The webway mirror - a script for a graphic novel

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

OK, I am toying with the idea of creating a short graphic novel. Problem is, if I want to draw something, I need something to draw, i.e. an actual story. So, I spent my day today with Chat GPT to pump out a short flick and to file it down into an actual narration. This is purely a script, not even a finished storyboard.

I would love to have an answer to the following 3 questions:

1. Does that make sense to you, can you follow the plot, or do you have any ":cuss:"- moments, when things just don't match?

2. Do you think it fits the 40K lore and vibe, or does it break any written or unwritten lore rules? 

3. Do you think it is a cool story, worth putting the effort in to develop into a graphic novel, that you would like to read?

 

Title: "The Mirror of Madness"

Page 1: The Shady Deal

Panel 1: Close-up shot of the Information Broker lunging forward across a dimly lit table in a curtained-off booth, his hand clamping over the Rich Patron’s mouth. The scene is tense, shadows obscuring parts of their faces. The Broker’s eyes are wide with panic, the Rich Patron's eyes are surprised, caught off guard.

• Information Broker (urgent whisper): "Do you want to get us killed? That thing is dangerous... even the Inquisition fears it."

Panel 2: Pull back to reveal the interior of the curtained booth in a dimly lit bar. The table between them is cluttered with empty glasses and a flickering candle. Two massive Ogryn bodyguards stand right outside the booth’s curtain, casting long, intimidating shadows.

• Rich Patron (muffled, struggling against the hand): "Mmmph!"

Panel 3: The Information Broker cautiously releases his hand, his expression still tense. The Rich Patron leans back slightly, his face a mix of annoyance and intrigue.

• Information Broker (whispering, still anxious): "Keep your voice down… even here, someone could be listening."

Panel 4: Close-up of the Information Broker peeking through the slight gap in the curtain, his eyes darting around nervously. His POV shows the two Ogryn bodyguards standing guard, ensuring no one approaches the booth.

Panel 5: Back inside the booth, the Information Broker leans in close, his voice low but intense.

• Information Broker (whispering): "The mirror... it’s no ordinary relic. It was part of the Emperor’s own Webway Project, sealed with Imperial tech, covered in purity sigils."

Panel 6: Close-up of the Rich Patron's eyes, now gleaming with interest and a hint of greed.

• Rich Patron (calmly, but with a sinister edge): "All the more reason to acquire it. My rival, zu Rosenstein... he has everything. Except a cursed fate."

---

Page 2: The Mirror's History

Panel 1: A flashback scene, depicted in faded, sepia tones. The mirror, its surface gleaming with an unnatural light, is being installed in a massive chamber, surrounded by arcane machinery. Imperial tech-priests and servitors are seen working on it, chanting litanies of purity.

• Caption: “A tool forged in secrecy, bound by xenos origins…”

Panel 2: Close-up of the mirror being carefully placed into a larger Imperial device—a complex machine filled with dials, lenses, and mechanical components. The mirror acts as a focal point within this device, glowing brightly as it is integrated. An Adeptus Mechanicus tech-priest, hooded and solemn, places the final purity seal on it.

• Caption: “…and contained within the heart of the Emperor’s greatest ambition: the Webway Project.”

Panel 3: Scene shifts to a moment of chaos: alarms blaring, explosions in the distance. Imperial guards and tech-priests are seen hurriedly abandoning the chamber, the mirror left behind, glowing ominously within the now-abandoned device.

• Caption: “But when the project failed, it was abandoned, left in a forgotten vault...”

Panel 4: The mirror, now dusty and untouched, sits in a dark, secure storage facility, detached from the Imperial device but still encased in a protective frame. It is hidden away in a remote corner of an Ordo Xenos stronghold. A dim light flickers overhead, casting eerie shadows.

• Caption: “…still guarded, but ultimately forgotten.”

Panel 5: Cut back to the bar. The Rich Patron leans back with a satisfied smile, his fingers drumming on the table.

• Rich Patron: "So, you can get it for me?"

Panel 6: The Information Broker raises an eyebrow, leaning in slightly.

• Information Broker: "Where do you want to receive it?"

Panel 7: Close-up of the Rich Patron’s sly grin.

• Rich Patron: "Oh, me? Not at all! Put it into a cargo box, bring it to the spaceport, and stick a nice dispatch note to Port Gyre on Mars on it."

Panel 8: The Information Broker looks intrigued, but unsure.

• Information Broker: "And what happens when it gets to Mars?"

Panel 9: The Rich Patron leans in conspiratorially, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

• Rich Patron: "Make sure that when it is unloaded, there is a sad accident with the servitor grappler, the box is damaged, and the dispatch note unreadable. Zu Rosenstein will have to open it to inspect the contents—he’s in charge of customs control at the spaceport."

