The Webway Mirror 1 - Raising to Ashes

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Sergeant Ralkon marches across the cargo yard. Neither he nor the six enforcers marching in a tight line, shoulder by shoulder, to the right of him, pay the unrelenting stream of raindrops, pouncing from their helmets and running down their shoulders over the uniforms any attention, but the trampling and splashing of boots to his right displeases him.

“Stri-ike teeee-heam…” he calls his men to attention. “LEFT, two three four, LEFT two three four.” The patter of boots unites into a single precise drumbeat. “left, .. left, .. left ..”

The reassuring rhythm pushes back the haunting voices, churning up from his memories, but they still seep through the beats.

“No, Ralkon. They didn’t tell us to blow it off,” Fenix had said, his voice calm, matter-of-fact. “Look, the Departmento Munitorum basically just says they need time to decide how to classify the recycling of untended bodies as a partial substitute for capital offenders. Here, they even praise the general idea. They just need to wait for the new form papers to be authorized.”
Ralkon’s gut had churned as Fenix continued, unfazed. “You know how stuck-up the Munitorum is with their bureaucracy. Once you accept the idea of just paying the occasional fine for thinking without authorization, you get used to temporarily working around them—to keep the gears running smoothly. And Rhaukos really, really needs those bodies to keep the spaceport going.”
“Strike team, tu-hurn… left!” Ralkon reduces the length of his steps, almost treads on the spot for a moment, forming the axis for the line of enforcers, that wheels around him.
“March” The enforcers, now aligned parallel to the Great Halls roll gate, transition into the central lane like a single body. 
The heavy rhythm of the boots irritates a Draybound Servitor, who was following a yellow line on the ground, pushing a pallet jack with wrapped appliances into the cargo yard. It stops, blinking and beeping, to scan its surroundings for possible collisions. The Washwarden, who was trailing it, loses its interest, and turns around to pursue the marching steps in a respectful distance instead.
 

Edited October 1 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

“How…. How did you even…?” Fenix had seen servitors do many dumb and impressive things since he started working for Magos Gaius Rhaukos. A 40-ton Iron Stevedore on the second balcony, stuck on an industrial lift next to the sanctuarium, because it’s carrying its 25-ton cargo container vertically instead of horizontally, leaves even Fenix speechless.

The container is wedged tightly between the Stevedore’s torso and the steel bars framing the elevator passage. In its upright position, it completely blocks the machine’s forward sensors. Yet instead of stopping to reassess, the giant insists on trudging forward, as in spite of its world having been swallowed by darkness, it refuses to deviate from its training. Its right leg keeps pushing while the left waits for the shift in weight to step ahead. As its main bulk is blocked by the elevator frame, the right foot jerks backward, the harsh screech of metal echoing through the hall as sparks scatter across the plastcrete floor.

Every jolt sends a shockwave through the elevator construction, filling the air with the faint smell of oil and stirred-up dust as the vibration reverberates through the meshed flats forming the elevator’s connective tissue. Flakes of plaster crumble from behind the giant steel wall anchors, like scabs peeling from a wound. An unstoppable force meets an immovable object, but Fenix isn’t about to place bets.

"First of all, we have to stop you from moving." With the visual sensors blocked and the servitor's collision sensors apparently offline, Fenix knows he can’t guide it like usual. Time to get medieval. He grabs a crowbar from one of the hall’s columns. The cold, rough handle settles in his grip like a knight’s longsword. He holds it with the hooked end forward. Fenix crouches behind the Stevedore. His muscles tense, readying for action as he spots the red emergency lever below its torso, between its legs. Timing his movements with the giant’s rhythm, Fenix narrows his focus and prepares. Then, he launches forward with a determined “Omnissi-aaah!” on his lips. The hook gets hold of the emergency lever.

With a grunt, Fenix yanks the crowbar hard, feeling the resistance give way as the emergency lever clicks into place. For a brief, glorious second, everything seems to freeze.

No sparks. No grinding metal. No crushing weight.

Fenix stays crouched behind the hulking machine, chest heaving, hands still gripping the crowbar.

He blinks.

He exhales.

Has it actually worked?

For a heartbeat, silence hangs in the air. The depressurizing hydraulics let out a soft hiss, almost like a sigh of relief. Fenix straightens, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Not so bad, after all.

Then, a deep groan fills the air.

Fenix freezes, eyes wide as the enormous load starts to shift in the Stevedore’s weakened grip, swaying dangerously on the platform.

Oh no. Oh no no no—

“Please don’t topple over now, please don’t topple over now!”

Whether it is the Omnissiah’s will, or just the unknowable fate of the Stevedore, but it settles its balance into a stable position, without crushing Fenix under its limbs or causing even more damage to its surroundings.

Fenix wonders where the sudden swelling drumbeat is coming from. It’s not the lift, nor the Stevedore or its cargo. Then he realizes—it’s coming from the central lane, two stories below. Peering over the balcony, he spots half the Arbites guard, goosestepping in formation towards Gaius Rhaukos, who has his head and upper torso buried inside one of the hulks waiting in line for retooling in front of the sanctuarium, inspecting it to decide the most efficient order to proceed. "Seems I’m not the only one having a bad day," Fenix thinks. His attention snaps back to the Stevedore and its precariously balanced load. "I better get one of the cranes attached to that upper end for stabilization." He weighs his next move: "Loop or claw?"

A dark figure in the shadows on the opposite balcony has witnessed Fenix struggle, and spotted the approaching squad of Arbites officers as well. It uses the rungs of a shelf as stepping stones to reach the gap between a shipping container and the ceiling, and slides a lengthy suitcase into the darkness in between, then follows the suitcase into the dark.

“Magus Gaius Rhaukos, you are under arrest!” Ralkon’s baritone echoes through the hall. Then “Magos Gaius Rhaukos?” followed by a brief pause, and “Rhaukos, get your head out of that thing, I am talking to you!”

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Rhaukos, forced to pause his work by Sergeant Ralkon's annoying insistence, clatters back with the pitch and compassion of a drillhammer caught on plastcrete: "Sergeant Ralkon, your emotional outbursts continue to be of no consequence to the functioning of this spaceport, nor to the Omnissiah’s will. I am engaged in tasks of actual significance. If you are intent on wasting your time on theatrics, do it elsewhere, for your attempts at 'arresting' me are as laughable as they are irrelevant. These servitors need retooling, and I have neither time nor patience for these interruptions."

Ralkon seems taken aback by the Magos’s willful reluctance to acknowledge his authority, but he can’t relinquish initiative in front of his entire command. “Varus, Volk, Haltz, search the sanctuarium for the bodies! The entrance to the cooling room must be behind the altar section. Caltan, Santz, Varn, detain the old fool, and search him for weapons.”

Rhaukos moves with precision, stepping into the doorway of the sanctuarium just as the enforcers approach. His imposing figure blocks their path, his augmented limbs locking into place as his robe billows slightly.

"Enough!" His voice reverberates through the hall, amplified by metallic echoes. "You will go no further. This sanctuarium is sacred—your filthy, untrained hands will not defile its sanctity."

He stands tall, a monolithic presence against the light spilling from the sanctuarium behind him. His eyes, both human and mechanical, burn with fury.

"By the Treaty of Olympus Mons, the sanctuarium, a temple of the Omnissiah, falls outside your jurisdiction. Mars stands as an allied, independent power, and I, as an ordained priest, will not permit your untrained, impious hands to defile it. You have no authority here. You should know better than to challenge the Emperor’s law."

His voice, though mechanized, thrums with fury. His dedication and stance, immovable, speak volumes about his readiness to resist any incursion. "Now, go play your games of power somewhere else, Sergeant. I will not have you nor your goons trampling through my workspace, contaminating my tools with your ignorance."

His hands tighten around the edges of the doorframe, ready to resist.

Ralkon’s boot hits Rhaukos square over the chest. The Magos tumbles to the ground, his figure shaken by a painful cough.

"You think you can stop me?" Ralkon’s huge frame stands tall over the coughing and wheezing Magos.
 

The enforcers exchange glances, uncertainty thick in the air. Corporal Varus shifts uncomfortably, her hands tighten and loosen on her carbine. Her gaze darts between Rhaukos, crumpled on the floor, and Ralkon, rigid and unyielding. She takes a sharp breath, but the words die in her throat. Her jaw clenches, fingers brushing the stock of her weapon as she struggles to contain her worries. She can't confront him—not here, not now—but the tension in her stance gives her away.

Rhaukos’s coughs worsen, each one harsher than the last. A sickening wheeze escapes him, thin and whistling, snaking through the room like a broken instrument. A sharp beep pierces the air, high-pitched and grating. Then comes a low, rattling growl, almost mechanical. The pitch slides, rising and falling erratically. It jumps from ear-splitting highs to deep, guttural lows. Each sound claws at the ears, growing worse with every cough. His breathing seems labored, as if he’s struggling to catch air.

Hidden among the clamor, a modulated carrier wave trills like a mechanical canary, its tone steady and unchanging, never rising or falling, woven carefully into the noise.

