leader. It sliced through the material without difficulty.
He then used his Power Fist to punch the weakened section once. The thick steel plate fell away, revealing a hole just big enough for him to squeeze through. He hurriedly searched the interior and found nutrient bars and cans of thick liquid paste on the shelves.
Arcas wasted no time, sweeping the nutrient bars and metal cans into the supply pouch at his waist. Although the smell indicated they were hundreds of years old and likely expired, a Space Marine like him knew that his modified digestive system could extract energy and nutrients from what normal humans would call "poison."
He quickly spun around, heading back through the labyrinthine corridors toward the Hangar Bay. Arcas wasn't afraid, but he was "cautious."
He knew Genestealers weren't just mindless Xenos driven by instinct; they were apex predators. Their claws could rend Adamantium plate like paper. In a Space Hulk, a second of carelessness meant a gruesome death.
Thud... Thud... Thud...
Arcas froze like a metal statue. The gyro-stabilizers in his armor hummed silently to keep him perfectly still. He cut the external ventilation to listen more clearly.
The footsteps were heavy... but not the rapid, skittering rhythm of Genestealer monstrosities. It was the sound of heavy metal striking the steel floor rhythmically, steadily, and with intent.
The footsteps of Power Armour... perhaps even Terminator Armour.
Not Genestealers... Arcas whispered in his mind. His eyes narrowed behind the blue lenses. The fingers of his Power Fist began to crackle with a faint blue energy field, a sign of combat readiness, while his right hand gripped the Power Sword until his gauntlet creaked.
He sensed a familiar murderous aura. The aura of a hunter seeking prey with a vendetta that had lasted ten thousand years. Had the modern Dark Angels found his hideout? Or was it something worse emerging from the dark?
Though suspicious, he remained silent. Impatience was a vice. But he couldn't help but think: What if the Dark Angels have sent a hunting party? Like the Deathwing Terminator Squads?
Arcas knew that if he delayed any longer, he would not survive. The Dark Angels never came alone. Even with his superior swordsmanship, he would surely fall if surrounded.
"For Caliban... For Luther!!!" he muttered to himself.
Arcas broke into a run. The speed of Cataphractii armor might look sluggish to an observer, but for a mass of nearly 1.5 tons moving with aggression, it was no different from a runaway locomotive. He surged around the corner and immediately came face-to-face with a bone-white figure towering before him.
"TRAITOR!"
The roar echoed from the vox-caster of the Deathwing Terminator in shock, accompanied by the muzzle flash of a Storm Bolter.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Bolter rounds slammed squarely into Arcas's chest. However, the ancient Atomantic Shielding generator built into the Cataphractii armor worked perfectly. A curtain of blue energy flared up, distorting the trajectory of the shells until they shattered into shrapnel before they could touch the ceramite.
Arcas didn't waste a split second. He closed the distance to the bone-white Terminator. His left hand, encased in the Power Fist, grabbed the barrel of the Storm Bolter with precision and knocked it upward. The power field roared as Arcas squeezed just once. The Storm Bolter, crafted from fine metal, was crushed in his hand like a toy.
As the Deathwing warrior prepared to strike back with his own Power Fist, Arcas thrust his Power Sword in a straight line.
Schlick!
The blade, bathed in a disruption field, pierced through the Adamantium breastplate up to the hilt. The tip exited the back, accompanied by the horrific sound of shearing metal. The Deathwing Terminator's body convulsed before slumping against the tunnel wall. The red light of his eye lenses slowly faded, along with his final breath.
Arcas slowly withdrew the blade. Dark blood pooled from the chest wound. He looked at the soulless body with eyes full of complexity.
"Weak..." Arcas said with a rasping voice.
He quickly sheathed his sword and checked himself for damage. The fight had ended in seconds, but he knew that the sudden loss of a team member's life signal would attract the others. Power Armor bio-monitors ensured that.
Arcas launched himself down the narrow corridor. The footsteps of his Cataphractii armor thundered like war drums beating out of rhythm. He didn't care about stealth anymore. The sound of the Storm Bolter and the flatlining bio-signal of the white-armored warrior were the clearest alarms ringing through the Deathwing's vox network.
