The Webway Mirror 1 - Raising to Ashes

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Prologue

The Information Broker leans across the table, his hand clamping over the Rich Patron’s mouth before the man can speak. His eyes, wide with panic, dart around the curtained booth.

"Do you want to get us killed?" His whisper is sharp, slicing through the stillness. "That thing is dangerous... even the Inquisition fears it."

The Rich Patron mumbles against his palm, eyes flashing with irritation, but the Broker keeps his grip firm. He shoots a glance through the gap in the curtain, where two hulking Ogryn bodyguards stand like statues, their broad shoulders casting long shadows into the booth. Reassured they are alone, he lets go, pulling his hand back as if he’s touched fire.

"Keep your voice down," the Broker hisses, eyes still scanning nervously. "Even here, someone could be listening."

The Rich Patron leans back, brushing at his finely tailored coat, his annoyance barely concealed. "You overestimate the risk," he says, voice calm but tinged with disdain.

The Broker isn’t convinced. He leans in again, voice barely a whisper. "This... mirror... it’s no ordinary relic. It was part of the Emperor’s own Webway Project. Sealed with Imperial tech, covered in purity sigils."

The Rich Patron’s eyes gleam, catching the faint candlelight. "All the more reason to acquire it. My rival, zu Rosenstein... he has everything. Except a cursed fate."

The Broker hesitates, glancing nervously at the candle’s flickering flame. But his greed is triggered, and sneeks into his eyes. He leans forward, lowering his voice: "Fate is a very exclusive kind of gift."

"So," the Patron says, a sly smile curls on his lips. "Can you get it for me?"

***

The flicker of the candle fades into a sepia-toned memory. The webway mirror gleams with an unnatural light as it is installed in a massive chamber, surrounded by arcane Imperial machinery. Tech-priests and servitors chant litanies of purity, their movements precise, almost reverent.

"A tool forged in secrecy, bound by xenos origins…"

The webway mirror is carefully placed into the heart of a larger device, wires and mechanical components connecting around it. A Tech-priest, solemn and hooded, presses a final purity seal onto its surface, locking it into place.

"…and contained within the heart of the Emperor’s greatest ambition: the Webway Project."

Suddenly, the scene erupts into chaos. Alarms blare, distant explosions echo through the chamber as Imperial guards and tech-priests scramble for an exit. The mirror is left behind, glowing ominously in the abandoned device.

"But when the project failed, it was abandoned, left in a forgotten vault…"

The webway mirror now gathers dust in a dark, secure storage facility, detached from the Imperial machinery but still encased in its protective frame. A dim light flickers above, casting long shadows that stretch across the floor.

"…still guarded, but ultimately forgotten."

***

The Rich Patron leans back in his seat, a satisfied smile playing at his lips.

"So," he asks, fingers drumming on the table, "you can get it for me?"

The Information Broker raises an eyebrow, curiosity slowly overtaking his anxiety. "Where do you want to receive it?"

"Oh, me?" The Rich Patron grins, leaning back slightly in his seat, "Not at all! Put it into a cargo box, bring it to the spaceport, and stick a nice dispatch note to Port Gyre on Mars."

The Broker seems intrigued but cautious. "And what happens when it gets to Mars?"

The Rich Patron leans in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Make sure that when it’s unloaded, there’s a little accident with the servitor grappler. The box gets damaged, the dispatch note unreadable. Zu Rosenstein will have to open it to inspect the contents—he’s in charge of customs control at the spaceport."

A slow smirk spreads across the Broker’s face, now fully understanding the plan. "He won’t be able to resist… thinking it’s some valuable trade good he can embezzle… or worse."

***

The next meeting takes place in a more private, richly decorated room. The Rich Patron and Information Broker are now poring over blueprints spread across a table, schematics and notes cluttering the surface.

"So, you have a plan?" The Patron’s voice is calm, expectant.

The Broker nods, pointing at the blueprints. "The webway mirror is held in a deep vault, under Ordo Xenos custody. Heavy security, but there’s a way… with the right incentives."

A hefty satchel of thrones lands on the table with a satisfying thud, the Rich Patron’s hand resting on it, fingers tapping. "Money is no object. I trust you have the right people for this?"

The Information Broker smiles, a glint of confidence in his eyes. "I’ve already arranged it. They specialize in this sort of… retrieval."

***

Night falls over the Ordo Xenos facility, its Gothic architecture looming over the landscape. Guards patrol the perimeter, unaware of the danger closing in.

In the shadows, a group of thugs approaches, moving with practiced stealth. The Thug Leader whispers, "We’re in... keep it quiet and fast."

Inside the facility, they move silently through dark hallways, avoiding patrols and security drones. They reach the vault—a massive door adorned with purity seals. A thug pulls out a device, attaching it to the lock. The seals burn away, and the door creaks open.

Inside the vault, the webway mirror waits, glowing faintly in the darkness. The thugs hesitate, awe and fear washing over them.

"That’s it… just like he said," one mutters.

"Quickly now," the Leader orders, "before anyone notices."

They lift the mirror, securing it in a padded crate. One thug glances nervously at his distorted reflection on its surface. "Let’s get this over with. This thing gives me the creeps."

As they make their escape, alarms begin to blare, but they’re already gone, the webway mirror in tow.

***
 

In zu Rosenstein’s office, a monitor shows the spaceport cargo area below. A large crate is being unloaded by a servitor grappler, which suddenly malfunctions, dropping the crate to the ground. The side cracks open slightly.

Zu Rosenstein turns from his desk, annoyance creasing his face. "What happened out there?"

He walks to the window, staring down at the damaged crate and the servitors gathering around it. "A crate bound for Port Gyre, sir. Damaged in transit… the dispatch note is unreadable," a subordinate reports.

Later, zu Rosenstein stands beside the crate. He opens it, finding a faintly glowing mirror nestled inside. A folded note catches his eye. He unfolds it briefly.

"To a worthy adversary, may the webway mirror reflect your true greatness."

 

He crumples the note, tossing it aside, but the mirror draws his attention. He traces his fingers along the intricate, alien patterns etched into its frame. Beneath the glass, strange shadows ripple, as if alive. His breath catches.

 

"This... this is no ordinary device."

 

His mind races, recalling fragments of forbidden lore—rumors of ancient xenos technology capable of unimaginable feats, relics tied to powers long buried and forgotten. His heartbeat quickens as the possibilities unfold.

 

He carefully takes it back to his office, preparing for what is sure to be his greatest discovery.

"This mirror," he mutters to himself, "could amplify my reach into the Warp... unlock new powers... make me unstoppable."

“But the webway mirror’s allure is a trap for the soul… “

***

 

A surreal, shifting landscape with undefined terrain stretches into a horizonless void. At the center, a dark chasm splits the ground, its edges crumbling into the abyss. Khorne and Khaine clash at the chasm's edge, their blades meeting with explosive sparks. Shadows flicker around them, twisting into monstrous shapes that dance and melt back into darkness.

 

Isha is tenderly holding a grotesque, infant-like Nurgle amidst a garden of withering flowers. The image fades, transforming into Nurgle, now an adult, cradling Isha as he flees from Slaanesh. The background shifts from lush green to decay, a seamless blending of life and rot.

 

Tzeentch and Cegorach are seated at a floating chessboard, pieces shifting and morphing with every move. Their expressions are frozen in wide, unnerving grins, as cracks begin to form across their faces. The chessboard hovers above a void, dissolving at the edges into a sea of black.

 

Khorne and Khaine fighting, Isha and Nurgle in an embrace, Tzeentch and Cegorach playing chess, all just reflections in a cracked mirror. Each shard reflects a different distorted reality.

 

Slaanesh wields the mirror in a duel against the Emperor in the Webway, the shards casting fragmented beams of light and shadow across the battleground.

Zu Rosenstein's face, the mirror's shards embedded in his skin, each shard reflecting a different, twisted version of his own face. His eyes are wide, filled with terror and pain as the shards begin to pull towards the center, merging into a singular, nightmarish visage.

 

The mirror shatters completely, its pieces exploding into a swirling vortex that engulfs zu Rosenstein. He is torn apart by unseen forces, his mouth open in a silent scream, spiraling down into the endless darkness of the abyss.

***

 

Morning light seeps into zu Rosenstein’s cluttered office at the top of the spaceport's security tower. He wakes up in his chair, his face pale and drawn with fear. He sits up, trembling, eyes darting around the room as if expecting the dream’s horrors to appear.

 

“Awakening… but the nightmare lingers.”

 

Zu Rosenstein is leaping from his chair in a panic, rushing towards the office window. His movements are frantic, driven by terror. Papers and objects are knocked over in his frantic escape.

Zu Rosenstein’s hand as it reaches for the window latch, his fingers trembling uncontrollably.

He throws open the window, his eyes wide with a wild, uncontrollable fear. He looks out over the spaceport, but his gaze is unfocused, his mind still caught in the grip of the mirror’s influence.

In a moment of frenzied panic, zu Rosenstein climbs onto the window ledge. His face is a mask of terror and madness as he leaps, unable to endure the torment any longer.

 

“There is no escape from the webway mirror’s curse…”

 

A novice in a white robe below sees zu Rosenstein's body plummeting down from the tower above. Shocked faces turn upward, staring in horror.

Inside the office, in the background, the mirror is small but clearly visible, standing on a pedestal. It still glows faintly, as if satisfied with its latest victim.

 

“...only the final release.”

 

Final close-up of the mirror, its surface now still, reflecting only the empty office. The faint glow pulses, waiting for its next prey.

 

“And so, the webway mirror waits… for the next soul to dare gaze within.”

 

Edited October 22 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[grailkeeper]

Theres a fan fiction subforum where people post their writing. Whilst you want to illustrate they might have better advise than this one.

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Hmm, you are probably right. I'll try contacting a Mod.

[Brother Hellion]

 

Theres a fan fiction subforum where people post their writing. Whilst you want to illustrate they might have better advise than this one.

Wait, I thought this was the forum for posting fan fiction. Its literally the name.

Also where is the link?

 

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Streetlights line the T-section where the road branches off, connecting a civilian spaceport to the Imperial Guard anti-aircraft battery on the opposite side. The main road axis leads down toward the surrounding sprawl of budget lodgings and makeshift stalls catering to pilgrims on their journey to distant holy sites.
A faint brightness grows along the eastern horizon, silhouetting the jagged peaks of far-off mountains as the first hints of dawn approach.

In the Imperial Guard bunker underneath the anti-aircraft installation, watchful eyes monitor the rotating beams on their radar screens, to ensure military command can close off any inbound vectors from hostile approach at any time. 

Across the road section to the north from it, behind the perimeter gate of a freight spaceport, civilian space traffic control is conducted from inside the radar-bristling pillar of the Navis Nobilite, further within the spaceport. The Navigator Tower rises from the northern end of the Great Hall, marking the boundary to the span of airstrips, hangars and taxiways behind.    

The stream of goods arriving via the runways flows towards the Great Hall, where a restless colony of servitor drones sorts and repackages the contents under the fading stars above, their work punctuated by the harsh beams of industrial floodlights.

In the cargo yard just outside the Great Hall, a conveyor of freight haulers moves steadily through their allocated lanes, receiving goods for processing before they are distributed to supply the surrounding sprawl, where the poor pilgrims rely on these shipments for their basic needs.

At the other end of the Great Hall, a security tower looms over the cargo yard and the road gates, standing as another reminder of Imperial oversight and control.

The constant stream of goods had not ceased during the cool and cloudless night, shadows toiling under the sharp beams of illuminator arrays, but the first rays from the horizon now reflect from the rooftops, and begin to slip between the machines and structures below.

The cargo yard outside the Great Hall is a hub of activity. Teams of bionic servitors, under the watchful oversight of a pair of cloaked Adeptus Mechanicus figures, manage the intricate processes of loading and unloading cargo. A mixture of massive freight haulers and smaller delivery vans waits stationed in lines nearby, their human drivers following strict protocol by remaining inside their cabins. One driver, illuminated by the soft glow of the dashboard, takes a sip from a steaming drink, biding the time before the next stage of processing.

Iron Stevedores move entire containers across the yard, while Stowage Thralls and Dray-Bound Servitors work in precise coordination to handle pallets, stacking boxes onto wagons or moving individual bulk items between vehicles, wagons, and into and out of the massive roll gate, which accesses the central lane through the Great Hall.

The security tower stands guard over the spaceport, its broad disk even soaring beyond the tallest radar dish of the navigation tower. Its imposing height allows it to survey the entire bustling scene below. Markward zu Rosenstein’s office, with its glass-paneled front, commands a view of all the cargo operations taking place.

The dance of intersecting outlines on the ground beneath begins to fade, as the intensifying sheen from the structures overhead blends the shine of the industrial projectors into the ambient glow of the first rising haze.

In the wide cargo yard, a large freight hauler sits idle in its waiting lane, its cargo hold sealed shut. On the service platform next to it, two figures stand near a servitor on tank tracks. One is tall, cloaked in red-and-white robes, with a servo arm protruding from his back—clearly a high-ranking Magos of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Parts of his skull and face had been replaced by glowing bionic implants, to aid him fulfill his duties. The other figure, smaller and dressed in simpler, worn robes, is an Adeptus Mechanicus novice. His posture is slightly tense, and his fingers fidget nervously.