One of the loader thralls at the back of the hall stirs. Its optical lenses blink, and its tiny head swivels, scanning the room with faint pulses of red. Slowly, it lurches to life, responding to the hidden signal. Metal legs clank against the floor as it moves, heading straight toward the line of enforcers. They scatter, stepping aside, weapons half-raised.

"Take it down!" Ralkon barks. "Santz, Caltan, open fire!"

The arbitrator shotguns thunder, heavy rounds slamming into the servitor’s metal frame. Sparks scatter as the shots glance off, ricocheting with an eerie, high-pitched sound—somewhere between a whistle and a distant wail. The thrall’s advance doesn’t falter, its mechanical limbs jerking forward with unsettling determination, as if mere pebbles had bounced of its steel frame.

Above, the sharp crack of one of the shots strikes something heavier. The upright shipping container shifts with a low groan, its bulk tipping forward. The stevedore servitor wobbles beneath it, one foot nearly losing contact with the ground. The metal giant sways, but barely regains its balance.

Fenix crouches behind the railing on the balcony, panic seizing him as the container groans, its bulk tipping dangerously beside him. His hands clutch the cold metal tight, knuckles white, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the outburst of action below. He should move—should get out—but the chaos beneath holds him in place.

The door to the dormitorium creaks open. Interrogator Voss steps out, his face lined with weariness. He pauses, blinking slowly, taking a moment to process the scene before him. His eyes, heavy with fatigue, gradually sharpen as they move over Rhaukos on the ground, the advancing thrall, and the enforcers taking aim.

"Go for the exposed flesh!" Ralkon orders, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Around the neck and face!"

Santz and Caltan pump their shotguns with a heavy, metallic ka-chunk, loading fresh shells into the chambers. The clatter of the ejected shells rings through the hall. They aim and fire again. This time, the shots strike true. The servitor’s optical lenses flicker, the glow fading to nothing. A soft sigh escapes the cyborg’s hydraulics as it slumps, its posture sinking into itself as its movements cease.

The hall falls into a tense silence. Voss turns back toward the dormitorium, his voice rising. "Mordecai, Helena, Callista—you need to see this."

 

Edited October 4 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Lying in the shadows atop a shipping container on the second balcony, Lucas Reiner watches from his elevated position just underneath the third . The dim light barely catches him as he stares down at the dormitorium entrance below, the worn plastcrete floor in front of it marked with faded lines for servitor routes. Interrogator Voss has already stepped outside, his robe loose, and is waiting for the rest of the Inquisition group to wake up. Reiner remains still, his eyes trained on the scene below, the weight of his task settling heavily in his chest.

Interrogator Voss’ is still adjusting the fastenings of his robe, as Sister Helena emerges, pulling on the final clasps of her white power armor, her movements slower than usual. She stifles a yawn, her fingers briefly brushing against her eyes before she straightens, her curiosity taking over her drowsiness. Thracce follows, tugging at the straps of his black and red Arbites body armor, the weight of sleep still clinging to his movements. Voss points them toward the far end of the hall, where the spaceport’s Enforcers are still nervously circling the dead Loader Thrall.

Inquisitor Drakon steps out last, perfectly composed, her coat draped smoothly over her shoulders as if she had anticipated this moment all along. The polished fabric catches the light, but it's the brief flash of the lining—chequered in a garishly colorful pattern—that draws the eye for a split second before it’s gone, hidden once again beneath her deliberate movements. While the others are still pulling themselves together, she looks as though she’s already in command of the day, her eyes scanning the hall with a calm, practiced gaze. Every step she takes seems rehearsed, as though she’s moving toward her next cue in the unfolding drama.
Reiner glances briefly at Callista Drakon as she begins her speech, then returns to his task. He adjusts his cap, pulls a filter mask over his nose and mouth, and slips on a pair of latex gloves.

“Voss," she begins, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of the hall, "what you see here is no chaos. It is a stage. Every line, every shadow, every movement—deliberate." Her hands trace invisible patterns in the air, and there’s a weight to her words, as if she’s sharing some great secret. "We are not merely observers in this theater. We are the playwrights, the directors. And the actors? They do not know the roles they are playing."

The gloved hand moves carefully over the guncase’s surface, the pocket square from Sophia zu Rosenstein brushing away any trace of fingerprints. With deliberate movements, Reiner unfastens the latches and lifts the rifle, the weight unfamiliar and slightly awkward in his grip.

Callista Drakon turns slightly, her eyes narrowing as if she’s watching invisible actors move across the stage. "Each of them, knowingly or unknowingly, has already set their course. They follow a script written by their own guilt, their own fear. Our role is to make sure they deliver their lines perfectly, without knowing they are performing for us." Her voice carries through the hall, confident, each word carefully chosen.
Reiner’s focus shifts momentarily as he methodically wipes the rifle, taking care with every inch of it. He hasn’t used one in a long time, and the feeling of the cold metal in his hands is foreign but familiar.

"And the villain, Voss," Drakon continues, her voice rising slightly, "will always return to the scene of their crime. It is inevitable. They cannot help it. They will try to cover their tracks, and in doing so, they reveal everything." 
She paces now, her steps slow, deliberate, every movement adding weight to her speech. Voss stands motionless, his gaze fixed on her, as if hanging on every word, absorbed in her mastery of the situation. "It’s in their nature, just as it is in ours to guide them to that moment, to let them think they’re in control."

Satisfied with his work, Lucas Reiner sets the cloth aside, hands moving smoothly as he attaches the bipod to the rifle. Callista’s voice continues, but it’s only a distant hum as he tests the rifle’s balance, the weight settling comfortably.
Callista's voice softens slightly, but the intensity remains. "The key, Voss, is patience. We do not rush this. We let them feel safe, let them believe they’ve outwitted us. That is when they stumble, when they give us what we need. They will slip, and in that moment, they’ll reveal everything."
Sister Helena gives a slow, solemn nod, clearly approving of the wisdom in Drakon’s words. A thin smile curls at the corner of Callista Drakon’s lips, as if she’s savoring what is about to come.
Enforcer Thracce’s eyes wander over the balconies above, admiring the grandiosity of the space, as if marveling at the stage that Inquisitor Drakon has chosen for her next act. 
Reiner's body stiffens, his breath caught in his throat. His gloved fingers tighten around the rifle, a bead of sweat trickling beneath the mask. He waits, every second stretching into eternity, until Thracce’s gaze drifts back to Callista Drakon.

 

"You," she points at Voss, "are more than a witness here. You are the one who sets the tempo. You are the one who must pull the strings, guide them without them ever realizing. The stage is yours to control." There’s a gleam in her eye now, something dangerous, something almost joyful. "And when they think they’ve written their own ending, we will be there to close the curtain on them."
Reiner rises into a crouched position, his head almost brushing the ceiling. He adjusts the bipod, finding the right angle, steadying his breathing.
Her steps come to a halt, her gaze shifting between her retinue. "We already know how this story ends. It’s only a matter of letting them play out the final act. The villain, in their arrogance, believes they can change the script, rewrite their fate. But they cannot. And we, Voss, will be the ones to reveal their failure, to watch as they walk straight into our trap."

Through the scope, Reiner scans the industrial landscape below, the crosshairs sweeping toward the dormitorium's upper corner. His eyes narrow, focusing on the dark corridor meeting the central lane. Beyond it, the outer wall and the roll gate cast a faint shadow, marking the spot. He aligns his shot, calculating the angle carefully—enough to grab attention, but far from causing harm.

Edited October 10 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

The crane drifts slowly, almost languidly, as it lowers the crate toward the ground. Its rope stretches and sways with each movement. With a soft thud, the crate settles. The crane begins its ascent once more, rising diagonally into the dimly lit hall, ready to retrieve another piece of cargo.

Reiner’s finger tightens around the trigger, his breath moving in slow harmony with the rifle's mechanics. The click of metal-on-metal resounds, almost imperceptible, as the firing pin slams forward, igniting the primer with a precise spark. In the pause that follows, his grip loosens, steady and controlled.

 

“What none of you have ever grasped,” Callista says, chin raised, her voice echoing through the hall. “Secrecy is not just our weapon—it is our power.”

The gas expands, propelling the lead projectile forward, forcing it into the rifling grooves. The bullet begins to spin, picking up speed as it is dragged down the barrel.

 

“Even those who stand closest to us,” her voice steady, almost reveling in her own certainty, “are but blind fools, unwitting players in a game already decided.”

The bullet tears free from the barrel, the compressed air forming a spiraling cone behind it as it cuts through the hall with lethal precision.

 

“I am the architect of victories you have never seen,” she continues, her words deliberate, each one landing with weight. “Every outcome woven long before it unfolds.”

The bullet spins through the still air, hurtling forward. The crane, unnoticed, continues its slow, diagonal rise.

 

“The hand that shapes the Imperium does so from the shadows,” Callista’s hand rises slightly, her gesture as poised as her speech. “Perhaps that’s why no one truly understands the magnitude of what I orchestrate... but they will.”