"They will swarm like ants," he gritted his teeth.
Anxiety began to build under his helm. He knew his only advantage was knowledge of the terrain. But what did that matter against a full Squad of Terminator veterans? They were trained to fight in perfect coordination, unlike him, who now had only himself to rely on.
Arcas slammed his heavy shoulder into a twisted metal wall to turn a corner at maximum speed. The HUD in his helm showed his energy shield was fully recharged.
The path ahead began to look familiar. It was the route to the Hangar Bay, where his Stormbird waited. If he could reach it, he could escape. Even though fleeing carried risks equal to standing his ground, it was infinitely better than fighting the Deathwing alone.
Suddenly, his auspex sensors flared to life, multiple blips appearing simultaneously from the corridor behind him.
"Target sighted! Do not let him escape! For the Lion! For the honor of the Unforgiven!"
The roar of an open vox-channel thundered inside Arcas's helm, followed by the rhythmic, heavy thud of a dozen boots sprinting with the maximum speed a Terminator plate could muster. Arcas did not look back. He was only two turns away from the massive blast doors of the hangar. His right hand tightened around his blade; the plan for flight was being replaced by a plan for a final stand.
"If it is my life you crave..." Arcas growled back into the same channel, his voice as cold as the frost of Caliban, "then prepare to leave your foolish bone-white husks in this iron grave with me!"
In the name of Terra, why now? Arcas cursed silently as the sensors wailed, warning of the closing threat. The narrow corridor ahead had become a perfect killing zone—too cramped to dodge, yet wide enough for two Deathwing Terminators to march abreast. He was at a severe tactical disadvantage.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Storm Bolter rounds slammed into his pauldron, the vibrations rattling his bones but leaving only minor scuffs. Why isn't the conversion field activating? Arcas thought with growing concern. Then came the terrifying, low mechanical whine of an Assault Cannon spinning up, unleashing a hail of hundreds of rounds like a leaden storm.
Arcas made a split-second decision. He spun around to face death head-on. His ancient Cataphractii plate was designed like a fortress, boasting incredibly thick chest and shoulder guards. Walking backward while taking the impact from the front was his only chance to avoid being shredded.
"Come then, children!" he bellowed, stepping back firmly as his metal boots crushed the floor. Suddenly, his flickering energy shield stabilized, flaring to life and absorbing the lethal impacts that would have otherwise ended him instantly.
A blue flash erupted from his right wrist as Arcas fired his Plasma Blaster in return. The superheated bolts seared the air, turning the corridor a molten orange and illuminating the bone-white helms of the Deathwing less than ten meters away. They looked like vengeful ghosts. Out of ten shots, one lucky bolt found its mark, incinerating a single Deathwing Terminator.
He knew he was outmatched. Their modern Indomitus-pattern plate was far more agile; their servos responded twice as fast as his ancient systems. The distance between him and the enemy muzzles shortened with every step he took.
"Do your magazines never run dry?" Arcas spat. The strobing flashes of the Assault Cannon reflected off his lenses, blurring his vision until he could barely see. His HUD warned him that his shield was nearing depletion. If he didn't act before reaching the hangar, this ancient armor would become his coffin.
In that heartbeat, a shadow as black as death lunged through the storm of fire. An Interrogator-Chaplain in obsidian-black Terminator armor lunged with speed that defied the limits of the suit. A pale skull-mask stared at Arcas with eyes full of ancient vendetta.
"Repent, Fallen!" the Chaplain's vox-grille boomed like thunder as he swung his Crozius Arcanum.
CRACK!
The impact sent a shockwave through the Cataphractii's gyro-stabilizers. His pauldron cracked. Arcas barely managed to parry the follow-up with his Power Fist while swinging his Power Sword to force a distance. But the Chaplain was unnervingly agile, weaving past the blade and driving a knee into Arcas's midsection.
