The Webway Mirror 1 - Raising to Ashes

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Fenix lies cramped in the tunnel beneath the Life Support System, the cold metal walls of the container pressing against his sides. The space is tight, barely wide enough for him to turn his head or shift his weight, but he isn’t uncomfortable—just contained.

He presses the flashlight against one of the transparent nitrogen bags, the material filling almost every inch of space beyond the tunnel. The light paints a bright corona on the next bag behind it, casting strange distortion patterns of shadows and reflections. The shapes twist and stretch, creating an endless maze of gleaming surfaces that seem to move and shift every time he pumps the crank to keep the light from fading. Through the shimmering haze, he can just make out colors and vague shapes, enwrapped in the labyrinth of shadows.

It takes several tries—adjusting the angle of the light, tilting his head left and right—before Fenix manages to align the beam just right. His eyes learn to find the right paths, piercing deeper into the shadows. As he narrows the light’s path and holds it steady, the chaotic swirl of reflections gives way to individual details. Slowly, through the transparent bags, rigid frames emerge from the visual fog, gleaming faintly beneath the strange maze of distorted light. There are pinkish bodies held by some long lines right in the centers of those crates, maybe hanging from belts or ropes or chains? These should be the dogs.

He adjusts slightly, feeling the edges of the plasteel walls graze his shoulder as he angles the light toward one of the nearest dogs. Fenix can see it all only through the transparent nitrogen bags that cushion the dogs, distorting the shapes but not enough to obscure the cold efficiency of the setup. The creature is suspended within a plasteel scaffolding, its torso held perfectly still, but limbs twitching in tiny induced spasms, the fur entirely shaved, skin pale and exposed, a grid of electrodes clinging to its body. Thin wires run from the electrodes, organized and threaded neatly through slots in the frame, snaking toward the central Life Support System. The dog's mouth is slightly open, a tracheal tube snaking down its throat, connecting to the same web of cables that feeds the machine.

The light glints off the feeding tubes inserted into the dog's throat, with liquid slowly pumped into the creature's body. Fenix studies the setup closely, noting the grid of electrodes attached to its shaved skin and the web of wires that neatly feed back into the plasteel scaffolding. The design is highly efficient, made to keep the dogs' muscles active and prevent deterioration while they're sedated. Everything fits together seamlessly, from the tubes to the electrodes, forming a self-contained system with no wasted space.

As he moves the light across the container, Fenix begins to feel the cramped quarters closing in. There's barely enough space for him to shift without bumping against the walls or the metal edges of the system. He can't help but notice the stark contrast between himself and the dogs. They have been prepared for this—sedated, fed through tubes, preserved for the long haul. But he isn’t.

He frowns, absently running a hand across his forehead. He knows this container is bound for Mars, but the more he thinks about it, the more uneasy he becomes. Mass drivers—cheap, efficient ways to launch cargo—don't carry passengers. The plasma-driven intersystem flights that transport people would make the trip in a day or two, but this setup looks nothing like that. It's more likely designed for a long, slow drift through space—a low-cost shipment that could take weeks, maybe even months to reach its destination.

Fenix shifts his weight again, the nitrogen bags squeaking faintly as they press together. The space feels even tighter now, and he realizes with growing concern that he isn't prepared for this. His knapsack has a limited supply of food, hardly enough to last more than a few days, let alone weeks. He won't survive in here if this journey takes as long as it seems designed to. The dogs are built for this—sedated, fed through tubes, preserved for the long haul. But he isn't.

"Fenix! Novice Fenix Kol! This must be the dumbest idea you've had in a long, long time!" he mutters to himself. He shakes his head in the same overly dismissive way that Magos Rhaukos would. "Just get out the darn door and climb over the fence! Or sneak through the gate, or hitch a ride on one of the leaving vans or something! Your overcomplicated thinking will definitely be your end one day, and this plan sounds exactly like it would do the trick!"

He turns onto his back, almost hitting his forehead on the Life Support System above him. Grabbing the strap of his knapsack, he starts to crawl out feet first. "A free ride to Mars, just because you read about a container with its own LSS! Stupid!"

As Fenix starts to crawl out, grabbing the strap of his knapsack, he notices movement ahead. The square side of a crate is slowly sliding into view, approaching the end of the tunnel he's stuck in. His heart skips a beat—one of the Manifest Thralls must have received the final piece of cargo for the container and is preparing to shove it into place.

