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After donning his suit of Terminator armor, Grand Master Wilhelmina De Sonnec of the 2nd Brotherhood of Grey Knights met with Ordo Malleus Inquisitor Sasha Rork for a morning meal. ”We have a long day ahead of us, so please have some nourishment, Grand Master,” requested Inquisitor Rork. ”yes , ma’am,” replied Grand Master De Sonnec. Inquisitor Rork briefed Grand Master De Sonnec on the plans of the day. Routine patrol of important areas with the walls of the City from the luxury of an Inquisitorial Land Raider “Big Red”. And ending back at the Inquisitorial Stronghold. A women in her late 20’s appeared, her long black hair was done up in a bun, her helmet showing the skull war paint on the face mask, signify her as veteran of Langham 13th Inquisitorial Forces. Her armored combat uniform showed her rank as a Lieutenant. At her hip was a holstered plasma pistol and her knife. ”Inquisitor Rork, ma’am. I am Lieutenant Telly,I am here to escort you and your guest on a tour for threat assessment.” she said. “Thank you Lieutenant. We are ready to go.” Inquisitor Rork replied. The day was overcast and had a slight drizzle, the vid screens kept an Inquisitor Rork and Grand Master De Sonnec dry and for the most part warm. Occasionally on the patrol, Inquisitor Rork and Grand Master De Sonnec would disembark for various reasons, such as checking the Planetary Governor’s palace or at the least one in the area. Or when they stopped to meet with an area commander. The final stop was meeting with the Inquisitorial soldiers in a bunker in the city. After a brief visit, with a Captain Andres of the Langham 13th. Inquisitor Rork and Grand Master De Sonnec returned to the Inquisitorial Stronghold.

Lieutenant Kasnyk leaned forward, monocle interface flickering green as he parsed the packet’s structure. A transmission, incomplete. Encrypted but within protocol. Origin: Marek Sobczak, Sergeant. Timestamp: early hours, local time. Location: near the southern ridge. That alone should have been routine. But Marek was dead. The initial report had come through the PDF relay chain an hour earlier — Sergeant Sobczak found in his runner, chest perforated by unknown fire. No witnesses. No sign of the weapon. A freak accident, they said. Bandits. Mutineers. The usual desert ghosts. Kasnyk didn’t believe in ghosts. The packet loaded, fragment by fragment. Static-blurred voice logs. One partial image file. Marek’s voice — distorted, dry — emerged mid-sentence: “…possibly Crusade-era… no Imperial markings… entry point recently disturbed—” Skip. “…serial tags stripped… unknown vehicle type… blast shielding—” Skip. “…locals? Maybe the 280th. I can’t confirm. Will escalate—” And then silence. No data header. No routing confirmation. Just the raw, fractured remnants of something bigger. Something deliberate. He tapped his monocle. “Begin trace on Sobczak data trail. Full audit. Limit visibility — private channel only.” The cogitator chirped again in acknowledgment. He stood slowly, moved to the side cabinet, and opened a shallow drawer. Inside: a sealed data crystal — unmarked. He placed it beside the slate without comment, fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the desk as he stared at the half-lit screen. “Who did you see, Marek?” No answer came. Only the faint hum of the outpost’s ventilation. Still sterile. Still silent. But the weight had shifted. Something had cracked. ----- The mess hall smelled of overcooked grain, steam, and industrial soap. Not unpleasant — just lifeless. A kind of scentless familiarity that belonged to all PDF installations, no matter the sector. The 280th sat hunched around a metal table streaked with scratches and dried broth. Tin trays scraped softly under spoons. No voices rose to fill the space. Laska stirred her meal with the tip of her fork, not eating. She wore the same grin she always did, but it sat crooked this morning — not quite tethered to anything. Czajka sat beside her, quiet as ever, but his attention never left the door. Krystan slumped with his elbows on the table, nursing a lukewarm mug of recaf. He hadn't spoken since they'd filed in. I sat across from them, tray untouched. The ration stew steamed faintly in the stale air, but I couldn't summon the appetite. None of us could. Marek’s name hadn’t been mentioned. We didn’t need to say it. The air carried it. "Guess nobody's checked the heater coils again," Laska muttered, forcing levity into the space. "Tastes like someone's boot boiled in sump water." Czajka made a sound — might've been a laugh. Might've just been a breath. Krystan didn’t react. Silence returned like tidewater. Just the scrape of cutlery. The dull clatter of a tray dropped in the return chute. One by one, other squads filtered in. Most gave us a glance, then looked away. Maybe they’d heard. Maybe not. The desert wind tapped softly at the high windows. Outside, the sun was already high. Another day waiting to be filled with the wrong questions and the wrong orders. I looked down at my tray. The meal had cooled. I hadn’t touched it. Beside me, Laska suddenly stood. “I’m getting more recaf,” she said, though her cup was still half full. She walked off without waiting for anyone’s reply. Czajka finally spoke, voice low. “Do you think he saw it?” I didn’t ask who he meant. “I don’t know,” I said. He nodded, once, slow. “If he did, he’s not seeing anything now.” We sat in silence again, shoulder to shoulder. The 280th — whole, but not intact.