Arcas gritted his teeth, fighting while retreating. Every step was a gamble. "You are fast... but your form is sloppy!" Arcas critiqued, drawing on his experience from the Great Crusade. While he was the superior swordsman, the bulk of his Cataphractii suit was a liability in such close quarters, especially with the Deathwing squad pinning him down with Bolter fire.
As heat rose and his chest plate began to spider-web with cracks, the ceiling and walls suddenly tore open! Dozens of Genestealers, hidden in the shadows, dropped into the middle of the fray, turning the corridor into a chaotic bloodbath.
"Xenos! Purge them!" the Deathwing roared, forced to shift their fire to the immediate threat.
That was Arcas's only window. As the Chaplain momentarily glanced at the new threat, Arcas exploded with his remaining strength. He caught the Crozius with his Power Fist and swung his Power Sword in a brilliant blue arc. The energy blade sheared through the Chaplain's shoulder joint, severing the arm holding the mace. Blood sprayed the walls.
Before the Chaplain could react, Arcas threw a full-power punch with his crackling Power Fist directly into the skull-mask.
CRUNCH!!
The helm and the head within were pulverized. The force sent the Chaplain's corpse flying back into the remaining Deathwing. Arcas didn't wait to see the result. He turned and sprinted toward the hangar, his servos screaming under the strain. He reached the hangar, slammed the controls to seal the blast doors, and scrambled into the cockpit of a salvaged Stormbird.
"Wake up, old friend... take me away from here!"
The ancient engines roared, spitting fire as the machine spirit stirred. As the Stormbird punched out into the void, Arcas witnessed a miracle of timing: the Dark Angel Light Cruiser that should have been hunting him was locked in a brutal space battle with a massive Ork "Space Hulk" that had just transitioned out of the Warp.
"Fortune favors the Knights of Caliban," Arcas whispered, exhausted. As his life support flickered and the cold of space crept in, his body triggered the Sus-an Membrane. His breathing slowed into a death-like hibernation. The Stormbird drifted into the silent dark, a tiny speck of metal carrying a ghost of the past.
___________________________________
Date: 5.988.M41
Hive Kathion
The Spire
Within a secret chamber, insulated from the cacophony of the outside world, Valen Korvax lowered himself into a plush chair. He let out a long, weary sigh as he poured a dark spirit into a glass, the dim lighting reflecting in his sharp yet exhausted amber eyes. He began to recount the details of a meeting he considered "utterly farcical" to Vann.
"You want to know what was discussed?" Valen began in a measured tone. "It was nothing more than a stage play performed in a gilded room. The masks they all wear are pathetic. While some of us tried to address matters of actual importance, the rest spent their time bickering over cathedral construction budgets and vineyard taxes."
He leaned back against the headrest, his gaze drifting toward his younger brother as he continued.
"The Magos Juris of the Mechanicus remains the same—cold, calculating, and obsessed only with probability. And the other nobles? Baroness Vex was too preoccupied with her precious furs, and Lord Gammos was so inebriated he likely forgot why he was even there. But the worst of them was Lord Thalric. The man is utterly shameless; he wastes everyone's time by spewing drivel at every session without a hint of embarrassment."
Valen let out a contemptuous smirk at the mention of the name. "He tried to play the role of the 'pious devotee,' shouting for an increase in the Great Temple's budget to seek the Emperor's blessing—even though his own district is on the verge of collapse and can no longer produce a single thing."
"And the nominations?" Vann interjected with keen interest.
"No conclusion," Valen replied immediately. "I delivered an ultimatum: we shelve the selection of a Governor for now and instead audit the production quotas. Anyone failing to meet their targets should have their nomination rights permanently revoked. Naturally, Thalric turned pale at that; he knows exactly how rotten his district has become. And yet, the fool is still hosting galas as we speak. He hasn't even realized I've deployed troops into his territory to purge the heretics."
He paused for a moment, his expression shifting to one of visible discomfort. "But more headache-inducing than the politics is Lady Annes... that 200-year-old crone in a young woman's skin. She watched me as if she wanted to tear me apart. She kept comparing me to our grandfather, Vorius, and implied that they shared a 'close' relationship in the past. Her gaze makes me feel more unsafe than a literal assassination attempt. I felt... harassed, quite frankly."