The Stowage Thrall has halted mid-task, its crane attachment hanging motionless, its optical lenses fixed on the two figures, awaiting commands.

The Magos stands motionless, his red robe slightly rustling in the cool breeze. His mechanical face, stern and calculating, watches over the scene with cold precision. The elderly novice hesitates before stepping forward, carefully approaching the servitor’s control panel. His worn robes brush the ground as he begins inputting commands, his movements swift but unsteady.

Suddenly something above and behind the Magos' back catches the novice's attention. He stops listening to the Magos and raises a hand, pointing urgently towards the top of the security tower.

A dark gap has appeared in the glaring band along the tower’s front. A window stands open now, revealing a figure in the cloak of the spaceport’s commander. It’s Markward zu Rosenstein, the head of custom’s and security, and he starts to climb onto the narrow ledge.

The Magos’s gaze follows his apprentice’s trembling hand with a flicker of impatience. Clearly irritated, he steps back, turning sharply, ready to dismiss whatever triviality had drawn the pupil’s attention. His mechanical eyes search for the distraction, expecting nothing of importance.

Markward zu Rosenstein is now fully out of the window, balancing on the narrow brink. He pauses, his foot slipping slightly as he glances downward at the vastness of the spaceport's cargoyard stretching below—freight haulers, servitors, and cargo containers distant and insignificant from this height.

For an instant, he seems frozen in indecision, the wind tugging at his coat. Then, without warning, he turns and steps back.

Markward zu Rosenstein, in mid-air, suspended in the moment of free fall. Above and behind him, the glowing facade of the security tower stands stark against the last fading stars of dawn. His arms and legs flail in uncontrolled motions as he plummets, his coat billowing dramatically in the wind of his descent. His face is a mixture of panic and resignation.

The Magos and the Novice both have their their heads tilted upward, following Markward’s descent with their gaze. The Novice stands frozen, his raised hand trembling slightly, his eyes wide in disbelief. The Magos’s mechanical gaze tracks the fall, analyzing the trajectory with cold precision. Only for a split second, a glitch of something unspoken crosses his face.

As the body impacts the ground, the Novice recoils violently, his entire body flinching. His face is a mix of shock and horror, unable to fully process what he just witnessed. The Magos, though still trying to maintain composure, clenches his mechanical hand, and his servo arm jolts slightly.

A pool of blood starts to build around the body, seeping across the rough pavement. An eerie silence lingers, until it’s disturbed by the Magos’ voice.

His speech falters, struggling to find the appropriate categorization for what has occurred. Faint mechanical clicks and whirs follow, as his augmetic mind processes the event

"...Designation… categorization... worker malfunc—"

The pitch shifts as the Magos runs his initial attempts to categorize the event. He emits a series of frustrated clicks and hums as his internal systems struggle to grasp the situation

"...Death. Incident of...by the Machine God’s decree...error in...classification protocol violated...error..."

The silence returns, while the crimson pool slowly expands across the rough plastcrete floor, only accentuated by the hinge of a door opening at the Adeptus Arbites post near the foot of the security tower.

 A slow series of mechanical stomps begins to approach. The contours of a shadow approach the pool—a spaceport freight servitor, one of the Iron Stevedores.

The servitor halts abruptly, its mechanical whirring falling silent as it assesses the unexpected obstacle. For a brief moment, everything is still. Then, with a sharp beep, it sounds an alarm, rhythmic pulses from its signal lights casting red and yellow reflections across the growing pool of blood.

In the Magos’ face flickering diodes embedded in his mechanical skull light up. His ocular lenses rotate and click into focus, and small lights on the side of his face blink as he processes the situation:

"Imperial Traffic Protocol, Section 3: Priority must be given to the flow of logistics in designated transport areas. All non-essential delays must be minimized."

The Magos pivots, his back to the body now, addressing the Novice, who stands behind him, still shaken by the events. Only the servo arm on the Magos’ back twitches slightly as he speaks.

"Novice Fenix Kol, I authorize you to organize the cleanup of this area. You are permitted to use the Wastewarden Servitors from the eastern section of the main hall. Any units currently in idle or self-maintenance status are at your disposal."

The Magos reorients toward the roll gate into the Great Hall.

"I must return to the sanctuarium immediately. Cargo protocols require rerouting. This incident shall not impede the…”

An angry shout fills the air, cutting the Magos off mid-sentence.

Sergeant Velos Ralkon, NCO of the Adeptus Arbites, sprints toward them from the Arbites post by the entrance of the security tower. The NCO’s face is flushed with anger, he aggressively waves an arm toward them. His harsh voice bellows across the yard:

"Stop what you're doing, you stupid robot brains!"

 

Edited October 22 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

The diodes in the Magos’ face flicker slightly, and his mechanical features stiffen as he registers the NCO’s approach. He doesn’t move, momentarily frozen mid-step, while Fenix stands beside him, watching the approaching NCO with growing anxiety.

 

"Magos Rhaukos! That’s a dead person lying there! A human being! And not just anyone, that's the chief of customs and security, Markward zu Rosenstein! Possible suicide!"

Magos Rhaukos' mechanical voice cuts through Ralkon’s statement with the precision of a cogitator. His servo arm twitches slightly, emphasizing his frustration at being questioned.

"Irrelevant to the primary concern. Imperial Traffic Protocol, Section 3 mandates uninterrupted logistical flow in all designated transport zones. The cost to the Imperium—"

 

Sergeant Ralkon steps forward, his hands clenched in frustration, refusing to let Rhaukos continue. He points aggressively toward the scene, his face flushed with anger.

"Cost to the Imperium? Are you hearing yourself, you rust-brained bolt-head? That’s a man lying dead! A suicide—do you even comprehend what that means? Protocol doesn't matter—he was a key officer!"

 

Magos Rhaukos does not back down, his mechanical eyes narrowing slightly. He interrupts again, his voice rising in pitch, but still cold and emotionless. He gestures stiffly with his metallic hand, pointing towards the cargo area.

"Imperial Directive 211-B mandates that all operational interruptions be minimized—this scene represents a delay in logistical efficiency! The damage caused by failing to maintain the cargo throughput—"

Ralkon has had enough. His voice rises to a near-shout, cutting Rhaukos off once more. His brow furrows, and his tone is filled with authority as he refuses to yield the argument.

"To hell with your throughput! I’m the acting NCO here, and that makes me superior to any logistics concerns you have!"

Magos Rhaukos is about to respond, his mechanical voice clicking into gear. His diodes flash as he prepares to make another protocol citation, but Sergeant Ralkon quickly silences him.

"Section 9 of the Imperial Co—"

"Enough! You are ordered to stop talking back, Magos. Zu Rosenstein’s death makes me the acting head of spaceport security, I’m telling you to cordon off this area now!"

 

Magos Rhaukos stands rigidly, his servo arm twitching in frustration. Fenix, still standing aside, looks more nervous than ever. Sergeant Ralkon stands firm, his hand resting on the hilt of his shock maul, as if daring Rhauko to challenge him further.

"I’m calling the Inquisition. This is now an official investigation."

 

Sergeant Ralkon storms off, heading back toward the Adeptus Arbites post, his posture rigid with authority. His voice is no longer heard, but the tension lingers in the air. In the background, Magos Rhaukos and Fenix are left standing near the growing pool of blood.

After a long series of clicks and crackling static, Magos Rhaukos turns toward Fenix, his eyes glowing slightly brighter as he speaks. His voice is cold and sharp, laced with disdain. He gestures curtly with his metallic hand, emphasizing his words as he reprimands the young novice.

"Novice Fenix Kol... stop staring idly. Your incompetence and laziness betray the commandments of the Omnissiah. You will never be promoted to full adept with such inefficiency."

 

Fenix doesn’t respond, simply nodding meekly, accepting the verbal punishment.

Rhaukos turns away from Fenix, looking out toward the cargo area. His voice becomes more dismissive as he sneers, pointing toward the slowly drying pool of blood and the area around it.

 "Stand guard and reroute any servitors that approach Sergeant Ralkon’s precious crime scene, Novice Kol. We wouldn’t want to disturb his investigation, would we?"

 

Rhaukos adjusts his servo arm, his tone colder now as he prepares to leave.

"I must hurry before this entire spaceport devolves into chaos due to this unnecessary interruption."

 

Magos Rhaukos stomps away toward the central hall and the sanctuarium, his mechanical limbs moving with cold, deliberate steps. The sound of his servos and metal feet hitting the ground echoes as he leaves Fenix Kol alone near the scene.

 

Fenix Kol, standing alone, stares down at the pool of blood and the corpse. His expression is a mixture of anxiety and resignation as he watches Rhauko disappear into the distance, leaving him to guard the area.

Edited October 22 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

The mountain peaks at the horizon start to glow softly, heralding the rising sun. As dawn breaks, dew starts to evaporate into a slight morning fog. The vast, industrial complex of the spaceport stretches across the horizon, a labyrinth of cargo containers, taxiways, and landing pads. The towering security fence, crowned with barbed wire, encircles the perimeter like a fortress. Stowage Thralls trudge along the pathways, performing their monotonous tasks, while Wastewardens clear debris and ensure the tarmac remains unobstructed. The air is filled with the sound of grinding machinery, clicking servos, and the occasional hiss of steam.

 

“The spaceport... a mechanical heart, pulsing with the rhythm of servitors. Cold. Efficient. Soulless.”

 

In the cargo yard, Iron Stevedores move between stacked containers. The tarmac is cracked and worn, oil stains and rust marking the neglect. One of the Iron Stevedores lifts a container with precise, emotionless movements, placing it onto a wheeled flatbed wagon. Its optics flicker with dull light as it pivots, continuing its endless routine.

 

“No human hand guides them. The servitors work, unaware of time, wear, or decay.”

 

An Ironbeast tows a short train of attached wagons from the cargo yard toward the runways. Its blank, augmented face shows no emotion, only optics that scan the path along the barbed-wire fences through the rising fog. Behind it, faded purity seals flutter on the fence, peeling and tattered, a reminder of the Imperium's vigilance long past its prime.

 

“The flesh has long been replaced by steel and circuits. The machine never questions, never hesitates.”

 

The towering ceiling of the spaceport’s central hall is cracked and stained with age. Inside, Manifest Thralls unload the content of individual containers onto conveyor belts, to sort the goods for repackaging according to destination. The machinery groans and clicks, its operation perfect despite the wear on its metal joints. A hover crane glides along its track, silently lifting cargo, while a nearby servitor adjusts a set of dials.

 

“The halls echo with the sound of machinery. Human presence is a rare intrusion.”

 

A malfunctioning Manifest Thrall—its optics flicker erratically, and one of its arms twitches uncontrollably. Oil leaks from its joints as it struggles to continue its task. A subtle creaking is heard as the servitor tries to lift a crate, failing to perform its function smoothly.

 

“Even here, decay seeps in. The machine falters... but the Imperium marches on.”

 

The security tower is looming above the spaceport, its windows overlooking the cargo yard. At this early hour, the tower stands empty, the hub of human control silent. From the tower’s vantage point, the entire spaceport stretches out like a massive, soulless organism.

 

“The security tower, where human eyes watch... but today, it stands silent.”

 

A faded purity seal hangs near the base of the tower. Dust has settled on it, and the once-bright Imperial Aquila is barely visible. It flutters weakly in the wind, a small symbol of the slow decay creeping into every corner of the spaceport.

 

“Purity seals, now faded and forgotten, cling to their last threads.”

 

On the cracked tarmac at the base of the security tower, Markward zu Rosenstein’s lifeless body lies in a pool of blood. A small figure, robed in the garb of an Adeptus Mechanicus novice, stands near the body, carefully rerouting the servitors around it. The Stowage Thralls and Dray-Bound Servitors continue their tasks, oblivious to the tragedy, but their paths now curve away from the fallen form.

 

“Until the machine is interrupted... by death.”

Edited October 22 by Ya Evyl Aunty
Forgot to mention the retinue leaving the car

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

The morning fog clings to the ground, softening the outlines of the spaceport gates. The usual morning bustle has come to a halt as the gates remain closed. Two Adeptus Arbites enforcers, uniforms clearly marking them as part of the spaceport's security, stand guard at the entrance. A short line of lorries, vans, and cargo haulers has formed, their drivers confused by the delay.

 

Three workers approach from the parking lot outside the gates, unaware of the situation. The first, a petite woman with a calm, attentive expression, walks ahead of the others. Her dark hair is neatly tied back, and a small, stylish purse hangs over her shoulder, swaying gently as she moves. Close behind her is a man with a heavier build. He adjusts his jacket with a casual air, his dark hair slicked back. The third, a younger man, stockier, keeps his head low under the brim of his cap, his oversized work vest hanging loosely.

 

One of the Adeptus Arbites enforcers steps forward, holding out his hand to stop them. His posture is firm, and his expression unreadable behind his helmet. The trio pauses, confused—they’re used to simply walking in to start their shift.

"Morning. We’re here for our shift," the heavier man says casually.

 

The enforcer doesn’t move aside. "Not today. Orders from Sergeant Ralkon. The tower’s off-limits—your boss, Markward zu Rosenstein, is dead."

The three react with visible shock. The woman’s eyes widen, and the heavier man frowns, crossing his arms. The younger man shifts uneasily, glancing toward the tower.

 

"Dead?" the woman blurts out. She looks to the others before turning back to the enforcer. "What happened?"