Metal meets metal. The bullet slams into the side of the crane with a clang so loud it reverberates through the hall. The sound rises to a deafening, metallic screech—a wail like 1000 mechanical cats all screeching in unison, sensing their 7000th life slipping from their grasp. The crane shudders violently, and the bullet ricochets, spinning wildly out of control.

 

Callista speaks on, her eyes sharp. “I am the force no one sees, the whisper that sets empires on edge.”

The bullet tumbles, its controlled path shattered. It spirals unpredictably toward the group of Inquisitors.

 

“The unseen sword that cuts without warning,” she says, her hand tracing the air, a slow arc as if enacting her own metaphor. “None can stand against what they do not know.”

The bullet, whirling and wobbling, closes in.

 

“No one can predict my moves. I may be in your sight now, but watch as I vanish in a heartbeat!”

The bullet tumbles sideways through the air now, closing the last inches before the impact.

“No one expects the Imperial Inquisition to…”

Edited October 10 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Interrogator Voss, Sister Helena, and Enforcer Thracce recoil as warm, sticky spray splatters their faces and shoulders. Wiping their eyes and mouths in disgust, they realize the fluid covering them is scarlet.

Callista Drakon’s arms slowly drop to her sides, her shoulders forming a straight vertical line—no neck, no head above them.

Her retinue stares in horror as gravity pulls her torso down to her knees. It teeters briefly before collapsing to the side.

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

 

Tzeentch gazes at the board before him, his eyes narrowing at the unexpected gap in Cegorach’s position. The jester’s queen stands precariously, seemingly vulnerable. Tzeentch’s taloned hand hovers, then moves with deliberate intent.

The rook slides forward, swift and sure, claiming the open file. The queen topples into the abyss, her outstretched arms headless, grasping at nothing as she falls into the void.

Tzeentch leans back, feathers ruffling with smug satisfaction. "You just lost your strongest figure, and for what? A joke?" His voice twists with amusement, masking the faintest hint of curiosity.

Cegorach, ever the performer, lets out a theatrical sigh, dramatically clutching his chest. He wails for a moment, covering his masked face, before daring to peer at the board once more, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“But is it a game of figures or position?” he says, voice soft but cutting. His hand sweeps over the board. “Your officers block each other, cluttered by ambition. Look closely—your house is in peril.”

Tzeentch frowns, scanning the tangled mass of his forces. The board glows with shimmering power, yet his pieces are pinned, their paths restricted.

“And this one here?,” Cegorach continues, fingers dancing over a knight, “it’s hardly where you would want it.”

With a deft flick, the knight vanishes from its current place, reappearing behind Tzeentch’s lines, now perched on an undefended square. The jester’s grin widens as he points to the critical spot. “A little oversight, perhaps? It forks your king... and your rook.”

Tzeentch’s eyes flash with sudden realization, the looming danger snapping into focus. The knight stands poised, threatening both the heart of his empire and the critical defense.

Edited October 8 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Lucas Reiner’s eyes stand wide like empty graves as he realizes what his pull on the trigger has set in motion. He tears the mask off to catch more air, his jaw hanging loose, mouth ajar. His right hand attempts to lower the gun slowly, but instead, the weapon slips through his fingers and clatters loudly down the front of his container perch. He turns, fleeing into the cover of the shelves and stacks behind him.

 

The onslaught of the Loader Thrall, the flying shotgun slugs, then the shot from the dark, followed by the anguished woes of Callista Drakon’s retinue… In the turmoil, no one notices the humble little luggage servitor rolling along the wall, pumping its stubby arms as it picks up speed.

Reaching top speed, its tiny hands stretch out for stabilization, driven forward by the whirring servo wheels at its back. Without slowing, it crashes through the group of Enforcers near the sanctuarium door, striking Ralkon with its waist-high convenience handle bars and sending him spinning to the ground.

Magos Rhaukos manages to grab hold of the speeding luggage carrier. For a moment, the stocky carrier seems to be dragged off course by the Magos’ body weight scuffing behind it across the factory floor. A collision with the elevator’s plastcrete foundation seems imminent. Just in time, Rhaukos hauls himself onto the flat top of the servitor with the mechanical claw on his back.

The servitor’s stabilization arms flail hectically, and the anxious screech of rubber on plastcrete barely prevents a collision with the elevator’s ramp. The servos spin up again, and the unlikely vehicle vanishes into the shadows between the shelves beneath the balconies, before the Enforcers can react.

Sergeant Ralkon, pushing himself up from the ground, the other arm pointed after his fleeing foe: “He is getting away! After him!” The Enforcers turn around, chasing after the escaped Magos.

 

Mordecai Thracce’s eyes catch the glint of the falling gun. Without a word, he darts toward the fire ladder on the right of the spot but halts midway. He points to the fire ladder on the left, signaling Interrogator Voss. Behind them, Sister Helena opens the door to the dormitorium, her movements deliberate and careful, as she gently pulls Callista Drakon’s body inside.

Suddenly, a servo-skull emerges from the darkness between the crates, hovering in the path of the pursuing Enforcers, just above their heads. The Enforcers watch with surprised faces, as the servo-skull produces a long rattling sound, like a mix of a woodpecker laboring in the forest and the percussive interlude of a singing whale’s rhapsody.

The fire sprinklers around them activate, drenching them and the ground beneath in a wave of foam. Varn, still struggling to catch up to the group, dragged down by the weight of the heavy slugger, which he holds before him in both hands, loses his footing on the suddenly slippery floor. He flails, arms spinning, and skids into the backs of the halted Enforcers’ legs, like a bowling ball crashing into a rack of pins.

Ralkon, still recovering from prone position, watches in bitter defeat as Magos Rhaukos appears at the far end of the central lane. Rhaukos leaps onto a crate that is slowly being lifted by one of the cranes toward the highest balcony. Ralkon snaps off a shot from his bolt pistol, but the round detonates against the crate, sending it into a wild spin and a rocking motion as it ascends toward the roof. Rhaukos clings on, grasping the edges as the crate sways, and soon turns the erratic swinging into a giant pendulum.

 

Haltz and Sanz, back on their feet with arbitrator shotguns ready, try to take aim at the swaying figure, but Ralkon waves them off with an angry gesture. "The old fox thinks he can outwit us in his den!" He shakes his fist toward the elusive Magos. "But I know where his weak points are!"

 

He points sharply toward the refectorium gate. "Destroy the transformers and generators in the refectorium, and he’ll no longer be able to use the Great Hall’s installations against us!"

 

Shaking his fist again, he growls, "We will hunt him down! If you see any skulls approaching, shoot them! If any servitor acts weirdly or approaches you, shoot it! And if you see Rhaukos’ emperor-forsaken minion Fenix Kol sneaking around—shoot him, then shoot him again to make sure he is dead and stays dead!"

 

Fenix, crouching near the railing, drops to the ground as Ralkon’s words hit him like a hammer. His back presses against the cold metal, eyes and mouth wide in disbelief as the meaning of the order sinks in. His chest heaves, breath shallow and strained. For a moment, he freezes, head jerking from side to side, eyes wild as they search the labyrinth of shelves for a way out. Then, like a shadow slipping between cracks, he springs to his feet and darts into the covering darkness.

Inside the cargo container something is shifting. A bottle can be heard rolling down with a quiet lonely tinkle, shattering in a shy clink of protest against being left behind.

Edited October 8 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Inside the refectorium the massive rollgate stands sealed, built to accommodate servitors as large as 40-ton stevedores, which tower over even the tallest men. Above, the motor casing sits idle, waiting for the signal to engage. At the base of the gate, a wicket door has been cut for quick access for smaller servitors and human personnel. It creaks open as Ralkon steps through, bolt pistol in hand, his boots echoing off the cold floor.

Behind him, the enforcers file in, glancing around the room with silent curiosity, their footsteps barely audible over the mechanical hum of the machinery. None of them have been inside the refectorium before.

 

The place is a maze of mechanical limbs and whirring gears, a dull hum filling the air as the conveyor system slowly drags two smaller servitors—a luggage servitor and a manifest thrall—through their maintenance cycle. Both sit on a shared platform, too small to warrant their own, their limbs twitching as robotic arms extend to fill their tanks and apply fresh lubricants. Lights blink on their chests, displaying a jumble of confused signals as the machinery works.

Ralkon barely spares them a glance.

 

He grips the emergency lever and pulls it sharply. The floor shudders as the conveyor grinds to a halt, sending sparks skittering across the ground. The mechanical arms freeze mid-motion. The servitors, locked in place, begin to emit soft, erratic beeps, their signals rising and falling, as if asking for help.

“Keep up,” Ralkon growls, stepping into the halted service section. He passes the immobilized thralls, their confused signals echoing behind him, as he navigates the narrow passage toward the transformer room.

The enforcers follow without thinking twice about the order—Ralkon’s commands are simply to be obeyed, even if everything around them falters.