"No! No, stop! Wait! Let me out!" Fenix shouts, his voice cracking with urgency. He scrambles to push himself forward, but the space is too tight, and the crate is coming fast. Desperation fuels him, and he manages to wedge one of his working boots between the approaching crate and the container rim.

Outside, a confused mechanical drone hums from the Manifest Thrall, clearly baffled by the unexpected resistance. "That's right, stop loading, there’s someone in here!" Fenix shouts again, hoping for some acknowledgment.

For a moment, there’s silence—just the creaking of the container’s structure—and then a short, determined acoustic riff signals the Manifest Thrall's decision. The servo motors whirr back to life. Fenix’s blood runs cold as he realizes: Manifest Thralls can’t process voice commands.

"Stop!" Fenix screams, yanking his boot out of the closing gap just before the crate crushes it with relentless force. The metal scrapes with a harsh grind as the crate continues its unstoppable slide forward, sealing him in. "No, you worthless piece of scrap metal! It’s me, Fenix Kol! I’ve saved your rusty arse at least half a dozen times! No, no, no, no, no!"

His words are swallowed by the crumpling and squeaking of the nitrogen bags as the pressure builds, squeezing him further into the tight space. Fenix tries to shift his body, but the relentless force of the incoming crate leaves him with nowhere to go. The sharp edges of the frame press into his sides, the tight air around him growing thinner with every second.

And then the final sound—a resounding bang. The container doors slam shut, sealing him in with a deadening thud. The world outside is now cut off, leaving Fenix alone in the dark, squeezed between the crate and the Life Support System, with nothing but the faint hiss of pressurized air and the steady mechanical pulse of the container’s systems, cold and indifferent to his presence.

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

“Now, what I absolutely can’t see,” Cegorach’s colorful glove gestures toward a seemingly isolated figure at the edge of the checkered board, “is how you still plan to stop this meek little pawn from just marching through to its promotion. Do you...?”

A taloned claw slams into the chessboard violently. The entire board and its remaining pieces scatter and vanish into the abyss.

Tzeentch’s right wing twitches with the barest hint of disgust as the Changer of Ways strides away in dignified silence.

“I guess that’s a no then?” The painted smile on the jester’s mask seems to stretch twice as wide.

The Weaver of Destiny, the Schemer of All Things, is already miles away, though his pace hasn’t changed.

“Want a rematch? Anytime soo-hoon, Big Biiiii-hiird!” Cegorach calls after him.

A glowing lumen sign flickers to life at the edge of the abyss: The Lord of Change has left the house!

It shatters to pieces as a door slams violently in the distance.

Edited October 17 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Fenix struggles to push himself upright, wedged between the nitrogen balloons at his back and the life support system and crate in front of him. Teeth clenched, he raises his flashlight. The beam wanders across the crate, revealing streaks of molten wax trailing down its side.

His brow furrows. Wax? Here?

He leans closer, fingers brushing against the wax. It’s unnaturally hot, much hotter than the rough wood of the crate. His heart beats a little faster. Purity sigils—he recognizes the remnants, but they’re warping, melting like something’s burning through them from within.

An ominous force stirs inside the crate. He knows it, feels it.

But Fenix, worn out and utterly spent, only shrugs, his mind too numb to feel shock anymore. “Whatever,” he mutters, his voice barely audible over the whirring sound of the centrifuge at the core of the Life Support System, spinning up through one of its processing stages. “Sounds about right.”

Before he can react, the entire container tilts violently to the side, yanking his balance out from under him. He stumbles, slamming into the life support unit, as the container is lifted into the air by an Iron Stevedore’s massive, uncaring grip.

Edited October 18 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Beneath the streetlights at the T-section, where the main road from the Pilgrim’s Sprawl joins the intersection between the spaceport and the Anti-Aircraft battery, military police direct the jammed line of vans and cargo haulers aside, clearing a path for three Chimera infantry carriers and a Leman Russ tank climbing the sloped road toward the spaceport’s perimeter gates.

A pale brightness spreads across the eastern horizon as the last remnants of the storm fade over the jagged peaks of distant mountains, heralding the approach of dawn.

An Iron Stevedore emerges through the rollgate at the side of the Great Hall, carrying a red shipping container marked 214 toward the road loop, where an Iron Beast wagon train awaits its departure to the loading compounds and the taxiways beyond.

The Stevedore pays no heed to the roaring wall of fire behind it, or the flames that lick through the narrow arcs of the windows along the Great Hall’s flanks.