Panel 10: The Information Broker smirks, now fully understanding the plan.

• Information Broker: "He won’t be able to resist… thinking it’s some valuable trade good he can embezzle… or worse."

---

Page 3: The Heist Plan

Panel 1: The Rich Patron and the Information Broker meet in a more private, well-furnished room, away from the public eye. Blueprints of a secure facility are spread across a table, along with various schematics and notes.

• Rich Patron: "So, you have a plan?"

• Information Broker (nodding, pointing at the blueprints): "The mirror is held in a deep vault, under Ordo Xenos custody. Heavy security, but there’s a way… with the right incentives."

Panel 2: Close-up of a hefty satchel of thrones (Imperial currency) being placed on the table with a satisfying thud. The Rich Patron’s hand rests on top, fingers tapping expectantly.

• Rich Patron: "Money is no object. I trust you have the right people for this?"

Panel 3: The Information Broker smiles, a sly glint in his eyes.

• Information Broker: "I’ve already arranged it. They specialize in this sort of… retrieval."

Panel 4: Cut to a dark, gritty hideout. A group of hired thugs—grizzled and rough-looking, armed with various tools and weapons—prepare for the heist. One of them sharpens a blade; another checks a data-slate with the vault’s schematics.

• Caption: "The hired help, specialists in the art of infiltration and theft."

---

Page 4: The Vault Heist

Panel 1: Nighttime exterior of the Ordo Xenos facility—a heavily fortified building with Gothic architecture. Guards patrol the perimeter, and surveillance systems are visible.

• Caption: “The Ordo Xenos vault… a fortress of secrets.”

Panel 2: The hired thugs move stealthily through the shadows, approaching the facility. One of them hacks into an access panel, overriding the security systems.

• Thug Leader (whispering): "We’re in… keep it quiet and fast."

Panel 3: Interior of the facility. The thugs move silently through the dark hallways, avoiding patrols and security drones. They communicate through silent hand signals, displaying their professionalism.

Panel 4: The thugs reach a massive vault door, covered in purity seals and adorned with Imperial iconography. One thug pulls out a device, attaching it to the vault’s locking mechanism.

• Thug Leader: "This is the spot. Get that door open."

Panel 5: Close-up of the device beeping as it overrides the vault's lock. The purity seals begin to peel and burn away as the door slowly opens with a loud, mechanical creak.

Panel 6: The thugs enter the vault, finding the xenos mirror standing in the center, partially covered and emitting a faint, eerie glow. Their expressions show a mix of awe and fear.

• Thug 1: "That’s it… just like he said."

• Thug Leader (nervously): "Quickly now, before anyone notices."

Panel 7: The thugs carefully lift the mirror, placing it in a large crate padded with cushioning material. One of them glances nervously at the mirror's surface, seeing a distorted reflection of himself.

• Thug 2: "Let’s get this over with. This thing gives me the creeps."

Panel 8: The thugs make their way back out, the crate with the mirror carefully secured. In the background, alarms begin to blare as they move toward their escape route.

---

Page 5: The Exchange and Acquisition

Panel 1: Close-up of a monitor screen in zu Rosenstein’s personal office, showing a live feed from the spaceport cargo area below. Workers are moving cargo and containers. A large, heavily marked crate is being unloaded from a cargo hauler by a clunky, mechanical servitor grappler. Suddenly, the grappler malfunctions, and the crate crashes to the ground, its side cracking open slightly.

• Caption: “A minor accident... or perhaps something more deliberate?”

Panel 2: Wide shot inside zu Rosenstein’s office. He is walking away from his desk, moving towards a large window front that overlooks the spaceport cargo area below. His expression is a mix of irritation and curiosity.

• Zu Rosenstein: "What happened out there?"

Panel 3: View from over zu Rosenstein’s shoulder, looking down through the window. He sees the damaged crate on the ground and a group of workers gathering around it. A subordinate stands behind him, giving a brief report.

• Subordinate: "A crate bound for Port Gyre, sir. Damaged in transit... the dispatch note is unreadable."

Panel 4: Exterior shot showing the spaceport with a tall control tower in the background. Zu Rosenstein’s office is at the top of the tower, overlooking the bustling cargo area below.

Panel 5: Inside the cargo area, zu Rosenstein is now standing next to the damaged crate, having made his way down from his office. He opens the crate with anticipation. Inside, he finds the xenos mirror, its faint glow reflecting off his greedy eyes. Tucked beside it is a folded note. He glances at it briefly, uninterested.

• Note (visible text, partially shown as he unfolds it): "To a worthy adversary, may this mirror reflect your true greatness."

Panel 6: Close-up of zu Rosenstein crumpling up the note with a dismissive sneer and tossing it aside without a second thought, focused solely on the mirror.