 

"Fell from the tower," the enforcer says flatly. "Sergeant Ralkon’s in charge now. Until the Inquisition clears it, you’re not going in."

 

They exchange uneasy glances, quietly debating their options. The woman presses her lips together, clearly weighing the situation. The heavier man grumbles under his breath, while the younger man rubs the back of his neck, fidgeting.

 

A sleek, black limousine appears through the fog, marked with the unmistakable symbols of the Inquisition. Its engine hums softly, and its dark windows reflect the dim light filtering through the mist. The enforcers open the gate, and the limousine stops just inside, not far from the trio. They watch, uncertain.

The rear door of the limousine opens. A woman steps out—tall, with dark hair swept back in a severe bun, her face sharp and calculating. She wears a black coat, its high collar framing her face, and the Inquisitorial rosette gleaming on her chest. Around her neck, a small, crescent-shaped pendant rests against her collarbone, glinting faintly in the dim light. She steps forward with authority, and Sergeant Velos Ralkon, arriving from the security tower, salutes.

 

"Inquisitor Callista Drakon," she says, her voice calm and firm. "You called me here. Report."

 

Sergeant Ralkon straightens. "Markward zu Rosenstein, head of customs, was found dead at the base of the security tower early this morning. Appears to be a fall—possible suicide. The servitors continued their work until I shut things down to prevent further disturbance. I've called you in to investigate possible heresy."

 

Before Sergeant Ralkon can continue, the petite woman steps forward, her tone steady and respectful. "Inquisitor Drakon, I’m Frida Altenbach, maintenance officer. This is Anton Fischer, security officer, and Johan Weiss, our cargo supervisor. We just arrived for the morning shift. The spaceport can’t resume operations until we get into the security office."

 

Callista turns her gaze on Frida, her expression unreadable. "You’re responsible for this?"

 

"Yes, Inquisitor," Frida says. "If we can’t get the tower running, everything here will grind to a halt."

Frida hesitates for a moment, then adds with concern, "The sprawl around here"—she points along the road to the civilian area—"is used as cheap accommodation for pilgrims who can't afford the prices closer to the holy sites. If the supply from the spaceport is cut off, they will face hardship."

 

Callista studies her for a moment before speaking. "I see."

 

Anton shifts his weight, arms still crossed, and adds, "Without our team, logistics will back up fast."

Johan nods slightly, though he remains mostly silent, keeping his eyes on the ground.

Callista Drakon considers their words, then turns and begins issuing orders.

 

"Sister Helena, escort the workers to the security tower so the spaceport can resume operations. Ensure their safety—these may still be witnesses, and they must be protected."

Sister Helena, standing tall in her white power armor, nods firmly. "Understood, Inquisitor. I'll keep them safe."

"Interrogator Voss," Callista addresses a gaunt man in dark robes, "follow them. Ensure the crime scene remains untouched—no evidence is to be disturbed."

Interrogator Voss nods, his expression sharp. "I will keep watch, Inquisitor."

Callista shifts her attention to her bodyguard. "Enforcer Thrace, stay by my side. Keep watch, as always."

Enforcer Thrace, a towering figure in black and red Adeptus Arbites body armor, nods silently.

 

Finally, Callista turns back to Sergeant Ralkon. "Sergeant, take me to the body."

Ralkon salutes sharply. "At once, Inquisitor."

 

As the group begins to move, the rising sun starts to pierce through the fog, casting long shadows over the spaceport, its warmth faint but unmistakable. Callista Drakon leads the way as the investigation officially commences.

Edited October 22 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Sergeant Ralkon leads Inquisitor Callista Drakon and Enforcer Thracce through the spaceport, guiding them into the long shadows cast by the Security Tower. At its base lies the crumpled body of Markward zu Rosenstein, surrounded by shattered debris in the center of a dried-up pool of blood.

 “You’ve done well to keep the area secure, Sergeant,” Callista says, dismissing Ralkon. She then begins circling the body with a pict recorder in hand, snapping pictures from different angles. Thracce methodically walks the perimeter, placing numbered markers next to any bits of debris or items of interest on the tarmac. When he finishes, Callista takes photos of the marked items, and Thracce carefully collects them into small bags that he stows away.

Kneeling beside the body, Callista inspects the damage while Thracce stands nearby, slate in hand, ready to record her findings. Her eyes trace the twisted limbs and broken bones, evidence of a fall from a great height.

“Cause of death: blunt force trauma consistent with a fall from approximately one hundred feet. Extensive damage to the skull and torso. Blood pooling indicates internal hemorrhaging, particularly around the head and chest,” she dictates to Thracce.

As Callista examines the corpse, a cargo servitor, one of the Draybound, approaches the scene, loaded with boxes and oblivious to the human drama unfolding.

Fenix Kol, standing nearby in his white novice robes, notices the servitor moving toward the crime scene. He steps forward in front of the Draybound, waving his arms to divert its path. The servitor halts, its lenses shifting slightly as it recalculates, but then resumes moving, this time attempting to circle around Fenix while still heading toward the scene.

Fenix steps in front of it again, blocking its path with more exaggerated gestures. The servitor pauses, seemingly choosing a new route. It trundles a few meters away from the crime scene, but then, as if reconsidering, turns sharply back toward the body.

Fenix groans in frustration, rushing forward once more. This time, he waves furiously, pointing repeatedly toward a clear, open path in the opposite direction.

“Initial observation suggests no sign of immediate foul play… but further investigation is required,” Callista continues, unfazed.

After a moment of hesitation, the servitor finally recalculates and, this time, changes course for good, moving away from the scene. Fenix, exasperated but amused, rolls his eyes as the machine trundles away, shaking his head with a silent smile.

“Initial field autopsy concluded. File as attachment A in the case report,” Callista says, standing and stretching, pushing her lower back forward with her hands. She closes her eyes for a moment before turning her gaze toward Fenix, who has returned to his position near the stack of crates.

“You there, Novice. What’s your name?” Callista asks, addressing him directly for the first time.

Fenix straightens, stepping forward. “Fenix. Fenix Kol.”

She nods slightly. “Novice Kol. The initial examination is complete. The body can now be removed from the scene, and the area cleaned. Do you know of a suitable place in the spaceport where the deceased can be kept until medical service retrieves it for full autopsy?”

Fenix hesitates, considering her question before responding. “Magos Rhaukos maintains a cooling room nearby. It’s where we store... biological components for the servitors. It should suffice.”

Callista nods again. “Very well. Have the body moved there. Enforcer Thracce, ensure it is done.”

Before Fenix can turn to leave, Callista’s voice halts him.

“One moment, Novice. I have a few more questions for you.”

Fenix stops mid-step and turns back, his expression neutral.

“Magos Rhaukos—he oversees this spaceport, correct? Tell me about him.”

Fenix adopts a tone of reverence and loyalty. “Magos Rhaukos is essential to the spaceport’s operation. He oversees the servitors, coordinates the logistics, and ensures that every aspect runs at maximum efficiency. The entire port relies on his expertise. Without him, things would fall into chaos. His knowledge of the machine spirits and the Omnissiah’s will is unparalleled.”

Callista dips her head emphatically, opening her eyes wide. Her gaze lingers on Fenix, and she blinks slowly, drawing out the pause before she speaks again. “Soo, Magos Rhaukos is extreeemely important. The servitors, logistics... all under his care.”

Fenix nods affirmatively. “Yes, everything depends on him. The port runs because of his oversight.”

Her tone sharpens, her gaze tightening. “That kind of control requires precision. I imagine disruptions aren’t welcomed.”

“He values efficiency above all. Disruptions... aren’t tolerated,” Fenix replies, this time with a hint of hesitation.

Callista studies his face for a moment, then gives a final conclusive nod. “I see. Thank you, Fenix. That will be all for now.”

 

Edited October 22 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

The elevator doors atop the Security Tower slide open with a soft chime, revealing the security office. Sister Helena and Interrogator Voss step out, their eyes scanning the room, taking in the wall of dark CCTV screens and the three workstations outfitted to oversee the entire spaceport’s security. Each station is equipped with monitors, microphones, headphones, and speakers. One desk is cluttered with scattered papers, an overflowing ashtray, and discarded dataslates, all marked by the stress of hurried work.

On that same desk, a small ornate mirror stands propped up, its silver frame glinting faintly in the dim lighting. The displays pulse, displaying static or sporadic scenes of the spaceport. The fluttering images reflect off the mirror’s surface, distorting reality. Voss glances at the screens briefly, frowning, before continuing his survey of the room. A faint draft passes through the space, coming from the window through which Markward leaped to his death, still ajar.

Frida lingers near the elevator, her brow furrowing. "The door to Markward zu Rosenstein's private quarters stands open. He always makes sure to keep it shut," she mutters, tilting her head toward the door at the back of the room. Her voice carries a note of unease.

Helena moves forward cautiously, her boots echoing slightly in the unsettling quiet. The air feels unnervingly dense, the shadows cast by the desks seeming to stretch just a little longer than they should. The steady hum of machinery in the background has an odd, distorted quality, as though the room itself is holding its breath.

Voss approaches the cluttered desk, scanning the scattered papers and overflowing ashtray, noting the signs of stress and haste. His fingers hover over a half-finished dataslate, as if reluctant to disturb the scene. The flickering monitors cast ghostly light over the room, adding to the unnatural atmosphere.

The lights shudder briefly, plunging the office into momentary gloom. Helena feels a cold sensation creeping along her spine, the faint draft alone insufficient to explain the chill.

Frida steps cautiously forward, her eyes darting between Helena and Voss. "We’re still without supervision," she says, her voice carrying a worried edge. "The spaceport... can’t run blind."

Sister Helena frowns, clearly displeased by the suggestion. "You’ll have to wait. We’re in the middle of an investigation."

Voss, however, raises a hand, his tone measured. "Let them work. If the spaceport is left unsupervised, that could lead to bigger issues." He gestures toward the two empty stations. "Use those. Resume your duties."

Frida nods, quickly moving to her desk. Anton follows, his movements deliberate as he settles at his station. They both start activating the appliances—panels blink to life, microphones hum, and the speakers crackle as the surveillance systems gradually come back online.

Johan hesitates briefly before pulling a chair beside Frida, ready to assist. Without much acknowledgment, the three of them get to work, the clatter of office utilities filling the room, though the tension remains thick in the air.

Voss steps into Markward’s quarters, his gaze sweeping the room. Immediately, the cramped space reveals itself—far from the neat image expected of the head of security. To his left, a small bed is haphazardly made, the sheets wrinkled and pushed to one side. A narrow washbasin, cluttered with towels and hygiene utensils, stands against the wall, while a small cupboard nearby overflows with clothes and a laundry bag.

The air is heavy with the faint, lingering smell of sweat and tobacco. Voss’s gaze then lands on a desk at the far end of the room, cluttered with far more troubling items. Perched on top of it, surrounded by half-burned candles and scattered occult trinkets, is an array of scriptures and strange artifacts—Markward’s attempt at creating some sort of makeshift ritual space. A few shelves above the desk are lined with poorly organized gadgets and occult-themed objects, likely scavenged from the sprawl around the spaceport.

The sight of this improvised altar to heretical knowledge sends a chill down Voss’s spine. He steps closer, eyes narrowing at the cluttered mess of bizarre tools and texts. Several parchments are strewn across the surface, some marked with crude, unfamiliar symbols, others scrawled with sloppy attempts at arcane diagrams. It all reeks of amateurism.

“What in the Emperor’s name…?” Voss mutters, taking another cautious step forward. He motions to Sister Helena, standing near the doorway. “Sister, you need to see this.”

Helena steps into the room, her eyes widening as they fall on the desk. The sight of the heretical workspace draws an immediate response. Her expression darkens with outrage. “Heresy,” she spits, her voice shaking with anger. “He was steeped in blasphemy.”

Voss kneels by the desk, nudging a few trinkets aside with his gloved hand. His gaze lands on a hastily drawn symbol on a parchment, familiar but clumsy and wrong. “He was a dilettante,” Voss says, shaking his head at the poor attempt. “Look at this mess. He didn’t know what he was doing.”

His attention shifts to the floor, where two dusty tomes lie discarded, their covers marked with faded sigils. He picks them up, brushing off the dust. “These, though... these might have value,” he mutters.

Helena’s lips curl in disgust. “Careful, Interrogator. Even fools can stumble onto dangerous knowledge.”

Voss turns the tome over in his hands, the arcane symbols on its cover barely visible under layers of grime. “He never read these,” Voss says, noting the thick layer of dust. “I doubt he could even comprehend what’s inside. They’ve been lying here, untouched.”

He sets the books down, his thoughts turning. “The real question is, where did he get them from?”

Edited October 22 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Fenix and Mordecai Thracce walk in silence beside the compact luggage servitor. It rolls steadily, carrying Markward’s corpse on its flat surface. The servitor, low to the ground with waist-high extensions for ease of handling, clanks softly as it moves. Its reinforced frame and robotic arms twitch slightly in response to the shifting weight. The two men maintain their pace, their boots echoing across the plasteel floor of the central lane, which intersects the Great Hall, the spaceport's central building.

The lane stretches wide and long. The smooth plasteel beneath their feet is marked with colorful lines, guiding servitors and personnel alike. Towering stacks of cargo line both sides of the hall, organized in neat rows. Large shelves rise upward toward the vaulted roof. Above, suspended cranes move with automated fluidity along tracks embedded in the roof, lifting crates and supplies to the upper floors.