The Navigator Tower still rises from the northern end of the Great Hall, marking the boundary to the stretch of airstrips, hangars, and taxiways beyond. But the sleek stem of the Security Tower emits a sound somewhere between the roar of a wounded beast and the shattering of a world, as it begins to lean inward over the domed roof of the Great Hall.

The disk of the Security Office at its peak topples, bursting through the roof, and releases a bonfire of flames that leap toward the morning sky.

In the cargo yard outside the Great Hall, some of the freight haulers once aligned in the Waiting Lanes have left their positions, now clogging the return road toward the closed perimeter gate. Drivers have exited their cabins and stand in tight groups, debating and gesturing wildly.

The Chimeras crash through the perimeter gates, infantry spilling from their back doors to form protective lines around the vehicles. They push the crowd back, forcing them to their knees, hands raised behind their heads in submission.

The Iron Beast, fully loaded, begins to move, its slow, steady rhythm indifferent to the collapse around it, rolling steadily toward the hangars and airstrips beyond.

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Inside the crate, the kaleidoscope of visions swirling on the surface of the Webway Mirror has subsided, finally settling on a single, lasting image:

The Emperor of Mankind stands alone in the darkness of the webway. Slaanesh, now merged with the vortex of shards, has transformed into She-Who-Thirsts—a lingering echo of whispers, luring toward the labyrinth of paths ahead: “Your destiny, destiny, -stiny…” “The future of…, future… future…” “The past…, past… past…” “My plans…”

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

An Iron Beast rumbles toward the cargo yard from the feeder lane, trailing a line of wagons. The Leman Russ’ turret locks onto the approaching mass, classifying it as a potential threat. The main gun begins to swivel slowly, and the Iron Beast’s hulk dissolves in a ball of fire.

Frida Altmann kneels beside the feeder road, cradling Anton’s head gently in her arms, rocking slowly back and forth. Though the rain ceased long ago, her clothes remain drenched, and she shivers. But the streams running down her cheeks are not sent from the sky above.

She is oblivious to the burning silhouette of the disintegrating Great Hall behind her and to the last cargo shuttle on the runway ahead, as it gathers speed for liftoff. It arcs on a trail of blue flames, accelerating to escape velocity, bound for the geo-orbital processing station hovering in eternal darkness beyond the blue morning sky.

Edited October 18 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

The Creed of Becoming and Difference

We speak the creed of life in movement, a liturgy of endless creation, of difference and becoming.

 

Repetition, as Difference,
A pulse of the new in each return, the echo that shifts, the rhythm that creates.
We chant: each cycle brings variation, each return, a renewal.

Difference, as Life's Core,
A world without unity, where difference breathes through every form.
We chant: no fixed essence, only the dance of divergence, the celebration of multiplicity.

Deterritorialization, as Horizon,
A flow that defies capture, a motion without end.
We chant: all boundaries bend, every limit unfixed, the path always becoming.

The Virtual, as Potential,
A field of pure possibility, of unseen forms and unmade worlds.
We chant: all that could be, held in readiness, awaiting the call of becoming.

Assemblages, as Constellations,
A gathering of the singular, an arrangement of flows, made and remade.
We chant: let no order be final, let every form find its freedom.

The Fold, as Depth Within,
A doubling of surface, a self within self, boundless in its layers.
We chant: every being a world, every fold a life, hidden and open.

 

And we invoke the supporting principles, the helpers on our path…

Becoming, as Eternal Transformation,
An endless unfurling, the journey without end.
We chant: we are always in movement, forever becoming anew.

Intensity, as Life’s Force,
A gradient of being, a surge of difference.
We chant: each pulse of existence, each wave of experience, a depth of intensity.

The Rhizome, as Endless Connection,
Roots with no center, paths without origin.
We chant: all things are linked, all life a web, open in every direction.

The Plane of Immanence, as Groundless Ground,
A field without hierarchy, where all things emerge.
We chant: here lies our world, immanent and whole, in the presence of all.

Desire, as Creative Flow,
A force without lack, a drive to make and unmake.
We chant: let desire guide us, let creation be free, a body unbound.

 

---

We finish:

In these words, we do not seek a fixed path but an open field, where every paradox lives as a gift to creation, where each principle returns anew. May we, too, be ever-becoming, in life and thought, a liturgy of endless difference.

Edited October 30 by Ya Evyl Aunty