Valen looked at his brother with a serious face—though Vann struggled to suppress a laugh at his brother's genuine distress.
"The situation is this: everyone is clawing for power, but no one wants to actually solve the problems. The factions are becoming more distinct, but their overlapping interests prevent any consensus. Not that it troubles me... unless someone decides to provoke a wider catastrophe." He finished his drink in one go.
"That is all there is to tell. Boring, nonsensical, and full of lies. Now... let's get to your business, Vann. What plan do you have that you believe is 'more important' than this nonsense?"
The atmosphere in the secret room grew tense once more as Vann laid his bold yet pragmatically cold proposal on the table. He slowly stroked his expensive bionic arm, his remaining eye fixed unblinkingly on his elder brother.
"Think carefully, Valen. Moving against House Thalric now isn't just about a thirst for power; it's a 'justified' war. It's about utilizing resources properly instead of letting them waste away in the hands of those who don't value them," Vann said, his voice quiet but firm. "Their territory holds heavy machinery that can still be salvaged and production lines left abandoned simply because of the Thalrics' incompetence. If we seize them through 'lawful' Imperial channels—without wasting time on negotiations or transactions—we could cite their failure to meet production quotas or their negligence in allowing heresy to spread. We could restore this Hive City's output to its former glory within months."
Vann paused, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"In my capacity as the PDF General of Hive Kathion, I will act as a strict observer of protocol. I won't involve the official military. But that also means I 'won't interfere' if your powerful private militia decides to handle the matter. I am certain your soldiers can crush those wine-soaked Thalrics without breaking much of a sweat."
Valen Korvax sat perfectly still, listening with the practiced composure of a high-born noble, though his amber eyes betrayed a flash of recognition. He remembered when Vann first agreed to side with him politically; his brother had mockingly asked him: 'Are you still not satisfied with ruling half a Hive City while the Thalrics keep the rest?' in the days when Valen was struggling to rebuild his own sector.
Yet today, the man who claimed not to act for the sake of the Korvax name—the same family that had once cast him out—was the one proposing a war for total conquest of Hive Kathion. Valen knew Vann wasn't doing this for family honor; there was a hidden agenda buried beneath that PDF General's authority.
Valen leaned back and let out a cold, mocking laugh.
"Is this really how you want to play it, Vann? Are you dissatisfied with your position as General?"
His voice was laced with chilling amusement. "The last time we spoke, you asked why half wasn't enough. Now, you're the one urging me to burn my neighbor's house down so we can scavenge their machines. Tell me, brother... what 'opportunity' do you see that I am missing?"
He knew their relationship was built on a foundation of mutual benefit. For a man as sharp as Vann to offer such a 'legitimate' plan meant the board was being set for a result far greater than what was being presented.
"It's more complex than you think, Valen," Vann replied, spreading his hands slightly. "The war against the Xeno-hybrids a year ago devastated the PDF forces stationed here. We need ordnance and vehicles to replace what was lost or broken beyond repair. Hive Kathion can produce lasguns and armored transports, but currently, only the factories in your sector are operational—and you certainly won't sell them to me. Buying from other Hives isn't cost-effective."
"I know the Thalric districts contain weapon foundries that are still functional, but they've been abandoned due to poor maintenance. If you ask why I don't just buy them elsewhere myself..." Vann leaned in. "Having direct control over those factories and armor foundries is far more valuable. You will gain increased tithe reports, more territory, and full, unopposed rule over Hive Kathion. No more rivals, no more distractions. What do you say, brother? Do you accept the offer? Total rule for you, and control over a few choice foundries for me."
Valen narrowed his eyes. While he did want to eliminate Thalric and organize the Hive to his own standards (and he certainly wanted to deal with nobles whose garish fashion offended his tastes), he had to focus on stabilizing his own territory first. To start a war now seemed reckless. Even if his production capacity increased, he would also have to shoulder Thalric's production quotas.