The entire hall vibrates with the dull murmur of servitors at work. Some hustle across the lanes, while others remain rigid in designated spots, in an uncanny choreography devoid of expression. Fenix keeps his gaze on the floor, its worn surface reflecting the weight of years of traffic. Despite the hall’s enormity, the precise markings and regimented flow of the servitors create a sense of control and organization, harshly judging every clumsy intrusion.

As they pass along the central lane, a long wall to their right is lined with two doors and a massive gate, each leading to essential rooms—the library, the dormitorium, and the refectorium, all hidden behind a plain exterior. Thracce glances briefly in their direction before his attention returns to the task at hand.

Ahead, the massive portal to the sanctuarium stands open, waiting to receive them. In front of the entrance, servitors stand in line, waiting their turn. These are the units that failed inspection in the refectorium, sent to receive repair or replacement of their worn-out parts. Their diodes blink intermittently in the dim light, their bodies hunched and only rarely twitching slightly.

Fenix exchanges a brief glance with Thracce, but the Arbites enforcer remains silent, his expression hidden behind his helmet.

As they enter the sanctorium, the heavy scent of incense mingles with the faint odor of machine oil. Rows of benches flank the central aisle, with massive candelabras and incense burners lining each side. The walls are adorned with intricate stained-glass windows, depicting vibrant scenes of Imperial glory and devotion. Between the windows, decorated brazz columns rise, faintly glowing with energy as servo skulls occasionally drift toward them to recharge.

At the far end of the sanctorium stands a raised dais. This shrine embodies creation through technology, a fusion of faith and function. The workspace is clean and operational, illuminated by bright spotlights that cast sharp shadows across the room. The walls, windows, and cupboards surrounding it are heavily decorated with symbols of the Omnissiah—intricate patterns of cogs, gears, and sacred circuitry that speak to the machine-god’s presence.

Magos Gaius Rhaukos, standing near the dais, motions to one of the servo-skulls perched on a brazz column, its small form humming as it recharges. The skull emits a series of clicks and mechanical noises, its eye sockets pulsing red as it processes internal data. Rhaukos pauses, processing this information, ongoing calculations still churning silently behind his diodes.

His voice shifts to a more controlled tone, still laced with irritation. He points toward one of the doors embedded in the wall of the altar section. "I trust you haven’t forgotten where the stretchers are kept, Novice?"

Without hesitation, Fenix hurries to the door, disappearing into the shadows beyond.

Rhaukos then shifts his attention to Thracce, addressing him with cold formality. "Enforcer," he says, his tone flat. "Is your presence here still required?"

Thracce shakes his head slightly. "No, Magos. I’ll leave you to your work."

He salutes sharply, then turns without another word and exits the sanctuarium.

Edited October 22 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

The Webway Mirror sits on Markward zu Rosenstein’s abandoned desk, its polished surface reflecting the soft flicker of the monitors behind it. A faint shadow stretches across the wood, falling toward the ashtray that still holds the remains of a half-burned lho stick. The reflection in the lens wavers slightly, catching the erratic rhythm of the display screens. Each flicker dances across the curved glass, casting distorted shapes over the surface.

 

Frida Altenbach: "...logistics are... stable. We'll need a revised manifest for... incoming shipments tomorrow."

 

The Webway Mirror catches the light from the sky, the vibrant colors of a sunrise visible through the large windows of the security tower. In its reflection, the tiny blinking light above the elevator door flashes, signaling an arrival. The door slides open, revealing Callista Drakon, her tall figure framed in the entrance. The reflection shifts, mirroring her steady walk toward the desk.

 

Sister Helena: "Blessed be the Emperor's light, shining upon the faithful, guiding us through shadow and flame. In His name, I guard and serve."

 

Seen from beneath the desk's edge, the Webway Mirror reflects the ceiling, marked with the grid of harsh industrial lights. The reflection distorts as Callista approaches the desk, her gloved hand reaching into view. The lens captures her cautious movement, her fingers hovering over the artifact, testing its weight and presence before touching it.

 

Interrogator Voss: "...a dabbler at best. A man playing with forces far beyond his understanding. I found an impressive stash of obscura under the bed. That likely drove more of his actions than... any actual insight."

 

The Webway Mirror shifts slightly as Callista lifts it from the desk. Its reflection now picks up Anton Fischer in the background, his worried face turned upward as he watches. The lens tilts in her hand, the glass gleaming with an unsettling light as she turns it to inspect the underside.

 

 

Callista Drakon: "...this closely resembles an item reported stolen from an Ordos Xenos vault. No way he could’ve pulled that off alone. We’re missing something here."

 

The Webway Mirror rests once more on the desk. Callista leans forward, her hands on her knees, studying the intricate details on its back. The reflection in the lens seems to dart wildly, though the object itself remains still. Its glass twists and turns, capturing images of the room—until it stops, the reflection settling on Markward zu Rosenstein’s agonized face, distorted and ghostly within the lens.

 

Frida Altenbach: "...there's secure cargo space within the port. It's been sanctified, just enough for... temporary containment."

 

The mirror’s surface becomes too close to show any distinct backdrop. Instead, the reflection spirals, shifting madly through strange and surreal images: a theater director bowing to an unseen audience, a skyweaver speeding across a snow-covered plane, the stern face of the Emperor gazing into the distance, and a novice of the Adeptus Mechanicus bent over a tome, winking to someone unseen. A hand with six long fingers plucks a bishop piece from a chessboard and drops it into an endless void. The bishop’s mantle flutters as he falls.

 

Callista Drakon: "Sister Helena, take this to the secure booth. Make sure it’s properly contained."

 

The Webway Mirror is once again still, sitting on the desk. Its reflection has calmed, depicting Sister Helena reaching toward it. Her gloved hand hovers, preparing to pick up the artifact for containment.

Edited October 22 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Scene 1.10: The Navis Nobilite

The soft hum of the elevator vibrates beneath their feet as Callista Drakon, Interrogator Voss, and Enforcer Thracce descend toward the cargo area. Sister Helena stands with them, carrying a warded reliquary case, its surface gleaming with purity seals and inscribed wards designed to suppress any taint. When the doors slide open, the group steps into the dimly lit space, where servitors shuffle between towering crates.

Sister Helena spots Fenix near the gate leading into the Central Hall. Without hesitation, she veers off toward him. They exchange a few words as Fenix listens carefully, then he begins pointing out directions. Meanwhile, Callista, Voss, and Thracce press on without pause, their boots echoing faintly in the quiet space.

“The Navis Nobilite,” Voss begins, his voice low and steady as they move across the cargo yard towards the wide industrial gate, that allows entrance into the Great Hall, “they’re different from anyone else you’ll deal with here. To them, interacting with ‘planet-siders’ is beneath them. They stay isolated in their tower, refusing to mingle. When they do refer to us, it’s often as ‘mud apes,’ or something equally flattering.”

They pass by the doors to the Refectorium, the Scriptorum, and the Dormitorium—unremarkable, utilitarian, their frames blending seamlessly into the stone walls. The flickering lights above cast long shadows, creating a subtle, eerie dance of light across the cold stone floor.

“The layout of the navigation tower mirrors that of a spacecraft—except, being grounded, it doesn’t need propulsion. Instead, they’ve equipped it with massive antenna arrays for communication with ships and Navis Nobilite families across the sector. They don’t speak to anyone outside their ranks unless they absolutely have to. Some say the inside of their tower is like a palace. Not that they’d ever let us see it.”

As they approach the narrow corridor that leads to the Navis Nobilite’s restricted territory, the large, reinforced metal door comes into view. A small camera above the door swivels silently, locking onto them as they approach.

“There’s always talk of power struggles within their ranks,” Voss adds, his voice now almost conspiratorial. “Infighting, endless jockeying for position. But we don’t get to see much of it. They keep their dirty laundry well hidden. I doubt they have much of an idea about what’s happening in the spaceport. They probably communicate with the staff only through intercoms—and even then, just when it’s unavoidable.”

A brief crackle from a speaker breaks the silence.
“State your name and purpose.”

Callista steps forward, her voice calm but commanding.
“Inquisitor Callista Drakon. I’m here investigating the death of Markward zu Rosenstein. I need to speak with a representative of the Navis Nobilite.”

A pause follows, the tension stretching in the cold air. Voss exchanges a glance with Callista, but she remains focused, her gaze fixed on the camera. The speaker crackles again.
“You may communicate via com. Direct interaction is unnecessary.”

“I require a face-to-face meeting,” Callista replies, firm but controlled. “This investigation demands it.”

Another silence follows, heavy with the weight of indecision. Voss crosses his arms, his impatience growing. At last, with a low groan of metal, the door begins to slide open. Light spills into the corridor, revealing a tall figure stepping forward.

He is draped in flowing dark robes, the fabric shimmering subtly with intricate patterns in the soft light. His face is sharp, angular, framed by a neatly groomed beard, and his eyes, glittering with intelligence and cold calculation, sweep over the group. Every movement is deliberate, exuding control and refinement.

A slow, polished smile spreads across his lips. With a graceful sweep of his arms, he bows courteously, open-handed, as if welcoming honored guests.

“My dear guests,” his voice is smooth, warm, though carrying an undercurrent of something colder. “I am Patrone di Maglio. I had a feeling we would meet eventually.”

He straightens slowly, then bows even deeper, the motion deliberate and elegant.
“Please, do come in,” he continues, his voice lowering with a touch of self-deprecation. “My humble domain may not compare to the grandeur you are accustomed to, but I trust it will suffice for the moment.”

His words diminish the space around him, but the deliberate flourish of his bow only heightens the theatricality of the performance. As he rises, his gaze lingers on Callista, the smile deepening, his eyes glittering with interest.

“The esteemed Inquisition always brings such... gravity to an occasion,” he adds, as though speaking of something greater than himself. “I trust you will find what you seek within.”

Di Maglio’s movements are smooth, every gesture choreographed to perfection. Courteous, practiced, yet beneath the polished exterior lies a quiet authority—a subtle force shaping the atmosphere around him, bending it to his will.

Edited September 16 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Di Maglio leads Callista Drakon, Interrogator Voss, and Enforcer Thracce down a narrow corridor, his movements fluid and measured, as always. The door before them slides open with a soft hiss, revealing the visitor’s room beyond. The space is unmistakably utilitarian, designed like an airlock, but it has been transformed with a touch of di Maglio’s personal taste.

 

Lining one wall, hazmat suits hang neatly, their bulk a reminder of the room’s original purpose. Yet the industrial harshness is softened by exquisite furnishings—a luxurious lounge set arranged around a small table that rests beside the wall. On the table stands a vase, its exotic vegetation meticulously arranged in a tasteful display of rare flora. The walls are adorned with abstract and surreal paintings, their swirling forms adding an element of mystery and intrigue. Curtains hang in carefully chosen places, attempting to obscure the harsh control panels and coupling mechanisms that remain part of the room’s structure.

 

Di Maglio gestures gracefully toward the seating area, his tone warm.

“Please, my dear guests, make yourselves comfortable.”

 

Callista takes a seat, her posture straight and composed. Voss and Thracce follow, though Voss’s eyes narrow slightly as he scans the room, taking in the strange mix of decor. Thracce’s hand hovers near his sidearm, a subtle gesture of readiness as he surveys the environment. They both sit, but their attention remains alert, focused on di Maglio.

 

Di Maglio draws up a chair opposite them, seating himself with a flourish. He leans back slightly, crossing one leg over the other as he looks at them with polite curiosity.

“May I offer you anything to drink?”

 

Callista shakes her head, her expression unreadable.

“No, thank you.”

 

Voss glances at Callista briefly before shaking his head, his expression one of silent skepticism. Thracce follows suit, his jaw set, though his eyes remain fixed on di Maglio with quiet intensity. Di Maglio offers a small, understanding smile before turning to a small microphone embedded into the wall. He presses a button, his voice carrying a casual elegance.

“One drink for myself, please. Something... fitting.” He pauses for effect, then adds, “Ah yes, a luxata. Perfect.”

 

He leans back in his chair, his eyes drifting back to Callista.

“I must apologize for not bringing you further into the tower. Quarantine protocols, you see. Such a hassle, especially for someone of your standing, Inquisitor. But alas, rules are rules, and I would hate to see them impede the urgency of your investigation.”

 

His words flow with practiced charm, but there’s an undercurrent of self-deprecation, as though he’s painting himself as a man burdened by the constraints of bureaucracy. Before Callista can respond, Voss shifts slightly in his seat, his eyes narrowing as though weighing the truth behind di Maglio’s politeness. A small hatch in the wall beside the table opens with a quiet hum. A robotic arm extends through, gently placing a steaming cup of luxata before di Maglio. He takes the cup with both hands, blowing softly on the surface, the rich aroma filling the room.

 

The delicate scent lingers as he raises the cup to his lips, eyes meeting Callista’s.

“How, then, may I assist the investigation?”

 

As di Maglio brings the luxata to his lips, Callista’s voice cuts through the formalities with chilling bluntness.

 

“The taint uncovered here is enough to warrant the immediate shutdown of the entire spaceport, di Maglio,” she says, her tone leaving no room for ambiguity.