 

They step over the stalled conveyor and weave through the cramped engineering space, past limp mechanical arms and dormant machinery. At the back of the refectorium, they reach the door to the transformer chamber, a thick slab of metal marked with Adeptus Mechanicus warning symbols.

Ralkon swipes his key card. The lock blinks red. Denied.

His jaw tightens—another slight to his authority. Cold anger simmers beneath his focus as he turns to Volk. “Break it.”

 

Volk gives a silent nod, his face unreadable, just the cold pragmatism that’s kept him alive for so long. He sizes up the door. His eyes flick to his stormshield and power maul, and with a quick decision, he braces the bottom edge of the shield against the door, just above the mag-lock. He hefts his maul and strikes the top edge of the shield with a powerful swing.

There is a satisfying crunch of metal. The lock shears off the wall, and the door groans open.

Ralkon doesn’t waste a second. “Varn, shoot.”

Varn steps forward, positioning the muzzle of his heavy stubber carefully through the gap of the door, making sure none of his comrades are in harm’s way, once the bullets start flying. “Let’s see how fast the lights go out,” he mutters, before unleashing a long, rattling salvo.

The room fills with the roar of gunfire. Ricochets wail through the transformer room as bullets tear into metal casings and shatter ceramic insulators. The scent of ozone and scorched steel mixes with the faint stench of burnt oil. The impacts reverberate through their helmets, the air heavy with the violence of destruction.

 

Ralkon watches the lights, calculating each flicker. The overhead lamps sputter and dim, flashing in quick, erratic bursts. Each time, the gleam fades faster, barely holding on before sinking back into darkness.

Varn keeps firing, his stubber roaring as the lumen strips in the ceiling stutter with every salvo. The enforcers stand still, their helmets tracking the failing fixtures. Not fear—just readiness.

Behind them, the servitors chirp frantically, their mechanical signals growing sharper and more erratic as they remain locked in place, confused by the halting of their routine. Their calls for assistance rise and fall, ignored.

The strips give off a last dying blink, then fail completely. Darkness blankets the room, and the servitors’ high-pitched signals cut through the silence—a mechanical whine that lingers in the black.

 

A harsh knocking sound breaks the stillness as an emergency generator in the corner outside the transformer chamber sputters to life. The lights in the great hall blink weakly back on.

Ralkon raises his bolt pistol and fires a single round into the generator.

The light dies, this time for good, never to cast their glow again.

 

Silence takes over, broken only by the distant groans of machinery grinding to a halt. From outside the refectorium, the confused signals of stranded servitors echo faintly. Cranes and elevators freeze mid-motion. Some servitors, too obedient to stop, continue working blindly in the dark, their metal limbs scraping against crates and walls.

In the pitch blackness that now engulfs the room, Ralkon holsters his pistol. The only illumination comes from the blinking diodes on the two servitors trapped in the maintenance bay, casting weak, erratic shadows against the machinery. He taps the side of his helmet, activating the green beam of his integrated lamp. His men fall in behind him, their helmet lights cutting focused paths of color through the dark.

“Move,” Ralkon growls, and they follow him out of the refectorium, the cones of their lights sweeping ahead as they press into the darkness of the Great Hall.

 

Edited October 8 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

The outer wall of the great hall meets the separation wall to the Navis Nobilite quarter at the back corner of the second-floor balcony. It’s a shadowed nook, cluttered with dust-covered boxes and metal racks, rarely visited even by the servitors. The air is colder here, a draft slipping in through gaps in the old stonework. Dim light spills from the flickering fixtures above, casting long, thin shadows across the walls.

Fenix stumbles into the corner, the echo of Ralkon’s command still ringing in his mind—shoot him, then shoot him again. His pulse pounds in his ears, his breath catching as he scans the space. He spots the trapdoor wedged between the two walls, but a heavy box blocks its way.

Cursing under his breath, he shoves the box aside. It grinds against the floor, metal scraping on metal, and he flinches at the sound. His hands fumble with the latch, and he pries open the trapdoor, letting it creak as it swings up. Below him, the gap yawns, a dark mouth ready to swallow him whole.

He turns back to the shelves, eyes darting over the rows until they land on a ladder hanging from the metal rungs. He grabs it, muscles straining as he lifts it free and drags it back to the trapdoor. Sweat beads on his brow as he maneuvers it into position, carefully hooking it onto the trapdoor’s rim. The ladder’s lower end scrapes against the wall as it settles, the sound echoing in the vast space.

He grips the top rungs and swings his legs over the edge, feeling the chill of the air rising from the darkness beneath him. He descends slowly, each step down the ladder making the old metal creak, shadows leaping and dancing on the walls with each flicker of the lights.

His foot shifts on a rung just as the lights above him stutter violently, casting harsh bursts of light and shadow across the great hall. The glow flashes, then dims, then flares back to life, each time dimmer than before. Fenix grips the rungs tighter, his breath catching as the fixtures overhead buzz like a swarm of insects.

He freezes on the ladder, knuckles white around the metal. In the distance, the echoes of gunfire reach him—dull, heavy thuds reverberating through the metal beams. The overhead lamps sputter with every impact, struggling against the failing power. The entire hall seems to shudder with each dying burst of light.

He squints into the half-light, catching glimpses of servitors below, their movements jittery and uncertain. They chirp in mechanical distress, signals warping into distorted, warbling tones—like voices trapped underwater. One shuffles forward a few steps, then stops, its limbs twitching as if searching for a task that no longer exists. Another lurches blindly into a stack of crates, its joints grinding with a stuttering whir. Their calls for assistance blend into the background hum of the hall’s failing systems, filling the darkness with a sense of aimless confusion.

The lights above blaze for a moment, as if gasping for breath, before plunging into total darkness. Fenix nearly loses his grip as his eyes adjust. Suddenly, a few emergency lights sputter to life, glowing weakly from high on the walls and corners of the hall—just enough to cast a faint glow across the space. For a moment, the great hall's windows come back into sharp relief, their gothic arches and intricate patterns etched in the pale, trembling light.

Then, a sharp crack splits the air—another gunshot. The emergency light dies as quickly as it appeared, leaving the hall black as pitch. Fenix clings to the ladder, breathing hard, surrounded by the dissonant whines of stranded servitors. He shuts his eyes for a moment, steadying himself for the emptiness that follows. When he opens them again, the void feels deeper, as if the darkness has drawn closer, waiting.

As the hall settles into its final night, the only light left trickles in from outside, seeping through the narrow arcs of the gothic windows. The distant spotlights from the cargo yard cast faint reflections, their beams stretching across the glass like weary travelers searching for refuge. The rich colors of the stained glass are lost to the night, leaving only shades of gray—patterns that once blazed with crimson and sapphire now reduced to muted outlines. The geometric designs blur into a soft lattice of shadows, delicate but hollow, like a memory faded with time.

Fenix stares through the gloom, the hall around him transformed into a cavern of blurred forms and uncertain edges, the grand architecture reduced to a half-remembered dream in the dark.

Edited October 10 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Fenix grips the ladder tightly, the chill of the air seeping into his bones as he descends. Echoes still reverberate through the hall—distorted signals and jarring impacts as servitors chirp for help or stumble into obstacles. The chaotic din gradually fades as the initial panic subsides, leaving only the restless murmur of machinery struggling to understand its purpose. Fenix inches downward, his work shoes clinking against the metal rungs. Below, the darkness swallows everything. Only a pale, trembling glow from the distant spotlights outside filters through the high, arched windows.

As he nears the first floor, he realizes that the ladder doesn’t reach all the way down—the last rung is over a meter above the unseen ground. Fenix stretches his leg down, testing the air with his shoe, and finally finds solid floor. He drops the last bit, a jolt running through his body at the sudden impact. He steadies himself against the wall, his breathing slow and measured as he listens for any sound.

Straining to hear, he notices that the gunshots that echoed through the hall earlier have stopped. Before, each distant crack hinted at the enforcers conducting their hunt, a rough gauge of their distance. Now, the silence feels heavier—uncertain, like a predator slipping out of sight. Fenix fights the urge to move faster, knowing any misstep could give him away.

He begins stomping softly in the dark, each step a cautious thud against the cold plastcrete. His fingers skim the rough wall beside him as he navigates through the gloom, searching for the metal cover of the trapdoor. The dull thud turns sharper with his next step, and he halts, bending to feel for the edges. With a sharp tug, the trapdoor creaks open, revealing a deeper abyss below.

Guiding himself through the blackness, he follows the wall back to the ladder. Reaching up, he lifts the ladder just enough to unhook it, muscles straining against its unwieldy weight. The angle is bad—top-heavy and cumbersome—and his shoulder protests sharply. He forces the ladder to lean against the wall, then pauses to rub the pain from his back.

He drags the ladder along the wall, inching it toward the trapdoor. It slips at the edge, clattering against the rim. Fenix catches the ladder’s hooks with both hands, biting back a gasp as the metal grinds into his palms. He shoves them into place, making sure they hold fast, and balances precariously on the narrow edge. His hand darts back to touch the wall, his cramped shoulder flaring with fresh pain. He grits his teeth, fighting through the discomfort, knowing that one wrong move could send him tumbling into the void below.

