The webway mirror - a script for a graphic novel

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Frida paces along the balcony of the Great Hall, her footsteps light as she scans the open floor below where the servitors continue their work. No sign of Anton. The hall feels like a maze, endless crates and machinery, every shadow hiding another corner she hasn't checked yet.

Her thoughts drift to the car outside, sitting in the lot by the spaceport gate. If Anton’s already back there waiting, she could miss him entirely. The last thing she needs is to be stuck running circles between the gate and the Great Hall all afternoon.

"The guards at the gate will think we’re playing some kind of game," she mutters under her breath. "And Anton…"

Frida’s jaw tightens as she heads for the fire ladder at the far end of the hall. She needs a plan. Her boots tap lightly on the metal rungs as she descends, the spaceport below opening up like a vast puzzle she has to solve.

***
 

Frida wipes sweat from her brow as she approaches the enforcers at the gate. The hot midday sun beats down on the pavement, casting long shadows across the ground.

One of the enforcers looks up, smirking. "Back again?"

Frida forces a chuckle. "Yeah, the Inquisition has us running all over the place today. First, they asked us for our original driving licenses. So we went to the car, and I had to walk back to bring them in, and then they told me to go get Anton."

The enforcers exchange glances. "And now?"

"Well, I waited in the car for a bit, but when I went to look for him, the Inquisition said they sent him on some kind of errand around the spaceport. Wouldn’t tell me what it was, where he went, nothing. And for my trouble, they gave me a list of cameras to inspect."

The enforcer laughs lightly. "Sounds like quite the day."

Frida sighs, shrugging. "Yeah, and now I’m worried we’ll miss each other. He might head back to the car while I’m still stuck checking those cameras."

The enforcer raises an eyebrow. "You want us to keep an eye out?"

"Could you?" Frida asks, smiling gratefully. "If you see him, just tell him to keep blaring the car horn until I get back. It’s that loud one—you won’t miss it."

"That ridiculous horn?" the enforcer grins. "No problem. We’ll let you know."

"Thanks," Frida replies, her tension easing just a bit. "I just want us to get out of here and enjoy our evening."

***

 

Frida makes her way toward the cargo yard, her steps quick and purposeful, though the heat slows her pace slightly. She wipes at the sweat beading on her forehead and glances around, hoping for a glimpse of Anton, but only the sight of cargo servitors diligently moving crates meets her gaze.

In the distance, she spots Fenix, his figure bent over a group of servitors near a massive hauler. He’s making subtle adjustments, his motions fluid and efficient, as though the machines understand his quiet instructions better than any words.

“Fenix,” she calls, approaching cautiously. “Have you seen Anton since the morning shift ended?”

Fenix looks up, his expression calm and unfazed, as usual. He shakes his head slightly, still half-focused on the servitors. “No. Not today.”

Frida exhales, disappointment settling in her chest. She glances around the yard once more, but it remains as empty as before. “I’ve asked the enforcers at the gate to let me know if they see him,” she continues, “but I’m worried I won’t hear his car horn if he comes back while I’m in the Great Hall.”

Fenix pauses in his work, finally giving her his full attention. “The horn?” His lips curl into the faintest of smirks. “You mean that fanfare of his?”

Frida can’t help but smile, despite her worry. “Yeah, it’s loud, but the hall is so big... I’m not sure it’ll reach me.”

Fenix straightens up, brushing off his hands as he thinks. “I’ll be outside or near the entrance most of the time,” he says, his tone casual but reassuring. “If he signals, I’ll hear it and let you know.”

A wave of relief washes over Frida. “That would be really helpful,” she says, her voice full of gratitude.

Fenix nods, his expression thoughtful. “Actually, to make sure you hear it too... I could run a quick test for the signals inside the hall. It won’t interfere with the servitors’ workflow.”

Frida blinks in surprise, then nods slowly, realizing how practical his suggestion is. “That’s... a good idea. Thanks, Fenix.”

He shrugs, already turning back to the servitors. “It’ll keep things smooth.”

Frida takes a step away, ready to head back toward the hall, but something makes her hesitate. She glances over her shoulder at Fenix, who is busy calibrating a servitor’s arm. “Fenix,” she begins, her voice uncertain, “are you aware that Ralkon seems to hold quite a grudge against you?”

Fenix doesn’t stop what he’s doing, but there’s a brief pause in his movements, as if the question pulls him from his usual rhythm. “I’m aware,” he replies evenly, his tone neutral but unbothered.