 

The cup hovers in front of di Maglio’s mouth, and for a brief moment, his composure falters. He almost spills the luxata as he pulls it away from his lips, blinking in what seems to be genuine surprise. The rich aroma that filled the air now feels bitter, lingering in his hand as he sets the cup down with exaggerated care.

 

“My, my, Inquisitor Drakon,” he says, his voice recovering its smooth, practiced tone. “What a... drastic proposition.” He leans back slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Surely, you wouldn’t want to disrupt the Imperium’s critical supply lines over a... contained issue.”

 

Callista’s gaze remains steady, unflinching. “If I deem it necessary, I will not hesitate.”

 

It’s then that di Maglio shifts tactics, his eyes flickering with calculated thought. “You’re known for your swift decisions, Inquisitor. Lord Inquisitor Lucian Tiberius himself once mentioned your... efficiency.

Callista raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised by the mention of Lord Inquisitor Tiberius.

“Lucian Tiberius? You know Lord Inquisitor Tiberius?”

 

Di Maglio offers a calm smile, unflustered.

“We’ve had some dealings. In fact, he mentioned you during one of our conversations. Your reputation, it seems, precedes you.”

 

Callista narrows her eyes, her tone more measured.

“I wasn’t aware he had an interest in this spaceport.”

 

Di Maglio shrugs lightly, his expression nonchalant.

“Oh, Lord Tiberius takes a keen interest in all Imperial operations. He likes to be... informed, shall we say.” He pauses briefly, as though in thought. “When your name came up, he spoke of your dedication... your tenacity.”

 

“And?” Callista prompts, her gaze steady.

 

“Oh, nothing more,” di Maglio replies softly, choosing his words carefully. “Just that he’s always keen to ensure operations run smoothly... without unnecessary disruptions. Of course, he values those who... cooperate fully with the larger vision of the Imperium.” His smile widens faintly. “I’m sure you and Lord Tiberius see eye to eye on that.”

 

“Naturally,” Callista says, holding his gaze.

 

Di Maglio leans back, his tone easy, but there’s a subtle undercurrent.

“Yes, well, I’m sure Lord Tiberius will be pleased with how things proceed here. He does appreciate efficiency, after all.”

 

Callista maintains her firm stance.

“Taint has been uncovered here, di Maglio. I have no choice but to consider shutting down the spaceport entirely. The threat it poses to the Imperium cannot be ignored.”

 

Di Maglio leans forward slightly, his voice turning more conciliatory.

“I understand your concern, Inquisitor. The taint is indeed troubling. But surely there are... other ways to handle this. Shutting down operations will create a vacuum, destabilize vital supply routes. The consequences could ripple far beyond this spaceport.”

 

“You think the safety of the Imperium is worth less than some logistical inconvenience?” Callista’s voice is cool.

 

Di Maglio lets out a soft chuckle, his tone calming.

“Inconvenience, no. But you must consider the impact, Inquisitor. The trade routes, the resources—this spaceport is a key node in a much larger network. Shutting it down would send shockwaves across entire sectors.” He pauses briefly. “I’m not suggesting we ignore the taint, far from it. I’m suggesting we isolate it, root it out... without cutting off the head of the operation entirely.”

 

Callista studies him carefully.

“And what, precisely, would you propose?”

 

Di Maglio smiles, as if offering a reasonable solution.

“I would suggest containment measures, selective quarantines. Perhaps even restructuring personnel—focusing on rooting out where this taint originated. We could clean house without destroying the house itself.” He pauses before adding quietly, “Lord Tiberius himself often prefers more... targeted resolutions. Broad strokes, after all, can cause unnecessary... complications.”

 

Callista’s eyes narrow.

“You believe you can resolve this without a shutdown?”

 

Di Maglio nods smoothly.

“With your oversight, of course. The spaceport remains intact, the threat neutralized. No loss of vital operations, no risk to the Imperium’s stability.” He leans back, a subtle smile on his lips. “Isn’t that what Lord Tiberius would want?

Edited September 25 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Scene 1.12: The Chess Game

In the dim, otherworldly twilight, Cegorach and Tzeentch sit across from one another, the board between them—a game of endless moves. The pieces shimmer with unnatural light, each one a fragment of a larger scheme. Cegorach, the Laughing God, leans forward with a smile, his fingers delicate as they hover over the queen. With a graceful motion, he slides the piece across the board, threatening the rook that guards Tzeentch’s stronghold.

A soft chuckle escapes him, his eyes gleaming with mischief. The queen, a figure draped in shadow and light, now looms over the rook, poised to strike.
“I move in ways you do not expect,” Cegorach says, his voice lilting with amusement.

Across the board, Tzeentch watches with eyes that swirl with cosmic patterns, his gaze never breaking. The board pulses beneath his hands, as though alive with the twisting threads of fate. Slowly, almost lazily, he reaches out and advances a knight, developing the piece while interposing it between the queen and the rook. The knight’s form twists and shifts, its shape never settling, as though reality itself resists containing it.

“The game is long, Laughing One,” Tzeentch’s voice is a whisper of many voices, layered upon each other like the folds of a cloak. “Each move we make, a ripple in the warp.”

Cegorach tilts his head, studying the board with an inscrutable expression.
“Ripples, indeed. But even ripples can become waves.”

Tzeentch’s many eyes shift, a faint smile curling at the edge of his amorphous face.
“The question is, my dear jester... which of us will drown?”

Edited September 11 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

The break room beneath the security office hums faintly with the sound of nearby cogitators, their constant processing a reminder of the operations running above. Anton Fischer, Frida Altenbach, and Johan Weiss sit around the table, the weight of the day’s events pressing down on them. Anton’s fingers tap rhythmically on his cup, his eyes darting nervously as he fights back the creeping sense of unease gnawing at him from the stress of the morning. His hands tremble ever so slightly, betraying the inner turmoil.

At the head of the table, Sophia zu Rosenstein stands with a composed, professional air, though her expression softens as she looks at the small group. Lukas Reiner stands beside her, clipboard in hand, scanning through notes.

Sophia takes a step forward, her voice warm, almost gentle. “I know this has been a difficult morning for all of you. The loss of Markward zu Rosenstein is something none of us could have predicted, and I understand the uncertainty you might be feeling.”

Anton shifts in his chair, his gaze dropping to the table. Frida, sitting next to him, casts a worried glance in his direction, noticing the tension in his posture but remaining silent.

Sophia continues, her tone measured but sincere. “But I want you to know, we are all in this together. The work you do is vital to the spaceport’s success, and we’re going to get through this transition—together. The operations of the spaceport must continue, and I have every confidence in each of you.”

Lukas nods subtly as he steps forward. “For now, I’ll be covering Markward’s scheduled shifts until we can sort out a longer-term solution. We’re still figuring out who will take over permanently, but the rest of the shift schedule remains unchanged. We’ll keep things running.”

Sophia adds, her tone still empathetic but firm, “As Markward’s Deputy, I’ll be managing his responsibilities for the time being, until the zu Rosenstein family council makes a decision on his successor. This process will take months, so we need to focus on maintaining stability. There won’t be any discussions about future candidates—that’s a matter for the family.”

Johan leans forward, his brow furrowed. “But what about—”

Sophia raises her hand gently but firmly. “I understand your concerns, Johan, but the focus right now is on keeping things moving smoothly. We’ll address everything in due time.”

Anton stifles a sigh, his mind racing as the pressure builds. His hand trembles again, but he keeps his gaze fixed downward, avoiding eye contact.

Sophia glances around the room, offering a faint, reassuring smile. “If anyone has any concerns or questions about today’s shift, feel free to bring them to me or Lukas directly. We’re here to support you.”

Lukas taps his clipboard lightly. “I’ll make sure the late shift starts without any problems. We’ll get through this.”

Sophia checks the chrono on the wall. “Let’s wrap up here. The morning shift is over. I hope you all have a restful break.” She gestures toward the door. “Lukas and I will head up the auxiliary staircase now to begin the late shift.”

The room stirs as the meeting comes to an end, Anton remaining silent, his hands still shaking slightly. Frida reaches out to him, her touch light but supportive. “We’ll figure it out,” she whispers, though her own concern is clear. Johan finishes his recaff, standing up with a quick nod to Lukas and Sophia.

Edited September 11 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

 

The sun burns angrily from the cloudless midday sky, it's heat seems to bleach out even the deep azure sky around it.  A car, once an impressive sight, sits at the far end of the parking lot just outside the spaceport’s main gate. Its chrome trim is dulled, the leather seats cracked with age. Anton Fischer sits behind the wheel, staring at his trembling hands, while Frida Altenbach fidgets beside him in the passenger seat, glancing between him and the guard post in the distance.

Anton’s voice trembles as much as his hands. “I can’t... I can’t drive, Frida. I haven’t had a single pipe since early morning.”

Frida’s heart sinks. She watches Anton spiral, the tension in his face building. His gaze darts, unfocused.

“They’re all watching me,” Anton mutters. “Voss... that swine, 'In-ter-ro-ga-tor' Voss, he stole my supply. And now the Inquisition is watching me. And something else was there in the office. Something... waiting. I could feel it the whole day”

Frida leans toward him, trying to catch his eye, her voice soft. “Anton, stop. Listen to me.” She puts her hand gently on his shoulder. “I’m here, okay? You can make it home. You just need to relax. We’ll get through this.”

She fumbles in her purse, pulling out a small bottle of painkillers. “Here. Maybe this can help?”

Anton’s mood swings sharply. His eyes blaze as he slaps the bottle from her hand. “Painkillers? You think this is just a headache? You have no idea what I’m going through!” His voice cracks with frustration.

Frida recoils, hurt flashing in her eyes, but before she can respond, Anton’s expression softens. He runs a hand over his face, muttering a quick, “I’m sorry... I didn’t mean it.”

A tense silence follows, the only sound the distant rumble of cargo being moved within the spaceport. Anton slumps in his seat, breathing heavily. “You have to drive,” he finally says, his voice hollow.

Frida hesitates. Her hands tighten on her lap. The thought of driving home with Anton like this, paranoid and unpredictable, sends a shiver down her spine. She’s scared—not just of what he might say or do, but of what might happen if he gets worse.

“Are you sure? Isn’t there anything else we can do?”

Suddenly, Anton perks up, his eyes gleaming with brief excitement. “Wait. I’ve got an emergency supply. There’s a stash, right where no one ever goes, at the end of the pathway between the dormitory and the outer wall. Under the trash can.”

The excitement fades as quickly as it comes, his paranoia returning. “But I can’t go like this. I look too suspicious. They’re all watching... waiting for me to slip up. You have to do it.”

Frida bites her lip, her eyes searching his. She knows this isn’t just about the stash—he is unraveling. After a moment, she nods. “Okay. I’ll go.”

She steps out of the car, taking a deep breath, trying to steady herself. Her heart races as she walks across the lot, her eyes flitting nervously from the guard post to the few people milling around the area. As she approaches the gate, an Arbites enforcer at the post waves cheerfully.

“Forget something at work?” the enforcer jokes, his voice light.

Frida forces a smile, hoping her tension isn’t obvious. “Yeah, just a little errand.”

The enforcer chuckles and waves her through. As she walks past the servitors near the cargo area and enters the central lane, Frida can’t shake the feeling that every gaze lingers too long, that every whisper is about her. She quickens her pace, relieved when she sees that Fenix isn’t around—he always seems to know more than anyone else, and she can’t bear what he might think of her.

Finally, she finds the pathway Anton had described. At the dead end, a beaten-up trash can stands forlorn, just as he said. She digs through the refuse, her fingers brushing against something metallic. Hidden beneath a layer of filth is a small, foil-wrapped packet of herbs. She quickly stuffs it into her purse.

As she makes her way back toward the gate, her eyes adjusting to the bright daylight, her heart skips a beat. The Arbites patrol is heading straight for her.

Panic seizes her. In a fit of terror, she flings her purse under a nearby cargo crate and raises her hands in surrender, ready to throw her fate before the full wrath of the law.

The patrol halts in confusion, the leader’s brow furrowing. “Miss Altenbach? Everything alright?”

The second enforcer points to the crate, his tone bemused. “Looks like you dropped something.”

Frida blinks, forcing herself to breathe. She lowers her hands, a nervous laugh escaping her. “Oh! My purse... silly me.” She tries to joke, her voice shaky. “I, uh... I thought I’d lost it.”

The leader smiles gently. “Happens to the best of us. Need any help?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Thanks,” she says, waving them off as they continue on their way. Once they are out of sight, she crouches beside the crate, peering underneath. Her purse has slid further than expected. Sighing, she gets down on her belly, reaching for it, scraping her knees and ruining her dress in the process.

She returns to the car, breathless and dirty. Anton’s eyes widen in panic when he sees her. “Where were you? I thought they got you! I thought you were dead!”

Frida sighs, brushing dirt from her clothes. “I’m fine. Here.” She pulls the packet from her purse, handing it to him.

Anton snatches it, ripping the foil and stuffing the herbs into his pipe. With a quick flick of his lighter, he lights the bowl and inhales deeply. His entire body seems to relax, the tension melting away as a soft cloud of smoke escapes his lips.

 

The car is still. The warm sunlight filters through the cracked windshield, bending and twisting as it pours across the dashboard, casting kaleidoscope patterns on the weathered leather seats. Anton leans back, his eyelids heavy, a slow smile creeping across his face as the world shifts around him.