With his way down secure, he pauses, letting the pain fade to a dull ache. Then, he swings onto the rungs and begins his climb into the pitch-black corridor below. The deeper he goes, the closer the gloom tightens—no light from the windows above reaches this far down, as the windows themselves don’t extend to the ground floor.

He struggles to crane his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the end of the corridor. In the distance, he can make out faint reflections of spotlights dancing on the rain, blown in through the open rollgate leading to the cargo yard. The light scatters across the wet floor but fails to penetrate the shadows where he clings to the ladder.

Just as he nears the bottom, a foot brushes against something unexpected—round, unsteady, slick with dust. He stiffens, trying to pull back, but the object rolls under his weight. Surprise and panic flare as the bin shifts. He clings to the ladder with one hand, the other flailing for balance, but his grip slips. The ladder jerks beneath him as he pitches backward, the bin tumbling away with a metallic crash.

He hits the floor hard, the impact jolting through his ribs and shoulder, leaving him sprawled on the cold ground, bruised and gasping for air. For a moment, he just lies there, staring up into the darkness, wondering how every step in his life had really led to this. Then, he mutters through gritted teeth, “What idiot leaves a bin out like that?”

Edited October 10 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Groaning, Fenix rolls onto his side, pushing himself up until he’s crouched low. He steadies his breathing, wincing at the ache in his ribs, then forces himself to his feet. The gloom presses in, but he presses back, limping along the wall until he reaches the edge of the corridor.

From there, he eyes the cargo yard beyond. The floodlights sweep the space, casting hard shadows. His gut tightens—there’s nowhere to hide out there. The bright, open expanse makes him feel exposed, like a hare caught out in the open. A rush toward the gates or to find a driver in the waiting lanes that would hitch him a ride feels risky, the light swallowing any chance of blending into darkness.

A metallic clang cuts through the erratic clatter, which still now and then stirs the great hall. Fenix freezes, turning his head toward the sound. He peers into the dimness, searching for the source. For a moment, the hall seems empty, then he catches a faint, green glow—just a sliver of light. It sways, rising along the fire ladder’s rungs. He narrows his eyes, trying to make sense of it. Something about it... yes, it has to be a lamp, like the ones integrated into the enforcer’s helmets.

Fenix’s gaze sweeps across all the fire ladders along the central lane. He picks out more of those ghostly green lights, swaying with the enforcers' movements as they ascend. They’re spread out, working in sync like beaters driving game, closing in to prevent anything from slipping through their grasp. Their attention is focused upward, following their quarry’s trail. A small breath of relief escapes him; they aren’t looking for him, at least not yet.

He lowers his gaze, letting it drift along the wall to his right. He spots the gate to the refectorium, then the doors to the scriptorium and dormitorium. He looks back to the scriptorium door. It reminds him of something he saw that morning, something unusual he noticed in one of the cargo manifests pinned on the board inside. An idea takes shape, offering a glimmer of a plan, something that feels safer than trying to make a run through the glaring light of the yard.

Hope kindles in his chest, and he moves, careful to keep low, slipping through the cover of the hall’s shadows. He glances back once more at the climbing enforcers, then presses forward. He can almost believe this might just work.

Edited October 11 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

The darkness inside the Great Hall is absolute, a heavy blanket of shadow cloaking the towering space. Above and behind the refectorium, scriptorium, and dormitorium, the second-floor balcony stretches like a forgotten ledge, tracing the separation wall to the Navis Nobilite zone. Beyond that, the navigation tower looms, but here, the void feels all-encompassing with the lights dead.

Confused servitors shuffle and clatter below, their movements punctuated by the occasional clang of metal. Then, a bright gap opens in the wall, sliding to three meters wide, cutting through the blackness. Harsh, sterile light spills out, casting sharp shadows across restless machinery. A sleek metal cabin is revealed, its clean surfaces jarring against the murk.

Inside, three figures stand, their silhouettes stark against the light. They grip plasma guns—special weapons, rare and exclusive, their volatile energy unmistakable. The polished casings gleam, intricate etchings catching the light. The way they hold these weapons, with both reverence and confidence, signals they are more than tools—they are symbols of status.

In the center, without a headpiece, stands the man who commands them. His face is illuminated, sharp and cold.

Patrone di Maglio steps forward, his boots tapping sharply. "How utterly delightful. The Great Hall plunged into darkness, and as usual, I’m the only one who finds it... curious."

His gaze flickers to the servitors, their disordered movements barely deserving his notice. "A power failure in the Great Hall, bold enough to affect even the Navigator’s tower. How, I wonder, could such a thing occur? Rerouting energy from our quarters was, of course, the only solution—can't have the radar or communications failing, now can we? The ‘locals’ stumbling in the dark is chaos enough."

He chuckles, condescending. "But no, this... event demands answers. Someone—something—caused this, and I will find out what."

His eyes narrow as he gestures with mock grace. "After all, it’s beyond the capabilities of mud-apes to manage even basic power systems. Once again, it falls to me to maintain order in this circus."

He glances at his guards, voice dropping to a low murmur. "We’ll need to reach the railings before we can see anything useful. Come."

---

Fenix slips through the narrow door into the scriptorium, the darkness swallowing him as he shuts it with a soft click. The room is pitch black, the air thick with the smell of old parchment and machine oil. He holds his breath, listening. Only the distant hum of machinery—no footsteps. He exhales slowly, fingers tracing along the wall until they find the desk’s edge.

Kneeling, he fumbles through the bottom drawer, his hands moving faster than he'd like. They close around the cold, metallic handle of a manual flashlight. He yanks it out, cranking the grip until a thin beam sputters to life, casting jittery shadows across the room. The flashlight warms in his hand as he pumps faster. The air feels heavy against his skin, each second tightening the knot in his chest.

The light skitters across the pinboard above the desk, where manifests hang in uneven rows, their edges curling. He scans them one by one, eyes darting over the scribbled lines. Each slip of paper whispers of cargo he doesn’t care about, precious seconds slipping away. The glow dances across the pinboard as he works, each rustle of paper grating against his nerves. The flashlight emits a low, rhythmic hum with each crank, like a heartbeat faltering when the beam wavers. He cranks faster, the noise filling the small room, desperate to keep the light alive.

---

Di Maglio steps to the railings, fingers tapping idly on the cold metal. Below, light spills in from the cargo yard outside, cutting angled beams through the wide-open rollgate. The usual flow of servitor traffic has slowed to a confused trickle. Many thralls falter, unable to find the colored markings on the floor, their routines disrupted.

A few still move—Draybound Thralls shove pallets, Loader Thralls lumber with crates and bulky goods. Hesitation leads to collisions, crates toppling or scraping. A Loader bumps into a pallet, sending it skidding across the floor with a clatter. Disarray deepens, each misstep a ripple in the confusion.

Further down the lane, an Iron Stevedore trudges forward, its massive frame bearing an entire shipping container. Its steps are slow, heavy, sensor lights blinking as it searches for a path.

 

Suddenly, movement stirs on the far side of the hall. A figure, Lucas Reiner, descends a fire ladder swiftly, urgency in every step. His boots hit the ground with a thud, and without hesitation, he breaks into a run toward the cargo yard, his steps hurried, uneven.

Before he can get far, a sharp voice cuts through the darkness from the opposing balcony. "Stop! Running is futile!" The command is cold, filled with authority, echoing through the hall. It’s Enforcer Thracce, his voice carrying the weight of someone who expects obedience.

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Di Maglio exhales sharply as Thracce’s shout echoes across the hall, his patience thinning. He had planned everything so carefully, and now Lucas Reiner was fleeing in a panic—fleeing with Thracce in pursuit. It was clear his plan had unraveled, and he could only blame Reiner for the mess.

“Of course…” he mutters under his breath, quiet enough that the guards behind him don’t catch the full frustration. “He ruined it.”

The guards glance at one another, uncertain, before shifting their focus back to Di Maglio, awaiting orders. With a measured gesture, Di Maglio points at the fleeing figure, his voice cold and composed. “A fugitive from the law. Shoot him.”

The plasma guns activate, a slow, rhythmic beeping filling the space. The guards lift their weapons, eyes on Reiner as the charge builds. The beeping intensifies, switching to a faster rhythm as the plasma becomes safe for release. The guards immediately pull the triggers.

A sharp crackle follows as the plasma shots burst forth—glowing blue bolts of unstable energy hurtle through the air, but rather than hitting their mark, they drift upwards, starting to dissipate as they lose cohesion. A loud sizzling crack reverberates through the hall, the noise of the superheated gas interacting with the surrounding air and pressure. The plasma hisses and sputters as it dissipates into harmless wisps, well short of Reiner.

The guards remain silent, their eyes flicking nervously toward Di Maglio as the plasma’s energy fades into the air.