Panel 7: Wide shot showing zu Rosenstein stepping into an industrial elevator, holding the xenos mirror carefully. The elevator door begins to close as it ascends back up to his office in the tower.

Panel 8: Back inside his office, zu Rosenstein carefully places the mirror on a pedestal in his hidden, arcane research laboratory filled with strange artifacts, forbidden tomes, and alchemical instruments. He begins setting up equipment around it, clearly preparing for some kind of ritual or experimentation.

• Zu Rosenstein (speaking to himself, excitedly): "This mirror... it could amplify my reach into the Warp, unlock new powers... make me unstoppable."

Panel 9: Zu Rosenstein begins a series of arcane rituals, muttering incantations and manipulating energies that swirl around the mirror. His face is a mixture of intense concentration and greed.

• Caption: “But the mirror’s allure is a trap for the soul…”

---

Page X+2: Refined Dream Sequence

Panel 1: Inside zu Rosenstein’s dream. A surreal, shifting landscape with undefined terrain stretches into a horizonless void. At the center, a dark chasm splits the ground, its edges crumbling into the abyss. Khorne and Khaine clash at the chasm's edge, their blades meeting with explosive sparks. Shadows flicker around them, twisting into monstrous shapes that dance and melt back into darkness.

Panel 2: The scene transitions to Isha, tenderly holding a grotesque, infant-like Nurgle amidst a garden of withering flowers. The image fades, transforming into Nurgle, now an adult, cradling Isha as he flees from Slaanesh. The background shifts from lush green to decay, a seamless blending of life and rot.

Panel 3: A wide view reveals Tzeentch and Cegorach seated at a floating chessboard, pieces shifting and morphing with every move. Their expressions are frozen in wide, unnerving grins, as cracks begin to form across their faces. The chessboard hovers above a void, dissolving at the edges into a sea of black.

Panel 4: Pull back to show these scenes are reflections in a cracked xenos mirror. Each shard reflects a different distorted reality. Slaanesh wields the mirror in a duel against the Emperor in the Webway, the shards casting fragmented beams of light and shadow across the battleground.

Panel 5: Close-up of zu Rosenstein's face, the mirror's shards embedded in his skin, each shard reflecting a different, twisted version of his own face. His eyes are wide, filled with terror and pain as the shards begin to pull towards the center, merging into a singular, nightmarish visage.

Panel 6: The mirror shatters completely, its pieces exploding into a swirling vortex that engulfs zu Rosenstein. He is torn apart by unseen forces, his mouth open in a silent scream, spiraling down into the endless darkness of the abyss.

---

Page X+3: Epilogue – The Suicide

Panel 1: Morning light seeps into zu Rosenstein’s cluttered office at the top of the spaceport tower. He wakes up in his chair, his face pale and drawn with fear. He sits up, trembling, eyes darting around the room as if expecting the dream’s horrors to appear.

• Caption: “Awakening… but the nightmare lingers.”

Panel 2: Wide shot of zu Rosenstein leaping from his chair in a panic, rushing towards the office window. His movements are frantic, driven by terror. Papers and objects are knocked over in his frantic escape.

Panel 3: Close-up of zu Rosenstein’s hand as it reaches for the window latch, his fingers trembling uncontrollably.

Panel 4: He throws open the window, his eyes wide with a wild, uncontrollable fear. He looks out over the spaceport, but his gaze is unfocused, his mind still caught in the grip of the mirror’s influence.

Panel 5: In a moment of frenzied panic, zu Rosenstein climbs onto the window ledge. His face is a mask of terror and madness as he leaps, unable to endure the torment any longer.

• Caption: “There is no escape from the mirror’s curse…”

Panel 6: Exterior view from the ground. A worker below sees zu Rosenstein's body plummeting down from the tower above. Shocked faces turn upward, staring in horror.

Panel 7: Inside the office, in the background, the xenos mirror is small but clearly visible, standing on a pedestal. It still glows faintly, as if satisfied with its latest victim.

• Caption: “...only the final release.”

Panel 8: Final close-up of the xenos mirror, its surface now still, reflecting only the empty office. The faint glow pulses, hinting that it waits for its next prey.

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

[grailkeeper]

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

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

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

[Brother Hellion]

 

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

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

Also where is the link?

 

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

@Brother Hellion I originally wrote this in another forum, Work in Progress (?) I think. After grailkeeper informed, that it would better fit here I reported it to a mod and asked them to move it over to here. I beg your pardon for the confusion.

 

Hooooooowever. I decided to continue the story line. Here is the next act:

 

 

A seagull flies high above the road section leading toward the spaceport. Streetlights line the T-section where the road branches off, connecting the spaceport to the Imperial Guard anti-aircraft battery on the opposite side. The sprawling spaceport looms ahead—its barbed-wire fences and massive structures rising against the slowly brightening sky.