Everything is brighter now. The dull edges of the car’s interior glow with a soft, golden light, as though touched by something magical. The once-worn dashboard seems regal, its cracks transforming into veins of precious metal, glimmering in the sunlight. The air is thick with the scent of old leather and faint perfume, but to Anton, it smells like the sweetest summer breeze.

Beside him, Frida looks ethereal, bathed in the light, her hair catching the rays in a way that makes her shimmer. He gazes at her, his heart swelling with love, his chest tight with the beauty of the moment.

“It’s a perfect day,” he murmurs, his voice soft, almost reverent.

The world outside the car stretches on, infinite and bright. The sun is larger than it should be, its rays bending like arcs of color that dance across the horizon. He reaches for the radio, a static crackle breaking the silence before a familiar voice comes through... Fenix, Novice Fenix Kol?

“Na, Sir, but thanks for the gesture. I’ve had it and worse. It seems I don’t have to pay for the privilege to detach myself from reality. It comes naturally to me, it seems... at least, the reality everyone else is talking about.”

The words hang in the air, profound and mysterious. Anton chuckles, leaning back in his seat, feeling their weight but unable to grasp their meaning. He doesn’t care. It feels right—more real than anything else.

He turns to Frida, a sudden sense of purpose overtaking him, the euphoria from the obscura swirling with newfound confidence. “You know what?” he says, his voice filled with resolve. “I’m not going home. Not yet.”

Frida blinks, confused. “What do you mean?”

Anton’s eyes gleam. “The stash... Markward’s stash. His main one. I remember where it is. That bastard always thought he was clever hiding it. But I know where he kept it.”

Frida stares at him, alarmed. “Anton, no. Just... let’s go home. You’ve had enough for today.”

He shakes his head, determination in his every movement. “I need to be ready for tomorrow. This won’t last, you know it.” He grips the steering wheel, knuckles white. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to go through that hell again, would you? Trying to find it for me?”

Frida’s face pales. “Anton, please. It’s not worth it.”

But Anton is already unbuckling his seatbelt, pushing open the door with a confidence he hadn’t felt in years. “I’ll be quick. I know exactly where it is. I’ll prove to you I can handle this.” He winks at her. “I’m not some weakling.”

Before she can protest further, he steps out of the car, slamming the door behind him. He straightens his jacket, a cocky grin spreading across his face as he strides toward the spaceport entrance. The world shimmers around him, golden light dancing in his vision, but to Anton, it feels like victory.

Frida watches, frozen with dread, as Anton disappears back into the spaceport—a man on a quest, a man determined to prove something to himself, even if it destroys him

Edited September 15 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Frida sits frozen in the car, her hands trembling with frustration. She curses under her breath, anger bubbling up inside her. "Damn it, Anton... why are you such a fool?" Her fists clench at her sides, knuckles white as she works herself into a righteous rage.

Without another thought, she climbs over to the driver’s seat. The car key is still in the ignition, mocking her with its promise of control. She grabs it and twists, but the engine sputters and dies immediately. Her eyes fall to the pedals below. From right to left, gas, brake, and clutch. Her foot hesitates before she slams down the clutch pedal with her left foot, pressing her heel solidly against the floor.

Taking a deep breath, she begins instructing herself, her voice wavering like a nervous driving instructor guiding a new trainee. "Enter first gear. Sloooowly release the clutch, while adding gas..."

Outside, the car hops in place a few times as if gathering strength. Then it rolls forward, picking up speed with each second. The car shoots forward, accelerating rapidly toward the exit of the carpark. At the last moment, the brakes squeal as the car lurches to a halt.

Inside the car, Frida is hunched over the steering wheel, her face contorted with tears. She slams her fist against the wheel, each strike punctuating her words. "Why... are... you... such... an... idiot!" Her sobs shake her body, anger and despair colliding in a torrent of emotion.

After a few moments, she breathes deeply, her body stilling. She pulls a handkerchief from her purse, dabbing at her eyes and cleaning her tear-streaked face. She straightens up, opens the car door, and steps out. Her legs feel wobbly, but she forces herself to stand tall, pushing her back straight. "Why am I such an idiot?" she mutters to no one in particular, as no one is around to hear her.

Suppressing a new wave of tears, Frida slams the car door shut with a sharp, determined motion. With a steady, but rapid pace, she marches toward the spaceport gate, her eyes set on where she last saw Anton disappear

Edited September 12 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

A lush, vibrant garden, its air filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers. Butterflies flutter around, their wings iridescent in the sunlight. At the heart of the garden stands Isha, her hands tenderly brushing the petals of a delicate flower. Her face is serene, but her eyes are filled with a deep sorrow, as if she knows something terrible is about to come.

Suddenly, the ground begins to wither beneath her feet. The flowers wilt and blacken, the trees shedding their leaves in a wave of decay. From the shadows, Nurgle emerges, his massive, grotesque form spreading rot with each step. His arms are wide, beckoning Isha into his embrace, his voice a deep, affectionate rumble.

Nurgle (gently): “Come, my dear. Isn’t it beautiful? Together, we can nourish them... give them a different kind of life.”

Isha hesitates, watching as the garden withers around her. She touches a dying leaf, her fingers trembling.

Isha (whispering): “Why must everything decay? Can’t they be saved?”

Nurgle chuckles softly, his rotund belly shaking. He leans closer, a mock tenderness in his gaze.

Nurgle (with affection): “Oh, Isha, you know this as well as I do. All things wither, all things break. But look... look at how they return to me. In my arms, they find peace in their suffering.”

Isha’s eyes fill with tears as she turns away from Nurgle’s decaying embrace. She reaches out to a single, withering flower, her voice soft but firm.

Isha (pleading): “But they don’t want this... they don’t deserve to be consumed by you.”

Nurgle moves closer, his massive form casting a dark shadow over the last flower. He wraps his arms around Isha from behind, holding her gently, almost lovingly.

Nurgle (soothing): “And yet, they return to me. You may try to save them, but in the end, they always come back. Their suffering is inevitable, my love... just as you are drawn to heal them, I am drawn to their despair.”

The garden around them flickers between lush and decayed. In the distance, Frida’s voice can be heard, echoing in the dreamscape.

Frida (distant, anguished): “Why... are... you... such... an... idiot!”

Isha’s tears fall, and she pulls away from Nurgle’s grip. She stands at the edge of the garden, looking out over the wasteland he has created. For a moment, she sees Anton, stumbling through the decayed landscape, his hands reaching for something—anything—to hold on to.

Isha (whispering to herself): “There must be a way to save them... there must be.”

But Nurgle only watches, his smile growing wider, his voice filled with a twisted affection.

Nurgle (chuckling softly): “Let them run, let them struggle. They will return, as they always do. And when they do, we will be here—together.”

Isha’s eyes follow Anton as he walks deeper into the rot, disappearing into the shadows. She steps forward, her hands trembling, but she knows she cannot follow him. Her tears fall silently as she watches him vanish, her heart heavy with the burden of love and futility

Edited September 21 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

The security office sits high above the spaceport, overlooking the gates and cargo area below. Outside the vast window front, a cloudy afternoon sky hangs low, casting a somber, muted light over the room. Inside, the office feels cramped, its air thick with the constant hum of machinery and the rhythmic flicker of surveillance screens that cover the walls. Each monitor shows grainy, black-and-white feeds of cargo movements and docking procedures.

Sophia zu Rosenstein sits at her desk, her eyes occasionally flicking to the comms as she listens to the low murmur of voices while speaking to someone on a comline. Lucas Reiner is focused on overseeing daily operations. Between them stands Markward zu Rosenstein’s now-abandoned desk, cluttered with the remnants of his stress: a full ashtray, empty data slates scattered haphazardly, and a few discarded notes. Barrier tapes marked with the unmistakable symbols of the Inquisition criss-cross the desk, sealing it as part of the ongoing investigation. In the back of the room, the door to Markward’s quarters is similarly sealed with the same Inquisition tape, a reminder of the gravity of the situation.

Sophia, her voice low, speaks into the receiver. "Yes, Patrone... I understand. I’ll keep you updated. No, no sign of the Inquisition’s next move yet." She casts a quick glance at Lucas before continuing, trying to maintain an air of calm despite the rising tension in her voice.

The soft chime of the elevator echoes through the room as the door slides open. Inquisitor Callista Drakon steps out with smooth precision, her presence instantly altering the atmosphere. Behind her follow Interrogator Voss, Enforcer Thracce, and Sister Helena, each moving with quiet purpose. Lucas and Sophia’s attention instinctively turns toward the new arrivals, the rhythm of their work disrupted by the silent weight of authority.

Sophia, still at her desk, cuts the call short. "I’ll take care of it later. We’ll speak soon," she says, her voice clipped, almost hurried. She places the receiver down with deliberate care, her fingers lingering just a moment longer before pulling away, as if controlling even the smallest of her movements. She takes a breath, then rises to face the Inquisitor, her expression smoothing into professionalism.

Callista offers a slight nod of acknowledgment, her eyes scanning the room, absorbing every detail with sharp, practiced precision. She steps forward, her movements deliberate and unhurried, almost like an actor entering the stage at the perfect moment. "Lady zu Rosenstein," she begins, her tone calm, carrying a subtle edge that hints at her expectations. "I trust I’m not interrupting anything of consequence."

Sophia straightens, her body betraying a slight tension. "Not at all, Inquisitor Drakon. How can I assist you?" She gestures slightly toward Callista, as though presenting herself for questioning.

Callista’s gaze locks onto Sophia, her eyes steady, appraising. "We need to discuss the events leading up to your cousin’s death," she states, her voice smooth but carrying a weight that is impossible to ignore. She steps further into the room, her posture controlled, but there’s an unmistakable authority in the way she occupies the space.

Enforcer Thracce, standing beside Callista, adjusts his stance, rolling his shoulders slightly before resting his hand on the edge of a console. His fingers tap lightly, the soft rhythm punctuated by the occasional beep from incoming data.

Sophia hesitates for the briefest moment but nods, gesturing for Callista to continue. "Of course, Inquisitor."

Callista moves closer to Sophia’s desk, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of a nearby surface, though her gaze never wavers from her target. The soft tapping of her fingertips against the metal creates an almost hypnotic rhythm as she speaks. "You were the last person to see him alive, correct?"

Sophia swallows, her fingers tightening slightly on the edge of her desk, but keeps her voice steady. "Yes, I was."

For a moment, the clouds outside break apart, allowing a ray of blue sky to peek through. A distant swarm of birds crosses the sky, briefly softening the harshness of the scene inside. Voss, standing by the far wall, shifts his weight and crosses his arms, his eyes scanning the room, though he remains silent.

Callista tilts her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as though weighing the truth behind Sophia’s words. "And he dismissed you from your shift early?" The question is deceptively casual, her voice soft, though suspicion lingers beneath.

Sophia nods. "Yes. After a minor incident in the cargo area. He insisted on handling it himself."

At that moment, Lucas Reiner notices the blinking lights on his desk. He picks up the receiver, listens briefly, then sets it down without ending the call, careful not to draw attention.

Callista’s hand pauses on the desk. "Handling it himself?" Her voice takes on a curious tone. "Isn’t that the Adeptus Mechanicus’ responsibility?"

Sophia shakes her head, her voice more confident as she explains. "The Mechanicus oversees the servitors, yes, but documenting damaged or lost goods falls under the security bureau’s jurisdiction."

Callista nods slowly, processing the information. "I see. So your cousin took it upon himself to handle the situation directly?"

Sophia hesitates briefly. "Yes, Inquisitor. He often did."

Voss, standing a bit closer now, uncrosses his arms. As soon as Sophia mentions the hand mirror, he glances toward Callista, his brows knitting together as if he’s trying to connect the dots. His subtle movement doesn’t escape Callista, and for a moment, their eyes meet briefly, a shared recognition passing between them.

Callista’s expression shifts ever so slightly as she leans in, lowering her voice just enough to signal that her next question carries more weight. "A hand mirror?" she asks, her fingers pausing mid-tap on the desk. "Could it have been something he recovered from the incident?"

Sophia visibly stiffens, her hand brushing nervously against her sleeve as she glances down at the desk. Her voice falters slightly. "It’s possible, but... no, it’s not best practice to bring recovered items into the office. There’s a special storage room in the central hall for handling such things."

Interrogator Voss leans in slightly, his fingers twitching as his gaze sharpens. He casts another brief glance at Callista, and she acknowledges him with the slightest nod, as though the mention of the mirror has confirmed a suspicion. A comms unit on Sophia’s desk clicks, signaling a shift in frequency, while the quiet whirr of ventilation systems blends with the mechanical backdrop.

Callista taps her fingers lightly on the desk, her gaze distant for a moment as she thinks. Then she speaks again, her voice now sharper. "Even if he forgot to document the incident, there must still be recordings from one of the many cameras around the spaceport, yes?"

Sophia’s fingers move over the keys as she pulls up the security footage. Her expression tightens as she scans the files. "Several recordings are missing, Inquisitor."

Callista’s eyes narrow further, her tone calm but laced with suspicion. "Missing? Could this be the result of a technical malfunction?"

Sophia exhales slowly, shaking her head. "No... someone must have deleted the recordings."

Callista leans forward slightly, her eyes piercing. "Could your cousin have done it?"