---

As the thin glow of the cranked light flits across the manifests, Fenix freezes at the sudden crackle and hiss of plasma fire outside the door. The sound is sharp and loud, cutting through the silence like a threat. His heart lurches in his chest, the noise pressing in on him, but he forces himself to keep moving. Each useless entry blurs together, time slipping through his fingers. He fights the urge to tear the pinboard from the wall, to throw everything into the dark and run.

Finally, the narrow light lands on a familiar entry, pinned askew in the corner. There it is. The container—its identification code sparking a recognition that quickens his pulse. He leans closer, his breath quick and shallow as he reads the cramped lines. Dogs. He barely glances at that detail, his focus zeroing in on what matters: life-support system included. Relief cuts through him, sharp and bitter.

A memory surges up, unbidden: the slackened face of a stowaway he’d found in a sealed container, the bluish tint of lips against the stale metal. The corpse had been curled like a child, dead long before anyone had known he was there. Fenix swallows, his grip tightening on the flashlight. That container hadn't been kind. But this one—it might save him.

He clings to that thought, the faint possibility of survival and escape. The flashlight's beam wavers as his hand trembles, but he forces himself to read the coordinates, imprinting the location into his mind. He steps back from the pinboard, clutching the flashlight as if it’s the only warmth in the frigid blackness, ready to make his escape.

---

Di Maglio watches as the plasma bolts drift uselessly into the air, missing their mark. His frustration boils over. “Who was responsible for your training, fools! Just check the distance! Do you honestly expect to hit anything at that range on minimum safe setting?” His voice seethes with venom, each word more contemptuous than the last. “By the Emperor’s mercy, has anyone even taught you how to shoot at maximum setting?”

With a sharp gesture, he draws his own plasma gun. “Follow my lead, and do not fire until I command it.”

The plasma guns activate, filling the air with a steady sequence of beeps. Di Maglio’s tone turns cold, precise. “Slow beeps—loading stage. Begin aiming.”

The beeps accelerate slightly. “Medium interval—minimum setting. Keep aiming.”

Ahead, Lucas Reiner halts, turns slowly, and raises his hands in surrender. The beeping grows faster, building toward maximum charge. Di Maglio feels a cruel satisfaction. “Fast interval—maximum setting. Aim and reeee—”

“Do not shoot! We need him alive for questioning!” Thracce’s command rings out from the darkness.

Di Maglio’s lips curl into a sneer as he finishes the command. “—leeease!!!”

Two plasma shots fire, blue energy bolts streaking through the air and engulfing Reiner in a burst of fiery plasma. His form is swallowed by the light, vanishing in an instant.

For a fleeting moment, Di Maglio feels victorious. But then—he realizes his own gun hasn’t stopped beeping. His shot never fired. He glances down and sees that the indicator had passed through green and yellow and is now quickly approaching the red. The beeping is at its fastest stage, insistent and regular.

“No…” Di Maglio mutters, pulling the trigger again. Nothing.

He tightens his grip, fingers fumbling over the stock, searching for the release mechanism. He presses a button—still nothing. His hands move faster now, twisting at the bolts that usually lock the charge, trying desperately to release the shot. Sweat beads on his forehead, his fingers slipping slightly on the metal. He presses harder, yanking at the controls.

Then, the beeping cuts out, replaced by one long, piercing final warning tone. The indicator light flashes an ominous red.

“This can’t be… My plans…”

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

A blinding sphere of plasma bursts into existence above the central lane, the sheer force of the expanding matter vaporizing the remnants of the weapon. In an instant, the air is filled with the brilliant light of superheated gas, so bright that it casts harsh shadows and burns itself into vision.

A split second later, a concussive blast erupts through the hall, rattling the metal beams and shaking the structure. The plasma ball, rapidly expanding and impossibly hot, is lighter than the surrounding air and immediately surges upward. It whirls violently toward the ceiling, leaving scorching heat in its wake.

The plasma collides with the balcony above, its intense heat igniting nearby crates and containers. Papers, fabric, and other stored goods are set ablaze instantly, the fire spreading outward from where the plasma touches. The ball, no longer able to hold its form, begins to tear apart in a swirl of turbulent air. Clouds of searing gas fan out, pushed by chaotic air currents, igniting everything flammable in their path.

As the plasma continues to rise, the vacuum left behind pulls the surrounding air in with a violent implosion. The rush of air is deafening, a reverse force pulling debris, dust, and smaller items inward toward the center of the blast. Shelves rattle, and lighter objects are wrenched toward the void.

Above, the plasma dissipates, becoming clouds of hot, ionized air. Flames now lick at the stored goods on the upper balcony, and the walls, where the plasma briefly touched, glow a dull red. The aftermath is a scene of devastation—scorched metal, ignited debris, and rising smoke.

Small patches of fire continue to burn, mostly on the third balcony and near the ceiling where the plasma had collided. The fires smolder, slowly spreading but still localized. Without an active sprinkler system, the flames are left to grow unchecked, though not yet consuming the entire hall.

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

A-hoops, and it seems we are even again—if you're still tallying the wood, that is, Cegorach says with a grin, plucking Tzeentch's queen from the board and holding it up theatrically. He tosses it over his shoulder without a second glance, and the piece explodes behind him in a burst of fireworks.

You spend way too much time pondering all the ifs and whens in your birdy little head. Just enjoy the game as I do. Occasionally, you just have to rrrrororororooollllll the dice!

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

The hall trembles, the air itself disturbed by the chaos. The massive shipping container, still clutched in the grip of the Iron Stevedore, teeters dangerously on the second balcony, abandoned when Fenix fled. The instability finally proves too much. The container shifts, pulling the stevedore with it. The hulking servitor topples onto its side with a heavy crash as the container slides forward, tipping over the railing.

The container rotates in mid-air, twisting slowly as it falls. It smashes into the central lane two stories below with a thunderous crash, the impact shaking the ground as it bounces once, flipping fully onto its side, and then rolls further along the lane. The heavy mass skids to a stop, and the container lies still, like a twenty-ton dice that’s come up snake-eyes.

An oily liquid begins to sicker through the gaps at its corners, quickly spreading across the floor. A faint rainbow sheen dances across its surface, beautiful and unnatural, catching the light in shifting patterns. In the distance, a faint whirring can be heard—the sound of a washwarden, already drawn toward the growing spill, its mechanical sensors locking on to the mess with a single-minded determination to clean.

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Another sharp crackle and hiss of plasma fire pierces the air outside the scriptorium, followed by a deafening detonation that shakes the walls. Fenix flinches as the floor beneath him trembles, the sound of something massive collapsing in the hall. There’s a brief, heavy silence—then another thunderous crash, louder than before, as if a shipping container slams into the ground and rolls. His ears buzz with the aftershock, a faint ringing settling in as he ducks beneath the desk, heart racing.

For several long moments, Fenix stays crouched, trying to steady his breath. He waits, tense and frozen, until the immediate chaos outside fades. His ears still ring, but the worst of the noise has passed, leaving a disorienting quiet in its wake.

A mechanical whir and scrape crawls through the darkness. Fenix's pulse quickens. His mind flashes to the thought of whirling barrels, a heavy stubber pointed at his back, ready to shred him with bullets. Panic spikes through him, tightening his grip on the flashlight.

He spins around, his fingers working the crank with frantic speed. The beam flickers and flares, casting jittery light across the room until it lands on a small figure at the edge of the shadows.

A servitor, no taller than his knee, trundles forward on rubber tracks. Its head is a simple mask of a human face, blank and expressionless, except for the mechanical partition that moves between its lips and chin, as if mimicking speech. Twin eyelids blink over its dull, glassy eyes, and the head tilts to the side with a faint creak, giving the unsettling illusion of curiosity.

In one gloved hand, it clutches a quill, poised above a tiny desk mounted on its front. The other hand feeds a thin roll of parchment over the desk from a dispenser beneath. It gestures with a sweeping motion, head swiveling as if to indicate the chaos outside—the distant echoes of the crash still settling in the air. The gesture seems almost plaintive, like a child trying to make sense of a broken toy.

Fenix stares at the little librarian for a moment, then lets out a tired breath. “Yeah, sorry. Me neither,” he mutters, his voice faint against the ringing in his ears. He gives the librarian a final, weary glance before turning to the door. Carefully, he peers through the crack, scanning the hallway.

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

The plasma cloud is still dispersing under the roof, but Ralkon’s attention is on his enforcers. Jürgen Haltz was closest to the explosion, and the silence in Ralkon’s comms weighs on him. He tightens his grip on the fireladder.

“Haltz, report. What’s your status?”

Static hisses back, harsh in his helmet. His jaw clenches.

“Corporal Varus, do you have eyes on Haltz?”

Before Varus can respond, Gideon Varn, directly below him on the ladder, cuts in, adjusting the heavy stubber slung over his shoulders.

“Look out, Sergeant! The container—it’s shifting!”