 

The seagull glides over the Imperial Guard anti-aircraft installation, positioned within its own fenced perimeter, distinct from the spaceport’s. Across from it, inside the spaceport, rows of cargo freighters are parked neatly along the landing pads, while service vehicles crisscross the tarmac, keeping the industrial rhythm alive even in the early morning hours.

 

In the heart of the spaceport, the central hall is a hub of activity. Numerous servitors and Adeptus Mechanicus personnel oversee the intricate processes of loading and unloading cargo. Freight haulers, massive and imposing, sit stationed nearby. The constant flow of vehicles and workers gives the scene a methodical, industrial rhythm. On the opposite side of the taxiways, towering fuel tanks stand next to hangars, indicating the scale and logistical depth of the spaceport's operations. The cold morning air hangs over everything, a reminder of the night still lingering before dawn.

 

The security tower rises high above the spaceport, the tallest structure in the area. Its imposing height allows it to survey the entire expanse below. Markward zu Rosenstein’s office, with its large window facing outward, commands a view of all the cargo operations taking place. The tower stands as a symbol of control and authority over the bustling activity beneath. Shadows stretch across the tarmac, though the light is slowly increasing as dawn approaches.

 

The windows of Markward’s office reflect the glare from the spotlights and illuminated cargo area below, but there is no sign of movement inside. The early morning light creeps into the scene, a quiet contrast to the bustling operations continuing on the tarmac. Dew forms on the smooth surfaces of parked freighters, clinging to them as a remnant of the cold, cloudless night.

 

In the wide cargo area, a large freight hauler sits idle in the center, its cargo hold sealed shut. To the right of the hauler, two figures stand near a servitor on tank tracks. One is tall, cloaked in red-and-white robes, with a servo arm protruding from his back—clearly a high-ranking Adeptus Mechanicus Magos. His head, mostly mechanical, is lit by glowing augmetic implants. The other figure, smaller and dressed in simpler, worn robes, is an Adeptus Mechanicus novice. His posture is slightly tense, and his hands fidget nervously.

 

The servitor has halted mid-task, its crane attachment hanging motionless. Its mechanical, expressionless face, fitted with flickering optical lenses, seems unsure how to proceed. Dust has accumulated on its tracks and joints, adding to the gritty, worn feel of the environment.

The Magos stands motionless, his red robe slightly rustling in the cool breeze. His mechanical face, stern and calculating, watches the scene unfold with cold precision. The novice hesitates before stepping forward, carefully approaching the servitor’s control panel. His worn robes brush the tarmac as he begins inputting commands, his movements swift but uncertain. In the distance, the security tower looms large.

 

The novice begins working with the servitor's control panel, adjusting settings and inputting commands. His hands move swiftly but nervously, his fingers tapping mechanical switches. In the background, the Magos watches with cold precision, his stance rigid and imposing.

 

Suddenly the novice’s attention shifts, and his eyes catch sudden movement at the top of the distant tower. He stops listening to the Magos and raises a hand, pointing urgently towards the tower behind them.

The camera switches to a position slightly above and outside the security tower, looking down at the top floor. The towering structure stands tall against the sky, its windows reflecting the light from the cargo area below. One window, however, is open, and the scene is tense as a figure—Markward zu Rosenstein—is seen climbing out onto the narrow ledge just outside his office.

 

Markward’s body is now half out of the window, his movements deliberate but shaky. His hands grip the frame tightly as he carefully climbs out onto the ledge. His face is partially obscured by shadow, but the anxiety and determination in his posture are visible. The wind rustles his coat as he stands precariously on the edge.

The camera captures Markward fully out on the ledge now, standing on the narrow surface. His back is to the viewer, and his arms are extended slightly for balance. The vast expanse of the spaceport stretches out below him—freight haulers, servitors, and cargo containers are distant, almost insignificant compared to the height of the tower. The tension in the air is palpable as the figure wavers slightly in the breeze.

 

Markward zu Rosenstein, now in mid-air, in the moment of his free fall. Above and behind him the dark silhouette of the security tower's front, and the last fading stars of the night. His arms and legs are outstretched in uncontrolled motion as he plummets downward. His coat billows dramatically around him, caught in the wind of his descent. His face, though partly obscured by the motion, shows a mixture of panic and resignation.

 

The Magos and the Novice both tilt their heads upward, following Markward’s decent with their gaze. The Novice stands frozen, his raised hand trembling slightly, his eyes wide in disbelief. The Magos, though more composed, watches with cold calculation, his mechanical gaze tracking the fall as if analyzing the trajectory.