Sophia swallows before nodding. "As head of security and customs, Markward had all the necessary privileges to access and delete the footage."

Edited September 12 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

The great hall stretches wide, its central lane bathed in natural light spilling in from the cargo yard’s entrance. Daylight filters through the large doors, casting long beams across the floor, illuminating the faint dust motes that hang in the air. In the distance, the cargo yard bustles with servitors, their mechanical limbs carrying crates and cargo through the vast expanse. The hall's interior feels grand and eerily quiet, the hum of machinery the only constant sound.

Fenix Kol stands near the central lane, his focus entirely on a nearby Loader Thrall. The servitor, a hulking, mechanical figure with its limbs firmly gripping a large crate, remains still under his command. Fenix walks around it, his eyes scanning one of its limbs with meticulous attention. His steps are measured, deliberate. Coming to a halt in front of the servitor's camera, he raises his hands and pushes them down, palms facing the floor. The servitor responds immediately, unloading the heavy cargo box onto the floor with a precise mechanical motion.

Fenix circles the servitor once more, his gaze lingering on its lights and joints. Then, he gives another signal, crossing his forearms and bumping them together twice. The servitor’s lights flicker briefly, and it turns, moving deeper into the hall, toward the refectorium in a steady, robotic gait.

Without hesitation, Fenix steps into a shadowy area of the hall, his form briefly swallowed by the darker recesses. Moments later, he re-emerges alongside another Loader Thrall, this one immediately heading toward the recently unloaded box. As it approaches, Fenix gestures again—quick, controlled movements—guiding the servitor through its task. His right arm rises, fist clenched, and he drops his elbow twice. The servitor’s lights shift in response, and with a mechanical whirr, it picks up the box and begins its journey away.

Fenix stands back, content. He places his fists against his hips and watches the servitor disappear into the distance. After a moment, he takes a deep breath and turns toward the cargo yard, his movements calm and deliberate. He observes the other servitors in motion, following one with his eyes before turning his head to track another.

Suddenly, a sharp, insistent beeping sound breaks the routine. Fenix frowns slightly, his ears tuning into the source of the distress signal coming from deeper in the cargo yard. The beeping grows louder, clearly coming from behind a line of parked trucks awaiting processing. Responding swiftly, Fenix moves toward the sound, walking between the rows of vehicles with purpose.

As he rounds the back of one of the cargo trucks, he spots the problem. A Dray-Bound Servitor is caught between two parked vehicles, its mechanical limbs twitching as it tries in vain to free itself. The servitor’s optics flicker with frustration as it emits another high-pitched beep, signaling its distress.

Fenix steps forward, his hands moving in quick, practiced gestures. With a sweep of his arm and a firm downward motion, he directs the servitor to adjust its stance. The servitor pauses, its optics flashing in recognition of the signal. Slowly, it reverses, freeing itself from the tight space. Once clear, it gives a short beep of acknowledgment and resumes its path.

Meanwhile, Interrogator Voss steps into the cargo yard from the base of the security tower, turning the corner of the Adeptus Arbites post to get a better view of the activity. His eyes scan the bustling scene, weaving between stacks of cargo containers and moving servitors, his gaze shifting as he searches for something—or someone. The towering containers and parked trucks create a maze of paths, making it difficult to spot Fenix at first. Voss rounds one of the cargo trucks and, finally, catches sight of Fenix just as the novice finishes redirecting the distressed servitor.

“Fenix Kol?” Voss calls out, his voice calm yet firm. Fenix looks up, his expression composed, as he meets Voss’s gaze.
"The Emperor’s light guide your work, Novice Kol." Voss greets, his voice steady, though it carries the weight of authority. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about the cargo box that was dropped yesterday afternoon.”

Fenix gives a half-smile and nods, clearly unbothered by the inquiry. “Of course, Interrogator. I remember it well. Quite the unusual situation.”

Voss studies Fenix for a moment, then gestures for him to continue.

“I was supervising the servitors as usual,” Fenix begins, leaning slightly forward with interest, as though he’s enjoying the chance to talk. “Everything seemed routine until I heard this sharp bang behind me. I turned around, and there it was—the box, bursting apart right in the claws of one of the Loader Thralls.”

He pauses, shaking his head slowly in disbelief. “I still don’t understand what happened. That servitor… malfunctioning like that? Doesn’t make sense.”

Voss narrows his gaze. “You inspected it?”

“Oh, thoroughly,” Fenix replies, looking somewhat bemused. “I spent almost ten minutes checking it out from top to bottom. Everything seemed fine. Sent him off to the refectorium, twice, just to be sure.” He sighs, raising his empty hands to show his frustration. “All parameters came back normal.”

Fenix pauses for a moment, his face reflecting genuine puzzlement before he adds with a small shake of his head, “Had no choice but to send him to the sanctuarium for a rehaul. We can’t have servitors working here damaging crates for no reason, right?”

Voss listens intently, his eyes never leaving Fenix, but he doesn’t interrupt. Sensing Voss’s silent prompting, Fenix continues.

“I’ll admit, though,” he says, his tone softening, “I felt a bit sorry for the fellow. He wasn’t just any servitor, you see. Before his conversion, he was a quartermaster on an actual pirate ship.” Fenix gives a small chuckle. “Quite a terrible person, obviously, but he got what was coming to him.”

Voss remains silent, his expression unreadable as Fenix continues. “Still, he kept his sense of humor, even as a servitor. I couldn’t help but wonder if that little mishap with the box was his last practical joke.”

Fenix’s eyes flicker with a brief, almost playful glint, before settling into a more thoughtful expression. “Maybe I’m just reading into it, but… who knows with these old souls.”

Voss watches Fenix carefully, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You mentioned a sharp bang before the box fell. Could it have been a malfunction of the servitor?”

Fenix shakes his head with certainty, scratching his chin as he thinks back to the moment. “No way. Definitely not a sound I’ve ever heard a servitor make, and I’ve been around them long enough. It didn’t sound like a cargo box bursting either—I’ve heard enough of those to tell.” He pauses, still scratching his chin thoughtfully. “It was more like a firecracker going off in the distance, but not as sharp. If that makes sense.”

Voss leans in slightly, his gaze sharpening as if catching on something important. “And you’ve no idea where that sound came from?”

Fenix lets out a soft sigh, shrugging slightly. “Now that you ask, I really don’t. It’s strange, because it didn’t seem to fit anything I know. But it was definitely there.”

Voss processes this for a moment, straightening up a little, his hand brushing over his chin in a gesture of thought. Then he shifts the focus. “Did anyone from the security tower come to the box after it fell?”

Fenix nods. “Oh, definitely. That’s mostly what they’re here for. The servitors do the work, I help out when they’re too dumb to figure something out, and Gaios Rhauko repairs them or builds new ones. The folks from the tower only show up when something goes wrong.” He gives a wry smile. “Then they take a lot of picts, secure the goods, and bring them over to repackaging. And, of course, Gaios kicks my ass a bit for letting things get that far.”

Voss cocks his head, his eyes never leaving Fenix. “So you see your job as preventing the tower from having to do any honest work?”

Fenix chuckles. “That’s one way to put it. This time, though, the boss himself showed up.”

Voss raises an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. “That unusual?”

Fenix shrugs. “Not really. There’s usually only two or three people in the tower on any shift, and at night just one. Someone’s got to come down when something happens, boss or not. Markward comes out quite often, actually. Maybe to escape the stuffy office air for a bit.”

Voss leans back a fraction, folding his arms, as though assessing what Fenix just said. “And all of the goods that are retrieved then go to repackaging?”

Fenix’s expression shifts to something closer to a smirk. “Generally, yes. But the boss sometimes pockets something for himself. The law is the same for all of us, after all, except for those above us.”

Voss’s eyes narrow at that, but he remains silent, prompting Fenix to continue.

“And did you see what was in the box?” Voss presses, his voice now lower, sharper.

Fenix nods again, his expression becoming more thoughtful. “The contents were odd. Almost the entire box was filled with packing material, a letter, and a stupid old mirror. That’s it. Must’ve been an incredibly expensive mirror, though, given how much care went into protecting it. They were making extra sure it didn’t get damaged.”

“A mirror?” Voss repeats, his brow furrowing. He shifts his weight slightly, as though the information has struck a chord. His arms unfold, and he leans in again, focusing more intently. “What did Markward do with it?”

Fenix continues, “I figured it was probably some piece of art from a collection. The boss tossed the letter aside like it was nothing but stared at that mirror… I swear, it was like he was looking at the Emperor’s own lost pantaloon or something.”

Voss stays silent, but his gaze sharpens, and he shifts his stance, stepping a little closer to Fenix. His posture shows growing interest, even though his expression remains neutral.

“Then he just walked back to the tower,” Fenix adds, “like he’d taken a hit from a pipe for the first time. The way he moved… something was definitely off. But I didn’t think much of it at the time. I cleaned up the area and went back to work.”

Voss glances briefly at the surrounding cargo containers, then asks, “And where did you put the remains of the box?”

Fenix rubs his chin again, thinking. “Oh, right. I threw it in one of the garbage containers near the outside walls of the hall.” He points in the direction of the containers. “If you’re planning to check it, you’re in both bad luck and good luck.”

Voss raises an eyebrow, waiting for the explanation.

Fenix smirks. “Good luck because I haven’t had the time to order one of the guys to empty it out yet. Bad luck because there’s a lot of other stuff on top of it now. Good luck again because it’ll be easy to spot—last one for the shipment to Port Ghyre, so you can't miss it, as it's painted bright red. Bad luck, though… all the green stuff piled on top of it is packaging from one of the agricultural planets. So if you go digging through it, it’s gonna get pretty smelly.”

Voss exhales quietly, his gaze steady and intent on Fenix, as though weighing the usefulness of this information.

Edited September 15 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Voss watches Fenix carefully, his gaze calculating. “You’ve worked around these servitors for a long time, haven’t you? It sounds like you’ve built… a kind of relationship with them.”

Fenix gives a small shrug, looking somewhat bemused. “I actually like them better than most people I’ve met. If they need help, I know how to fix them. When they break down, Gaios Rhaukos can replace them. They don’t make a big fuss about it, and no one else does either.”

Voss nods slightly, absorbing the comment. “And that pirate—the one who handled the box—sounds like he had some character, even after conversion. Do you often think about their lives before they became servitors? Or is that something you try to push aside?”

Fenix scratches his chin thoughtfully. “No, their lives before they became servitors are actually quite important. You know, a cab driver thinks different than a ballerina thinks different than a soldier. And if you fuse them to a metal box, the differences still show.”

Voss raises an eyebrow, intrigued by Fenix’s insight. “So, you think their past lives still influence how they function? Even after their minds are wiped and replaced with programming?”

Fenix waves a hand dismissively. “Parts of their minds are wiped. If Rhaukos cooked all of it at once, they’d be just plain dead, and we couldn’t even reanimate them. We mostly separate the front part of the brain and deaden a few more areas with electroshocks, to prevent them from coming up with stupid ideas. For the programming, we only need to attach a few threads to… how to put it... if I say Nucleus accumbens, does that ring a bell with you? Once we can stimulate that thing, we can make sure they feel happy when they’re given orders. The 'programming' is mostly explaining to them what to do, and their tasks aren’t that complicated. And if you’ve been around them long enough, you can feel there isn’t much ‘past’ about the lives they had.”

Voss shifts his weight slightly, folding his arms as he considers Fenix’s words. “Interesting. So you’re saying their past selves still linger, influencing how they carry out their tasks. It’s not all programming—it’s more… guided instinct? And the connection you’ve built with them comes from understanding that?”

Fenix looks at Voss, amused. “They just have a lot fewer problems than other people.”

Voss lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “A lot fewer problems,” he echoes, nodding. “Maybe that’s the appeal, then. No uncertainty, no need to wrestle with choices.”

He leans in just a little, his voice lowering. “And what about you, Fenix? Do you ever wish things were that simple for you?”

Fenix snorts. “Putting threads into my brain? Nah, that wouldn’t work for anybody. I’m just that kind of strange. Even I wouldn’t be able to handle a servitor with my brain inside, and certainly no one else. They’d have to rehaul my new frame practically immediately. It’d just be a giant waste of everybody’s time.”

Voss raises an eyebrow, intrigued by Fenix’s blunt self-awareness. He watches Fenix carefully, as if gauging the weight behind his words. “Seems like you’ve thought this through. You see yourself as… what? A problem that can’t be fixed? Or just someone who doesn’t fit into the kind of neat categories the rest of us do?”

Fenix cocks his head, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Not fitting in? What are you talking about? Do you want to write me a bad job report or rat me out to Rhaukos for something?”

Voss raises his hand, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “No, nothing like that. I’m not looking to report you or cause trouble. I’m just curious.”

He pauses, eyes still fixed on Fenix. “You’re different. That’s clear. You see things in a way that others don’t, and it’s… intriguing. You seem comfortable with the chaos around you. Almost like you’ve found your place in it.”

His voice softens. “But I wonder, do you ever question it? Or is this where you want to be?”

Before Fenix can answer, something behind Voss catches his attention. His eyes widen, and he starts cursing under his breath. “Excuse me, Interrogator. I hope we can talk another time, but if I don’t get THAT idiot out of the mess, Rhaukos will have my behind for supper, and I’m not into that.”