A stevedore stands stiff and lifeless, perched over the railing near the industrial elevators. It holds a shipping container in its grip, for some freak reason vertical instead of horizontal—a top-heavy, unbalanced configuration. Metal groans as the load teeters, and the weight pulls the stevedore off balance. The huge, deactivated machine tips, falling to its side as the container breaks free.

The container plummets, the air whistling as its bulk races past. Ralkon jerks back as the crushing force roars by, missing them by inches. Varn grits his teeth, gripping the ladder as the shockwave rattles his bones.

The container spins once, heavy and unrestrained, before crashing to the ground far below. The impact roars through the hall, a grinding shriek of metal that rattles the structure. The stevedore lies toppled, its massive limbs locked in place.

“Damn thing…” Ralkon mutters under his breath.

Varus’s voice crackles through, calm and focused. “Sergeant Ralkon, I’ve got visual on Haltz. He’s moving—looks like his suit’s covered in soot, but the ladder he’s on is intact.”

Ralkon exhales, feeling a small wave of relief.

“He’s pointing to his helmet. Intercom’s fried, but he’s giving a thumbs up. He’s still fit for duty.”

Ralkon nods to himself. Haltz will manage. He always does.

“Understood.”

Just as he processes the information, Myra Sanz interrupts, her voice sharp with urgency.

“Sergeant, under the roof! Rhaukos!”

Ralkon’s eyes snap upward, following the direction of Sanz’s call. Rhaukos is still dangling from a crate, suspended by a rope from the deactivated crane. The crate sways precariously beneath him, and Rhaukos clings to it, struggling to gain enough momentum to reach a narrow walkway that stretches between the northern and southern balconies.

“There! We’ve got him!” Ralkon’s voice cuts through the tension. “All units, prepare to pursue! Don’t let him escape!”

The enforcers surge forward, energized by the sight of their prey. Below him, Varn shifts his grip on the ladder, the weight of the stubber barely slowing his advance. His eyes are locked on Ralkon, waiting for the next command.

Above them, Rhaukos swings again, his movements frantic as he fights to close the gap between the crate and the walkway. It’s a race against time, and Ralkon knows they have only moments before Rhaukos makes his escape—or falls.

Ralkon climbs, his grip tightening on the rungs as the fireladder groans beneath him. Every second matters. His voice echoes in the comms, cold and firm.

“Go, go, go, go, goooo!”

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Through the narrow gap of the scriptorium door, Fenix watches the hall with cautious eyes. Light from the cargo yard pours through the open rollgate, casting sharp beams across the floor. The rain outside has slowed to a drizzle, and over the distant mountaintops, the clouds are breaking apart, revealing scattered stars in the sky as the night begins to wane.

The light cuts across the fallen container in the center of the hall, its bulk lying awkwardly on its side. A pool of thick, gooey liquid seeps from its base, glistening with a faint rainbow sheen as it reflects the beams from the yard. The sticky substance spreads slowly, creeping into the cracks of the stone floor. Nearby, the shattered remains of a draybound servitor lie crushed beneath the weight of the container—twisted metal limbs bent at unnatural angles, half-buried in the wreckage. One of its mechanical hands juts out from under the container, frozen mid-motion, as if reaching for something it will never grasp.

A single washwarden stands at the edge of the spill, its servos humming as it prepares to clean. The brushes lower, whirring as they engage the surface, but the sticky liquid immediately clogs the bristles. The motors whine, struggling to push through the resistance, as the substance splatters in small arcs.

The washwarden halts, retracting its brushes and extending its suction tubes. The sound of slurping fills the air as it attempts to vacuum the liquid, but within moments, the tubes clog with the thick substance. Pausing for a moment, the servitor blinks its diodes, confused. It turns toward the refectorium door, intending to switch its cleaning toolset, but the door stays firmly shut. The washwarden beeps, waiting, but the door does not respond. After another brief pause, it rolls back toward the pool, its actions stalled.

As it moves, the washwarden’s brushes nudge one of the draybound servitor’s twisted limbs. The metal clinks lightly against the floor, but the washwarden continues its task, oblivious to the remains at its feet.

A second washwarden emerges from the shadows, its tools engaging the liquid with similar futility. Brushes clog, hoses slurp, and soon it too is stuck, adding to the growing mechanical confusion.

More washwardens begin to arrive, drawn to the spill from various dark corners of the hall. They gather around the container, some attempting to work together, while others circle the edges of the slick, scanning its perimeter. A few beep at one another in confused signals, while others trail off, dragging streaks of the liquid as they lose interest and head toward the shelving under the balconies.

The coordinated efforts dissolve into a disorganized, confused swarm of malfunctioning tools and smeared goo. Diodes blink in rhythmic patterns, flashing brief bursts of light into the darkness.

Underneath a nearby balcony, a loader thrall emerges, its massive form carrying a crate. It steps over the shattered remains of the draybound servitor without hesitation, continuing its task toward the cargo yard outside, indifferent to the scene behind it.

Faint fires on the upper balconies flicker, casting intermittent shadows across the hall. The beams from the cargo yard lights remain steady, cutting through the dimness and highlighting the slick mess across the floor.

Fenix cautiously sticks his head out of the scriptorium door. He scans the upper levels and spots the helmet lights far above on the fireladders, the enforcers now moving away, nearing the third platform directly under the roof. The distance gives him a moment of relief—it’s safe to step out.

He keeps his back to the wall as he moves from the scriptorium to the dormitorium door, quietly slipping through. He vanishes inside.

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Fenix steps through the dormitorium door, immediately spotting Sister Helena kneeling at the far end of the room, praying silently in front of Drakon's body. He hesitates briefly, unsure of how to respond, and simply makes the sign of the Omnissiah in quiet reverence.

Sister Helena looks up, acknowledging his gesture with the sign of the Imperial Aquila, and watches him. Her eyes narrow in mild confusion as Fenix immediately turns to the small chest at the foot of his bunk, right next to the door. He opens it without ceremony and pulls out a medium knapsack.

"I heard loud noises outside," she says, her voice cutting through the quiet. "What is happening in the great hall?"

Fenix pauses, drawing a breath as if to answer, but then shrugs with an apologetic hand gesture, his attention already shifting back to the bag. He hastily begins stuffing his personal belongings inside—small omni-tools, metal boxes, some dried packaged food, and a dataslate. His movements are quick, methodical, ignoring Helena entirely.

She rises from her kneeling position, watching his dismissive behavior, irritation creeping into her voice. "Fenix, what are you doing? This silence—it's making you look guilty."

Fenix continues packing without looking at her, focused solely on his task. He fastens the bag, stands up, and heads for the door without a word.

Helena's frustration boils over. Her hand darts to the bolt pistol strapped to her back, pulling the heavy weapon free with a sharp, fluid motion. "Halt!" she yells, her voice cracking with intensity. "Raise your hands!"

But before she can aim, Fenix is already at the door. He slams it shut behind him, leaving Helena standing alone, her weapon drawn, staring at the closed door in disbelief.

Helena rushes after him, bolt pistol still in hand. She swings the dormitorium door open and steps out, ready to confront him—but freezes.

Ahead of her looms a massive container, tipped over, with a pool of thick, oily liquid spread beneath it. Around it, a swarm of washwardens huddle, their mechanical brushes whirring uselessly. The spill is smeared across the floor, trailing behind the washwardens as they move in confused circles. The sight is bizarre, chaotic.

Helena hesitates, her eyes darting between the frantic servitors, trying to make sense of the scene. One of the washwardens jerks violently, its brushes spinning faster than the others. A twisted piece of metal from the crushed draybound servitor is caught under its mechanism. The metal scrapes across the floor, sending sparks spinning in every direction.

Suddenly, with a loud phump, the gas above the liquid ignites, bursting into a flickering blue flame. In an instant, the fire races across the hall like a living thing, spreading out in a carpet of blue flames.

Helena watches in stunned disbelief as the flames spread quickly, engulfing the Central Lane in a growing blaze. Bright yellow and orange flames erupt violently where the washwardens cluster, and the container is now lit up like a bonfire. Several washwardens seize up, their servos sparking and shutting down, while others continue their pointless task of cleaning, oblivious to the flames crawling over them.

For a moment, Helena is rooted to the spot, her eyes wide as the fire spreads, turning the hall into a sea of heat and destruction. Her hand tightens around the bolt pistol, but her mind spins, torn between stopping Fenix and the sheer danger of the flames engulfing the room. The creeping blue fire calls for action, yet so does the shadow of the man slipping away into the shelves. She stands frozen for a moment—then she hears the sound of Fenix's footsteps fading into the dark.

The sound snaps her back to the present. Shaking off the shock, she sprints after him, bolt pistol still drawn, leaving the flames roaring behind her.

Edited Wednesday at 09:11 AM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Fenix hurries through the dark, moving along a wide corridor that runs parallel to the central lane beneath the balconies. The corridor is faintly marked by lines on the ground, barely visible under his hand-cranked flashlight. The area, usually lit by overhead fixtures, has been dark ever since the transformers were shot. To either side, crates and workspaces emerge briefly in the glow, while distant mechanical noises—low hums and the occasional clink of metal—drift from unseen work areas. Despite the shadows, some operations continue, their sounds eerie in the quiet.