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

 

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

His speech, usually precise and cold, now falters as he tries to find the appropriate categorization for what has just occurred. There are faint, mechanical whirring and clicking noises as his augmetic mind processes the event, his voice modulator struggling to maintain clarity.

 

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

 

The tone shifts as the Magos abandons his initial attempt to categorize the event, mechanical noises clicking and whirring.

 

...Per Imperial Protocol, incident involving—"

 

The whirring increases as the Magos interrupts himself again, failing to complete the citation. His voice now stutters, and more mechanical noises are heard—this time a series of frustrated clicks and hums as his internal systems struggle to comprehend the situation.

 

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

 

The silence returns, while the pool of blood keeps slowly growing across the cracked tarmac. A distant mechanical whirring of machinery approaches. As the sound grows louder, a contours of a shadow begin to creep closer to the blood—a spaceport freight servitor.

 

The servitor comes to a sudden halt just before crossing into the pool, its mechanical whirring ceasing abruptly. For a moment, everything is still again.

Suddenly, the servitor starts beeping an alarm. Its warning lights flash in rhythmic bursts. The red and yellow light pulses cast reflections on the blood.

 

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

 

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

 

The Magos turns from the scene and addresses the Novice, who stands nearby, still shaken by the events. Only his servo arm twitches slightly behind him as he speaks.

 

"Novice Fenix Kol, I authorize you to organize the cleanup of this area, while I return to Sanctuary to adjust general spaceport protocoll

You are permitted to use the cleaning servitors from the eastern section of the main hall. Any units currently in idle or self-maintenance status are at your disposal."

 

The Magos begins to turn away from Fenix, preparing to walk off toward the sanctuarium. His mechanical limbs move with precision, and he continues speaking without emotion.

 

"I must proceed to the sanctuarium within the main hall. the algorithms and work protocols of the cargo loading area must be temporarily rerouted—"

 

Before the Magos can finish his sentence, angry shouting fills the air, cutting him off mid-motion. The Sergeant Velos Ralkon, NCO of the Adeptus Arbites sprints toward them from the Arbites post by the entrance of the security tower. The NCO’s face is flushed with anger, and his body language is aggressive as he waves an arm toward them. His voice is harsh and filled with frustration as he yells across the cargo area.

 

"Stop what you're doing, you stupid robots!"

 

Edited 9 hours ago by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Section 9 of the Imperial Co—"

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Edited 9 hours ago by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

As dawn breaks, dew starts to evaporate into a slight morning fog. The vast, industrial complex of the spaceport stretches across the horizon, a labyrinth of cargo containers, taxiways, and landing pads. The towering security fence, crowned with barbed wire, encircles the perimeter like a fortress. Servitors trudge along the pathways, performing their monotonous tasks. The air is filled with the sound of grinding machinery, clicking servos, and the occasional hiss of steam.

 

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

In the cargo area servitors move between stacked containers. The tarmac is cracked and worn, oil stains and rust marking the neglect. A loading servitor lifts a crate with precise, emotionless movements, placing it onto a hover platform. Its optics flicker with dull light as it pivots, continuing its endless routine.

 

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

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

 

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

The towering ceiling of the spaceport’s central hall is cracked and stained with age. Inside, more servitors operate conveyor belts, moving cargo containers without pause. The machinery groans and clicks, its operation perfect despite the wear on its metal joints. A hover crane glides along its track, silently lifting cargo, while a nearby servitor adjusts a set of dials.

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

Edited 9 hours ago by Ya Evyl Aunty
Forgot to mention the retinue leaving the car

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

 

Sister Helena, standing tall in her black-and-red armor, nods firmly. "Understood, Inquisitor. I'll keep them safe."

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

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

 

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

Enforcer Thrace, a towering figure in heavy armor, nods silently.

 

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

Ralkon salutes sharply. "At once, Inquisitor."

 

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

Edited 9 hours ago by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Scene: The Spaceport, Outside the Security Tower

Sergeant Ralkon leads Inquisitor Callista Drakon and Enforcer Thracce through the spaceport, the looming security tower casting long shadows across the area. The body of Markward zu Rosenstein lies crumpled at the base of the tower, surrounded by shattered debris, in the center of a dried up pool of blood.

 

Callista Drakon: (To Ralkon) “Sergeant, you’ve done well to keep the area secure."

 

She pulls out a pict recorder, circling the body, taking pictures from different views. Enforcer Thracce meanwhile slowly and methodically walks around the immediate vicinity, putting numbered signs down close to any interesting bits and pieces on the tarmac. After they are both done, Drakon takes pictures of the things Thracce found, and Thracce puts them in little bags, that he stows away. 

 

Then Drake kneels beside the body, inspecting the damage. Thracce stands nearby, slate in hand, ready to record her findings. Callista’s eyes move over the twisted limbs and broken bones, clearly the result of a fall from great height.