With a quick wave of farewell, Fenix rushes toward a train-slave, which is frantically blinking, confused while attempting to couple wagons to an Ironbeast. A cargo container has shifted slightly during loading, causing the train-slave’s sensors to detect an irregularity in the coupling process. Unable to resolve the issue on its own, the servitor jerks and stalls, its movements erratic. Fenix hurries over to resolve the situation.

Voss watches him dart away, his expression unreadable as he stands alone, contemplating what he has learned.

Edited September 15 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

The spaceport stretches out before Anton, gleaming in the sunlight. The tarmac underfoot glows like polished stone, the geometric patterns etched into the ground guiding his path. Ahead, the hangars loom, enormous and bathed in amber light. Servitors move with silent grace, pulling carts loaded with cargo, their metallic arms glinting in the afternoon sun.

A shuttle roars down the runway, its engines spewing vibrant blue flames. The vibrations ripple through the air, reaching Anton’s chest, making his vision quiver. He grins, letting the sound roll through him, enjoying the way it makes the world shimmer. The shuttle slowly shrinks into the sky, disappearing into the vast blue above.

"That’s how you did it, huh, Markward?" Anton mutters under his breath, still riding the tail end of the high. "Big, dramatic… you had to make a statement. Your last hurrah."

His footsteps are light as he walks, a soft breeze carrying the faint scent of fuel and ozone. The colors around him feel alive—the bright greens of the meadows between the taxiways, the golden glint of the tarmac, the shimmering servitors gliding past. Everything is glowing, as if the entire spaceport is basking in the sunlight.

He chuckles softly, imagining Markward standing at the top of the security tower, grinning before his grand exit. "You always loved the attention, didn’t you? Hell of a way to pull everyone’s eyes to you… one last joke, huh?"

The hangars loom closer, their curved roofs rising high above the tarmac. Anton’s eyes flicker between the structures, scanning for something familiar, something hidden. As he walks, memories begin to bubble up, memories of the two of them wandering the markets, Markward excitedly buying strange trinkets—old books, relics, pieces of junk he thought would unlock the secrets of the universe.

"You always thought you’d find something, didn’t you? Some hidden meaning," Anton murmurs. "Drag me along, make me carry your damn books. But those parties afterward… those were worth it."

His pace slows as the tarmac beneath him dulls from gold to gray. The heat grows more oppressive, the air thicker. His shirt clings to his back, sticky with sweat, but his thoughts are still with Markward. The parties were fun, but it was the jobs that mattered. The schemes, the deals, the secrets.

Markward had been the one to come up with the plan—sabotage the servitors, make it look like an accident. Damaged goods, easy to write off. But it was Anton who had to figure out the details. "You had the ideas, but you couldn’t make ‘em work without me, could you?" Anton smiles bitterly. "Even Fenix didn’t catch on."

The hangars feel larger now, their shadows stretching long across the tarmac. Anton’s high is slipping away, leaving him with the cloying heat and the gnats buzzing around his head. He rubs his neck, wiping away the sweat, his eyes narrowing as he looks toward the towering structures.

"You kept the good stuff hidden though, didn’t you? Never showed me where it was. One of these hangars... it’s got to be here somewhere."

The air smells sour now, the scent of fuel sharp and acrid. He winces at the sound of grinding servitors, their once graceful movements now mechanical and harsh. The world feels heavier, the light dimmer, and the warmth from earlier has become an oppressive weight pressing down on him.

And then, as if breaking through the haze of his thoughts, Markward’s voice. Not a memory this time, but clear and mocking. "You really think you can find it, Anton?"

Anton freezes, his breath catching. He shakes his head, trying to dispel the voice, but it’s there, lingering, taunting him. "Of course, I can. I just need time. I know it’s here."

Markward’s laughter echoes in his mind, cruel and sharp. "You were always the sidekick, Anton. The tag-along. What makes you think you can finish this on your own?"

Anton’s jaw tightens. "Shut up. I can do this."

The voice sneers. "Sure, you can. Look at you, sweating, stumbling around like an idiot. You couldn’t find your way out of a cargo bay, let alone find my stash."

Anton clenches his fists, his heart pounding in his chest as he looks around the hangars. The world feels smaller now, the walls of the spaceport closing in. "I’ll find it. I know it’s here. I just need to think."

Markward’s voice fades, leaving Anton standing alone in the heat, the hangars towering above him like silent sentinels.

Edited September 15 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Frida approaches the gate, her eyes drifting toward the enforcers standing guard. She hesitates for a moment, recalling the awkward exchange from the last time she passed through. Her skin feels warm under the heavy summer air, the heat rising from the tarmac beneath her boots. Taking a deep breath, she straightens up and steps forward.

With an exaggerated turn of her head, she avoids their gaze, raising a hand in a quick, dismissive wave—like a celebrity dodging the press. The gesture is playful, more of a self-deprecating joke shared with the enforcers. They exchange a quick glance, chuckling quietly as if they’re in on it.

Frida quickens her steps, hurrying into the spaceport, focused on the task ahead. Once inside, she pauses, glancing around the bustling yard, her brow furrowing. She had hoped to spot Anton nearby, but it seems she waited too long before following him.

Her eyes sweep across the cargo trucks and moving servitors, but there’s no sign of him. A flicker of frustration crosses her face as she considers where he might have gone. Could he have gone back into the security tower? If she were Markward, she would have hidden the drugs in the dusty storage spaces around the elevator machine room above the office, or maybe in one of the side rooms off the meeting room below.

But then, she remembers Anton’s words: he wouldn’t want to send her into danger again. They had occasionally entered those dusty rooms to store decorations for celebrations or excess and broken storage supplies, so Anton wouldn’t consider them especially dangerous. Maybe he wasn’t referring to the security tower at all. Perhaps he meant something in the great hall—there were certainly enough dangerous areas there, with all the servitors moving heavy loads, mostly unsupervised by humans.

She walks past the security tower and the Arbites post, entering the great hall via the gate to the central lane. As she steps inside, the contrast between the bright summer light in the cargo area and the dim twilight of the great hall makes her pause. She waits for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the shift in light before moving further in.

Frida listens into the vast hall, but no sounds of human presence stand out. The mechanical whirr of servitors fills the space, but there’s no sign of Anton. She cautiously calls out his name, but the only reply is the distant hum of machinery. Frustration gnaws at her, but then she notices a fire ladder leading up to one side of the balconies along the upper floors.

Maybe that’s what Anton had considered dangerous. And from up there, she could at least get a good view over the central lane. She secures her clothes and begins to climb the ladder, each step echoing faintly against the metal as she ascends.

Reaching the balcony, Frida pauses to catch her breath from the hasty climb. Her chest rises and falls as she leans slightly against the railing, taking in the view of the vast hall below. After a moment, she begins wandering along the side of the balcony, her eyes scanning the enormous space.

The scale of the hall suddenly feels overwhelming. She glances down at the cargo lanes, the servitors moving in their orderly fashion, and realizes just how small her chances are of finding Anton, even if he were here somewhere. The great hall stretches far beyond what she had expected, a labyrinth of machinery, boxes, and shadowy corners.

As she peers over the railing, her heart skips a beat. In the distance, Magos Rhaukos steps out of the sanctuarium, his red robes marking him instantly. He moves with purpose toward a line of waiting servitors. Frida holds her breath for a moment but then exhales in relief—up on the balcony, she’s safely out of his line of sight.

Suddenly, the sharp echo of marching boots reverberates along the central lane. Frida stiffens, leaning further over the railing to get a better view. Sergeant Ralkon strides toward Rhaukos with purpose, his steps a rhythmic beat against the quiet hum of the hall.

Ralkon stops just short of Rhaukos, his posture rigid and formal. “Honored Magos Rhaukos, Exalted Overseer of All Things Mechanical and Miraculous,” he greets, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Rhaukos turns slowly to face him, his mechanical features betraying no reaction, though his servo arm twitches slightly.

Ralkon continues, placing a hand over his heart in mock reverence. “I regret to inform you that our little arrangement… has come to an untimely end. It appears the Inquisition has seen fit to throw their weight around with a couple of their goons.”

For a moment, there is silence. Then Rhaukos’s voice, cold and precise, cuts through the air. “Request for operational protocol... invalid.” His mechanical eyes flicker as he processes the information, but his tone remains flat and detached. “Information on ‘agreement’... not found.”

Ralkon’s expression hardens, and he steps closer, lowering his voice just enough to add a bite of accusation. “Oh, don’t toy with me, Magos. Playing dumb doesn’t suit you.” His eyes narrow as he leans in slightly. “You remember how this all started, don’t you? You came to me whining about the low rate of capital punishments in the local courts dragging down your beloved efficiency rate at the spaceport.”

Rhaukos remains unmoved, his servo arm still, and his voice cold. “Statistical analysis of local arrest rates shows them significantly below the global average. A direct consequence of inadequate enforcement from the Adeptus Arbites.”

Ralkon’s jaw clenches, and this time, he doesn’t hold back. “You dare insult the honor of Arbitrator-Commander von Pitzhausen?” His voice rises as he gestures furiously behind him, indicating the distant sprawl. “Do you see any gangs out there having gunfights in the streets? Any dead bodies pulled out of rivers or behind garbage cans? No! There are pilgrims out there, and local businesses catering to their needs. No one’s getting rich quick, and no one’s getting killed because of it!”

He jabs his finger toward the sprawl again, his frustration boiling over. “The worst crimes we get are a few conmen trying to make off with a pilgrim’s meager belongings. That barely scratches the level of offense needed for servitor conversion. The reason those arrest rates are low is because von Pitzhausen is doing his job! Keeping the law upheld so we don’t need to drag bodies out of the streets! And let me tell you, the Adeptus Arbites won’t start arresting innocent citizens just to prop up your precious numbers.”

Rhaukos, sensing Ralkon’s fury, shifts the conversation. “Sergeant Ralkon,” Rhaukos begins, his tone measured, “biomaterial for servitor maintenance need not always come from living specimens.”

Ralkon hesitates, caught off guard by the sudden change in direction.

Rhaukos continues, his servo arm adjusting slightly as he speaks. “Local death rates from natural causes and accidents are well-documented. Crematories in the area frequently report bodies left without insurance, with no relatives willing to finance a burial or cremation. The communal cost of handling such cases grows unnecessarily.”

His glowing ocular lenses narrow slightly, focusing on Ralkon. “These unclaimed bodies could serve a more efficient purpose. It would significantly reduce the burden on the community while also providing the necessary resources to maintain our servitors.”

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Ralkon’s temper flares again. “Yes, my Grande Magos. You’ve told me all of this before. I don’t know if you’ve accidentally erased your own memory banks, or why you feel the need to iterate it all again.” He waves his hand dismissively. “I listened to your drizzle, because I do respect your dedication to your craft. But I told you to do it by the books—enter formal inquiries with the Departmento Munitorum and wait for them to decide.”

Rhaukos’s mechanical voice cuts in, sharp and cold. “Departmento procedures are unacceptably slow. The inefficiency in processing is detrimental to operational needs.”

Ralkon stares at Rhaukos, his eyes wide with disbelief. “An ordained priest of the Omnissiah, complaining about too much observance of protocol?” His voice is thick with incredulity. “That’s rich.”

 

He steps back, shaking his head in astonishment. “No, this wasn’t your idea. I know exactly who’s behind this. That little wretch, Fenix.”

Ralkon’s voice rises, seething with contempt. “That scrap of metal calls himself a servant of the Omnissiah, yet he slithers around as if laws and honor mean nothing to him! The way he shrugs off tradition, as if the Emperor’s law is just another machine part he can twist to suit his needs!”

 

His fists clench, his tone turning harsher. “That blasphemous rodent! No sense of honor, no respect for the law that holds this Imperium together. He acts like everything we stand for is beneath him—like he’s too clever for the values that built this galaxy!” Ralkon’s voice rises to a roar, his face reddening with fury. “He doesn't follow the faith of the Emperor, he doesn’t care about the law! To him, everything is just another system to break apart and reassemble however he likes! It’s sickening!”

 

He spits to the side, his pacing growing more erratic. “You let that insult to the Imperial Creed crawl around, infecting everything with his vile, twisted view of the world. That faithless, honorless cog-jockey is going to tear down everything we’ve built if you let him!”

 

Ralkon’s fury shows no sign of abating as he slams a fist against his chest. “I let that rat talk me into temporary measures! TEMPORARY!” he shouts, his voice echoing in the hall.

 

“There’s nothing temporary about it! Your inquiries have been stuck in the Departmento Munitorum for months, while I—like a fool—kept supplying you with bodies!”

His face contorts in anger as he paces in front of Rhaukos, his voice rising to a near roar. “Do you want to know why the Munitorum officials take so long to decide? Because they can’t make head nor toes of the radical legal nonsense your little weasel came up with for you! They sit there, buried in paperwork, trying to decipher the twisted justifications that snake of yours penned!”

 

He stops pacing and turns to face Rhaukos, his eyes blazing with fury. “Let me make this perfectly clear, Magos. All temporary measures—end immediately. I couldn’t care less about your efficiency rates anymore, not when we’re drowning in this mess!”

Without waiting for a response, Ralkon spins on his heel, his boots echoing as he storms off, leaving Rhaukos standing silently in the wake of his rage.

Edited October 1 by Ya Evyl Aunty