Ahead, a draybound servitor moves steadily through the corridor, pushing pallets with its jack, navigating the darkness by memory. Fenix steps aside, allowing it to pass, then continues on, his pulse quickening as his light catches a faded sign overhead: Work Area 7-B.

In a coven off to the side of the corridor, Fenix spots container 214, its bright red paint marking it as assigned to the Mars-Terra route. A long assembly line stretches from the container’s open side door, and four manifest thralls stand motionless beside it, silent in the dark. Fenix’s flashlight sweeps over the container’s wide open door, but much of the entrance is blocked by a massive life support system, which fills nearly the entire space.

Two square gaps remain—the lower left corner and the upper right corner, the latter filled with a tightly wedged crate. Fenix crouches and shines his flashlight into the lower left gap. Beyond the opening, he spots transparent nitrogen-filled bags, tightly packed behind the life support system. He knows these bags are used to cushion fragile cargo during acceleration.

Suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes from the area. Fenix tenses. Helena. The heavy clanking of her power armor rings through the darkness, and soon a spotlight mounted on her shoulder cuts through the black, growing closer. Fenix kills his flashlight and, realizing his knapsack is still on his back, hurriedly shrugs it off. He pushes the knapsack into the lower left gap first, before quickly climbing in after it. He presses himself deeper into the nitrogen bags at the back to create more distance from the container door. The bags crumple softly under his weight, and he freezes, realizing the noise they make.

Helena’s footsteps grow louder, her spotlight sweeping across the area, but then she runs past, the sound of her boots fading into the distance. Fenix waits, his pulse still racing, until he’s sure she’s gone.

He exhales slowly and cranks his flashlight back on, the beam sputtering to life once again. With the immediate threat gone, curiosity takes over. He leans deeper into the container, eager to catch a glimpse of the anesthetized dogs nestled behind the life support system, cushioned by the nitrogen-filled bags.

Edited Wednesday at 09:30 AM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

The domed roof of the Great Hall looms above, crisscrossed with heavy beams. Just beneath the ceiling, a grid of rails, along which the cranes are still suspended, lies inert, their movement halted by the power failure. Below, the third-level balconies are cluttered with crates and goods, designed for crane access only. Smoke rises from the central lane below, swirling upward, gathering under the roof, and filling the air with a growing haze.

Sergeant Ralkon stands on the walkway, his gaze fixed on Rhaukos, who dangles precariously from the outside of the railing, struggling to pull himself up. His legs kick against the metal, seeking a foothold, but finding none.

Ralkon holsters his pistol and removes his helmet, placing it on the walkway beside him. His expression is calm, composed, as he steps closer to Rhaukos, extending a hand.

“Rhaukos… I see what’s happened here. The destruction. The loss. And I understand how deeply it must cut you. But you have to realize—these are just machines. Metal, wires, gears—things that can be rebuilt. Yes, it hurts to see it fall apart, but it’s not the end. It’s never the end. This is all just material, replaceable.”

Rhaukos tries to respond, but the only sound that escapes his throat is a sharp, metallic screech—a distorted, grating noise, like a malfunctioning machine. His breath comes in ragged bursts, and his grip tightens on the railing as he fights for control.

Ralkon’s eyes flicker for a moment at the sound but quickly refocus. He continues, stepping closer, his hand still extended.

“This damage? It’s temporary. What’s been broken can be fixed, improved even. These machines were made to serve us, to be used and rebuilt as needed. It’s nothing compared to what we can create together. Stronger. Better than before.”

Rhaukos’s diodes flicker, his jaw clenching. His face darkens slightly, but his body remains frozen in place, his fingers gripping the railing.

Ralkon, his posture firm and assured, continues, his eyes fixed on Rhaukos as he speaks.

“You’ve been fighting for something greater, I know. But somewhere along the way, you lost sight of that vision. Not because of your own failings—no, this wasn’t your fault. Fenix twisted your thoughts, clouded your judgment. But now, you can finally see clearly.”

Rhaukos’s jaw tightens further, his diodes flashing once more, a faint grinding sound emerging from deep within his throat. His head barely moves, but the rising heat in his face betrays his growing frustration.

As Ralkon bows down, reaching toward Rhaukos, he realizes that a lake of fire is spreading from the middle of the central lane far below them. In its midst, bright flames climb the vertical walls of a tipped-over shipping container, the heat warping its metal.

Suddenly, a metallic crack rings out through the hall as the container’s walls deform and split apart under the pressure. For a brief moment, everything is still—then the container explodes.

A deafening roar rips through the Great Hall as a massive fireball erupts, shooting up into the air. Flames surge upward past the balconies, hurling debris and intense heat in every direction. The sharp tang of heated metal fills the air, carried upward with the rush of flame and smoke.

Ralkon takes a step back, steadying himself as the shockwave reverberates through the structure. A piece of flaming debris hurtles past, narrowly missing both him and Rhaukos as it slams into the metal railing, sending a cascade of sparks over the edge. The smell of burning steel lingers in the air, mixing with the acrid smoke.

The explosion rattles the roof beams, shaking the entire structure. The lower balconies ignite as flaming debris rains down, consuming the goods and crates stored there. Smoke thickens as more fires take hold, swirling up toward the ceiling and enveloping the scene.

“You made the wrong choices, but that’s okay. It’s not your fault. You were misled. But now, you can make the right ones. You can finally do what’s right, with my help.”

Above, the roof groans, creaking as cracks form, and more debris begins to fall. Fires spread rapidly along the lower balconies, casting flickering light across the space. The Magos' diodes now pulse rapidly, and he is emitting a stream of static.

Ralkon gestures toward the destruction, his voice steady amid the chaos.

“This? This is nothing. It can be restored. Rebuilt. But only if you let go of the lies that have been fed to you. Only if you trust me, Rhaukos. Take my hand. Come back from this. I’ll help you, just as I am now. We can fix everything. Together.”

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Ralkon leans down, extending his hand. Rhaukos takes it, pulling himself up. His boots scrape against the metal until his soles find firm resistance.

The moment Rhaukos steadies himself, the mechanical claw on his back snaps forward, locking around Ralkon’s throat.

Ralkon’s eyes widen. His hands fly to the claw, trying to pry it open as his face flushes, quickly turning from red to blue. His body strains against the tightening grip, but the claw holds firm.

With a sharp motion, Rhaukos pushes off the railing, launching himself backward. Ralkon, still locked in the claw’s grip, is yanked over the edge with him.

---

Sergeant Ralkon and Magos Rhaukos are locked in a spiraling descent. Ralkon’s eyes are wide with panic, his mouth half-open as he struggles for breath. His hands claw at the mechanical grip around his throat, knuckles turning white as he fights to free himself.

The world around them warps and twists—balconies and shelves blur into a vortex of flaming debris and metal, streaking into red and orange lines.

Rhaukos’s body twists awkwardly as he fights against the centrifugal force, limbs coiled. His left hand grips Ralkon’s lapel, the fabric straining in his fist as he pulls himself closer. His right arm is pulled back, nails gleaming as they aim for Ralkon’s unguarded eyes.

Below, the inferno stretches out like a hellish carpet, flames flickering and rising, hungry for the bodies tumbling toward them.

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

At the edge of the abyss, Khaela Mensha Khaine stands victorious. His blade, gleaming in the firelight, drips with the blood of conquest. Khorne’s throne of skulls lies shattered at his feet, no longer capable of summoning his hordes. Around it, the air crackles with the dying embers of the battle—one that Khaine has already won.

Khaine’s breath is heavy, but his stance is firm, his grip on the hilt of his sword unwavering. He looks down at Khorne, who kneels at the edge of the chasm, his brass armor dented and his body weakened. The god of war and honor has fulfilled his purpose—he has struck down his enemy, torn his power asunder, and stood for his ideals. Victory is his, and yet, there is no triumph in his eyes—only the weight of what had to be done.

But the god of slaughter and domination is not finished. His gaze, burning with fury, rises to meet Khaine’s. Even in ruin, he refuses to bow. Rage—pure and unrelenting—still courses through his veins. He does not accept defeat, for defeat is not his way. Khorne grips the edge of the abyss. He lunges.

With a snarl that shakes the heavens, Khorne hurls himself at Khaine, his hands closing around his opponent’s armor. Not to win—but to take his enemy down with him. His grip is iron, pulling Khaine toward the brink. Khaine’s eyes widen in shock, his sword slipping from his hand as the blood god’s weight drags him toward the abyss.

Khaine fights, but it is too late. The god of honor and justice stumbles, his footing lost, his balance gone. Khorne’s laughter, dark and victorious, echoes as the two gods topple into the abyss together. The flames below roar to life, as if welcoming them into the depths. Khaela Mensha Khaine’s ideals—his victory—are pulled down into the chasm with him.

Edited Wednesday at 03:56 PM by Ya Evyl Aunty