Faenix Kol, in his Adeptus Mechanicus novice robes, stands nearby, beneath a stack of cargo crates, arms behind his back, his eyes follow the flow of servitors in the area.

 

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

 

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

Fenix Kol darts in front of the servitor, flailing his arms. The servitor halts, confused, its lenses flicking as it tries to calculate a new route. Fenix steps in front of it again, waving wildly, trying to divert its path.

Callista Drakon: [voiceover, dictating to Thracce]
“Initial observation suggests no sign of immediate foul play… but further investigation is required.”

The servitor, undeterred, turns around, only to change course and head straight toward the crime scene again. Fenix groans and facepalms, then rushes back to block its path once more, this time stepping directly into its sensors and grimacing. He waves furiously, pointing toward a clear route away from the scene. After a few moments of hesitation, the servitor finally obeys.

Fenix, exasperated but amused, rolls his eyes as the machine trundles away, shaking his head in silent bemusement.

 

Callista Drakon: [voiceover, dictating to Thracce] "Initial Field Autopsy concluded. File as attachment A in case report"

Callista rises from her crouched position by the body of Markward zu Rosenstein. She stretches a bit, pushing her lower back forward with her hands, with closed eyes.

As she opens her eyes again, she turns her gaze toward Fenix, who has returned to his post near the stack of crates.

Callista Drakon: (Addressing Fenix directly for the first time) “You, there. Novice. What’s your name?”

Fenix, momentarily surprised by the question, straightens and steps forward, his eyes meeting hers.

Fenix Kol: “Fenix. Fenix Kol.”

Callista nods slightly, acknowledging the name without breaking her professional demeanor.

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

Fenix hesitates for a moment, considering her question before responding, his voice calm and measured.

Fenix Kol: “Magos Rhauko maintains a cooling room nearby. It’s where we store... biological components, for the servitors. It should suffice.”

Callista tilts her head slightly, considering the suggestion. She weighs the practicality of it for a moment before speaking.

Callista Drakon: “Very well. Have the body moved there. Sergeant Ralkon, ensure it is done.”

Sergeant Ralkon gives a sharp nod of acknowledgment, while Fenix resumes his quiet duties.

 

 

Fenix nods after Callista’s instructions and turns to leave. Before he can take more than a step, Callista’s voice halts him.

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

Fenix stops mid-step and turns back to face her, his expression neutral, though a flicker of apprehension passes through his eyes.

Callista Drakon: “Magos Rhauko—he oversees this spaceport, correct? Tell me about him.”

Fenix hesitates for a moment, then adopts a tone of reverence and loyalty as he begins to explain.

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

Callista Drakon nods slowly, wide-eyed and slowly blinking.

Callista Drakon: “So Magos Rhauko is extremely important. The servitors, logistics... all under his care.”

Fenix Kol nods affirmingly.

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

Callista Drakon leans in, her eyes sharpening with interest.

Callista Drakon: (A brief pause)“That kind of control requires... precision. I imagine disruptions aren’t welcomed.”

Fenix Kol: “He values efficiency above all. Disruptions... aren’t tolerated.”

Callista Drakon: ((Probing)“ Efficiency is paramount, but when it’s tested? How does he handle that?”

Fenix Kol: Hesitating)“He... does what’s necessary to maintain order.”

Callista Drakon pauses to study Fenix Kol's face. Then she nods.

Callista Drakon: “I see. Thank you, Fenix. That will be all for now.”

Edited Monday at 03:06 PM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Edited Tuesday at 02:41 PM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Fenix and Mordecai Thracce walk in silence beside the lumbering cargo servitor, which steadily rolls along, carrying Markward’s corpse on its flat surface. The servitor’s reinforced frame clanks softly as it moves, its mechanical arms twitching slightly in response to the shifting weight. The two men maintain their pace, their boots echoing across the plasteel floor of the central lane, that intersects the Great Hall, the spaceport's central building.

 

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

The entire hall hums with the dull murmur of servitors at work. Some glide across the lanes, while others stand in designated spots, their movements unnaturally stiff and methodical. Fenix’s gaze lingers on the floor, its worn surface reflecting the weight of years of traffic. Despite the hall’s enormity, the precise markings and regimented flow of the servitors create a sense of control and organization, though there is something unsettling about the cold efficiency.

As they pass along the central lane, a long wall to their right is lined with several doors, each one leading to other essential rooms within the hall—the refectorium, the library, and the dormitorium, hidden behind the plain exterior. Thracce casts a brief glance in their direction, but his attention quickly returns to the task at hand.