In the current climate, it wasn't worth the risk.
"Your plan is excellent, Vann," Valen said coolly. "It would be even better if you presented it to me at another time—once I have finished putting my own house in order."
_________________________________________
Hive kathion
Upper hive
Eric slumped against the back of his office chair, his energy completely spent. His eyes, which usually hid a flicker of panic behind a shy and insecure exterior, were now vacant, filled with a profound sense of weariness. He glanced at the typewriter sitting silent before him, then at the mountain of paperwork, before letting out a long sigh that made his narrow shoulders droop even further.
The lingering ache in his abdomen served as a sharp reminder of the heavy blow he had taken yesterday. Yet, that physical pain paled in comparison to the frustration of seeing nearly his entire first paycheck vanish in the blink of an eye because of Raul—not to mention having his cake snatched away right in front of him.
He picked up a pouch of nutrient paste he had dispensed from a vending machine that morning and began to suck it through a straw. The texture of the liquid meal was viscous and cloying in his mouth. It was utterly flavorless, causing him to grimace. Even though it lacked any actual taste, it was far from appetizing; the thick, pasty consistency felt bizarre and greasy, making it difficult to swallow.
"Ugh!!"
Eric quickly clapped a hand over his mouth to prevent a mess on the floor or his desk. He struggled to swallow the sludge, the texture nearly triggering a gag reflex.
It's so bland... like eating warm starch paste... or the consistency of liquid latex... absolutely revolting, Eric muttered to himself. He closed his eyes, forcing it down his throat simply to survive. In truth, he had never actually eaten liquid latex; it was just the only comparison he could think of. Despite his high level of endurance and the various horrors he had survived in the Lower Hive, he knew this nutrient paste was technically a step up from Corpse Starch. However, the fact that he—an accountant with a relatively high salary—was reduced to eating this was both infuriating and depressing. He felt a sudden urge to slam his fist onto the table in frustration.
Ultimately, he did nothing but sit there, quietly sucking the nutrient paste from its pouch amidst the dull hum of the workplace. The realization that he would have to rely on this stuff for one or two meals a day until next month made his stomach turn with dread.
Just endure it, Eric... at least it'll keep you from starving until next month, he consoled himself gloomily. Deep down, he remained wary of Vann. The man had told him to live a normal life and wait for his assigned mission, but two days had passed with no word. Perhaps he was overthinking it—and overthinking was never healthy. Regardless, he needed to start considering what else he could afford to eat that cost the same as this nutrient paste.
One thing was for certain: Corpse Starch was definitely not an option .
_____________________________________________
Date: 5.988.M41
The Outskirts of Hive Kathion
Amidst the sandstorms raging outside the colossal iron walls of Hive Kathion, the visibility was choked by a haze of toxic, jaundiced dust. A waste-disposal driver struggled with the steering wheel of his battered, ancient truck as it rattled along a crumbling road outside the Hive City.
He had been assigned to transport hazardous waste from a Magos Biologis laboratory in the Thalric family's domain to a designated disposal site. However, due to the negligence of his overseers and his own mounting fatigue, the man chose convenience over duty. Rather than navigating the dense, suffocating traffic within the Hive to reach the incinerators on the far side, he diverted his course tens of kilometers into the desolate, ignored barrens.
With a callous press of a button, he engaged the truck's rear lift, dumping metal crates and chemical drums onto the cracked, poisoned earth. The heavy thud of the cargo echoed through the howling wind. One particular crate, marked with the forbidden cogs of the Adeptus Mechanicus, slammed into the ground, its improperly secured lid jolting open.
The driver didn't even bother to climb down and check his work. He simply slammed his foot on the accelerator and sped away, leaving nothing but tire tracks in the toxic sludge. He was blissfully unaware that the cracked crate contained more than just broken glass or spent chemicals. Inside lay the remains of a bright red alien creature—a nightmare of a beast that looked like a giant, fanged mouth on legs. Its skin was crimson and warty, possessing multiple eyes, two powerful muscular legs, and a short, stubby tail...
The Squig had arrived.