Ahead, the massive portal to the sanctorium looms, its doors standing open to receive them. In front of the entrance, a line of servitors stands waiting, their motions slow and mechanical. These are the units that failed inspection in the refectorium, awaiting repair or replacement of their worn-out parts. Their dull optics flicker in the dim light, their bodies hunched and twitching slightly as they await their turn.

Fenix exchanges a brief glance with Thracce, but the Arbites enforcer says nothing, his expression hidden behind his helmet.

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

At the far end of the sanctorium, a raised dais stands. Here, there is no traditional altar, but instead a single, functional piece of furniture: a combined workbench and operating table, where the melding of mechanical and biological components is performed. This is the true altar of the sanctuarium, a potent symbol of the Omnissiah’s creed. Creating and repairing servitors is not merely a technical process but the very heart of the church service performed in this chapel.

The workspace itself is clean and operational, illuminated by bright spotlights that cast sharp shadows across the room. Surrounding it, however, the walls, windows, and cupboards are heavily decorated with symbols of the Omnissiah—intricate patterns of cogs, gears, and sacred circuitry that speak to the machine-god’s presence. It is a shrine to creation through technology, a fusion of faith and function.

 

Rhaukos, standing near the dais, motions to one of the servo skulls perched on a brazz column, its small form humming as it recharges. The skull emits a series of clicks and mechanical noises, its optics flickering red as it processes some internal data. Rhaukos pauses, listening intently to the sequence of mechanical sounds, his augmented ears tuned to the intricate rhythm.

After a moment, Rhaukos nods in agreement, considering his response. He then produces a series of similar clicks and whirring sounds from his heavily modified vocal system. The servo skull’s eyes flash, their lights shifting from red to a pale blue, acknowledging his command. With a final whirr of its servos, the skull detaches from the column, its propulsion unit activating with a low hum. It hovers in the air for a moment before gliding toward an opening in the wall, slipping out into the great hall beyond to fulfill its next task.

 

Rhaukos’s optics flicker as his gaze locks on Thracce. The Inquisition. Here, in his sanctuarium. His mechadendrites stiffen, and a pang of guilt cuts through his mechanical mind, sparking fragments of memory.

Sergeant Ralkon’s voice, matter-of-fact and distant:
"Another delivery, Magos. Accident victims, three this time. No questions asked."
Rhaukos had nodded in silence then, but now, the memory twists inside him.

Another flash: Fenix in the scriptorium, his finger tracing a passage in a worn legal tome.
"It’s not expressly forbidden," Fenix had said, his voice calm and steady. "The overall intent of the passage has to be considered... and if you look at the broader context, you’ll see..."
The thought drifts away as Rhaukos snaps back to the present.

His optics dim momentarily. His mind calculates rapidly, but the unease remains. What does Thracce know? And what has Fenix told him?

 

Rhaukos’s optics flare briefly, and the cold edge of anger replaces the guilt gnawing at his mind. He turns to Fenix, his voice sharp and cutting. "You dare interrupt me during a critical phase, Novice Kol? The operational efficiency of the spaceport has fallen below 78.3%, and still shows signs of decline. Unacceptable." His mechadendrites twitch in agitation. "I cannot be distracted by trifling nonsense in such a critical phase."

Fenix lowers his head in a submissive posture, his hands clasped together. "Magos Rhaukos, Inquisitor Drakon asked for a suitable storage space for the body. She won’t allow the cargo area to reopen for routine operations until the corpse is secured. The cooling units in the hospice... they seemed the only appropriate location."

Rhaukos pauses, processing this information, the calculations running silently behind his optics. His voice shifts to a more controlled tone, though still laced with irritation. He points toward one of the doors embedded in the wall of the altar section. "I trust you haven’t forgotten where the stretchers are stored, Fenix?"

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

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

Thracce shakes his head slightly. "No, Magos. I’ll leave you to your work." He salutes sharply, then turns without another word and exits the sanctuarium.

 

Edited Tuesday at 05:28 PM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Edited Thursday at 06:27 PM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Scene 1.10: The Navis Nobilite

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

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

“The Navis Nobilite,” Voss begins, his voice low and steady as they move through the wide expanse of the great hall, “they’re different from anyone else you’ll deal with here. To them, interacting with ‘planet-siders’ is beneath them. They stay isolated in their tower, refusing to mingle. When they do refer to us, it’s often as ‘mud apes,’ or something equally flattering.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

 

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

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

Di Maglio gestures gracefully toward the seating area, his tone warm.
“Please, my dear guests, make yourselves comfortable.”

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

Di Maglio draws up a chair opposite them, seating himself with a flourish. He leans back slightly, crossing one leg over the other as he looks at them with polite curiosity.
“May I offer you anything to drink?”

Callista shakes her head, her expression unreadable.
“No, thank you.”

Voss glances at Callista briefly before shaking his head, his expression one of silent skepticism. Thracce follows suit, his jaw set, though his eyes remain fixed on di Maglio with quiet intensity. Di Maglio offers a small, understanding smile before turning to a small microphone embedded into the wall. He presses a button, his voice carrying a casual elegance.
“One drink for myself, please. Something... fitting.” He pauses for effect, then adds, “Ah yes, a luxata. Perfect.”

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

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

The delicate scent lingers as he raises the cup to his lips, eyes meeting Callista’s.
“How, then, may I assist the investigation?”

Callista watches him for a moment, her gaze steady.
“The leading officer of the security tower, Markward zu Rosenstein, was found dead under suspicious circumstances. There are clear indications of alien taint in the security tower.”

The words hang in the air, their weight unmistakable. Di Maglio lowers his cup with an exaggerated pause, a flicker of carefully staged surprise playing across his features. He nods, letting the silence settle, then offers a solemn acknowledgment, as though the information had taken him off-guard—though his eyes remain sharp, calculating beneath the facade. Across the table, Voss and Thracce exchange the briefest of glances, Voss’s jaw tightening in response to di Maglio’s calculated reaction.

“Ah, a terrible burden,” di Maglio says softly, as if reflecting on something more personal. “You know, Lord Inquisitor Lucian Tiberius often lamented the weight of responsibility that comes with serving the Inquisition. He would confide in me during our conversations—about the strain it places on those who must shoulder it.”

Callista raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised by the mention of Lord Inquisitor Tiberius.
“Lucian Tiberius? You know Lord Inquisitor Tiberius?”

Di Maglio offers a calm smile, unflustered.
“We’ve had some dealings. In fact, he mentioned you during one of our conversations. Your reputation, it seems, precedes you.”

Callista narrows her eyes, her tone more measured.
“I wasn’t aware he had an interest in this spaceport.”

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

“And?” Callista prompts, her gaze steady.

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

“Naturally,” Callista says, holding his gaze.

Di Maglio leans back, his tone easy, but there’s a subtle undercurrent.
“Yes, well, I’m sure Lord Tiberius will be pleased with how things proceed here. He does appreciate efficiency, after all.”

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

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

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

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

Callista studies him carefully.
“And what, precisely, would you propose?”

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

Callista’s eyes narrow.
“You believe you can resolve this without a shutdown?”

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

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Scene 1.12: The Chess Game

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

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

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

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

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

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

Edited Wednesday at 09:50 AM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Edited Wednesday at 04:44 PM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

 

The car, once an impressive sight, now sits at the far end of the car park just outside the spaceport’s main gate. Its chrome trim is dulled, the leather seats cracked with age. Anton Fischer sits behind the wheel, staring at his trembling hands, while Frida Altenbach fidgets beside him in the passenger seat, glancing between him and the guard post in the distance.

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

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

“They’re all watching me,” Anton mutters. “Voss... that swine, Voss, he stole my supply. And now the Inquisition is watching me. I could feel it in the office all day. Something was there. Something... waiting.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Panic seizes her. In a fit of terror, she flings her purse under a nearby cargo crate and raises her hands in surrender, her mind racing with imagined arrests, interrogations, and worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Edited Wednesday at 06:02 PM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Edited Thursday at 11:13 PM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Edited Thursday at 06:17 PM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

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

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

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

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

Fenix stands back, content. He places his fists against his hips and watches the servitor disappear into the distance. After a moment, he takes a deep breath and turns toward the cargo area, his movements calm and deliberate. He observes the other servitors in motion, following one with his eyes before turning his head to track another. Ducking slightly, he checks the line of sight to a distant servitor, his attention moving smoothly from one to the next, assessing their movements without hurry.

 

As Fenix turns toward the cargo area, his calm survey of the servitors is interrupted by a figure moving steadily across the hall. Interrogator Voss, with his measured steps and quiet intensity, approaches from the direction of the cargo area. His eyes are locked onto Fenix, sharp and calculating, though his expression remains neutral.

Fenix notices the approach and doesn’t seem the least bit surprised. He straightens, placing his hands behind his back in a relaxed posture, his eyes meeting Voss’s with a calm, open curiosity. There’s an almost pleasant energy about him, as though he welcomes the interruption.

“Fenix Kol,” Voss greets, his voice steady, though it carries the weight of authority. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about the cargo box that was dropped yesterday afternoon.”

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

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

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

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

Voss narrows his gaze. “You inspected it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Voss raises an eyebrow, waiting for the explanation.

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

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

Edited Thursday at 10:45 PM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With a quick wave of farewell, Fenix rushes toward a lifter servitor, which is frantically blinking, stuck between the Great Hall’s outer wall and a garbage container. Voss watches him dart away, his expression unreadable as he stands alone, contemplating what he has learned.