Frida bites her lip, frowning. “Do you know why?”

Fenix finally looks up, meeting her eyes with a calm, almost distant gaze. “Ralkon doesn’t like the way I see things,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. “He thinks I’ve been a bad influence on Rhaukos... among other things.”

Frida furrows her brow, sensing the tension beneath his words. “But why is he so angry? It feels personal.”

Fenix lets out a quiet breath, his expression softening, but he doesn’t seem particularly troubled. “People like Ralkon think in straight lines,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I see curves where they don’t expect them.”

Frida tilts her head, absorbing the cryptic reply. “That sounds... complicated.”

Fenix offers a faint, almost philosophical smile, shrugging again. “Life always is. But it’s his problem, not mine.”

Frida watches him for a moment longer, pondering his words before finally nodding. “I guess that’s true.”

With a final glance toward the entrance of the hall, she turns to leave. “Thanks again, Fenix,” she says quietly. “I really appreciate your help.”

Fenix waves her off, already engrossed in his work once more. “No problem.”

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

The sun hangs low in the sky, its light still bright and intense, casting long shadows across the cargo yard. The heat rises off the tarmac in waves, mingling with the faint smell of fuel, as the air grows heavier with each passing moment. Above, a towering, cauliflower-shaped cloud dominates the horizon. Its bright white top glows in the sunlight, stark against the deepening blue of the sky, while the base darkens, almost black, stretching outward, casting a shadow over the distant mountains.

A warm, sluggish wind pushes toward the cloud, feeding its growth, and the atmosphere in the yard becomes dense and still.

 

Thracce, fully suited in a hazmat outfit marked with both the sigil of the Navis Nobilite and di Maglio's family crest, trudges across the yard. The bulky suit makes his movements slow and deliberate, and sweat runs down his face, stinging his eyes as the visor begins to fog. He curses under his breath, squinting through the haze, but there’s nothing he can do except push forward.

 

Fenix waves over a Loader Thrall, which clanks forward on worn servitor legs. The thrall grabs hold of a large garbage container, pulling it away from the wall and dragging it toward a quieter patch of the yard. Fenix moves swiftly, removing the latches from the side of the container. With a mechanical hiss, the Loader lifts one side of the bin, and its contents pour out in a heavy, wet heap onto the tarmac.

 

A swarm of flies erupts almost immediately from the mess, buzzing furiously in the hot, humid air. The smell hits—decaying bio-waste mixing with the acrid stench of tarmac baking in the sun. Voss recoils instinctively, covering his nose with his sleeve, before stepping back and grimacing at the pungent odor. He steels himself and moves forward again, regaining his composure.,

Thracce, protected in his hazmat suit, crouches down and begins rummaging through the pile. The heat inside the suit is stifling, and he feels the sweat pooling under his collar, but he works methodically, pulling pieces of the red crate from the mess and setting them aside.

 

The pile is a mix of broken debris, discarded bio-waste, and the splintered remains of the red crate. Thracce, despite the stifling heat and the bulk of his suit, works with calm precision. The visor fogs over once more as he adjusts his posture slightly, trying to shake off the discomfort pooling inside the suit.

 

Voss crosses his arms, glancing around the yard and then at Thracce’s slow, meticulous work. The drone of the flies and the suffocating heat only make his mood worse, but he holds his tongue, for now.

"Got everything?" Voss asks after a few minutes, his voice cutting through the drone of flies.

“Looks like it,” Thracce replies, his voice slightly muffled by the hazmat suit. He lines up the pieces of the crate, then goes through each one individually, inspecting them carefully.

 

He picks up a large fragment of the crate’s wall, turning it over in his hands. As he shifts it under the light, he notices a split in the wood, almost invisible at first glance. He holds it up higher, shining a small light into the crack. A faint smear of burnt residue clings to the inside.

“That’s the cause of the bang Fenix heard,” Voss mutters, stepping closer.

Thracce nods, examining the split further. “Someone embedded a low-powered explosive here. Subtle, precise. Just enough to cause damage, not destroy the crate completely.”

Voss frowns, his eyes narrowing. “Whoever sent this crate planned for it to break open at the right time.”

 

Thracce moves on to another piece of the crate, carefully lifting it and shining his light along the edge. As he tilts it, he spots something lodged deep within the wood—a small, mangled printed circuit board.

“Look at this,” he says, holding it out for Voss. “A remote detonator. Or what's left of it.”

Voss takes the piece, examining it closely. The circuit board is twisted and charred, too damaged to make out any identifying details, but the fact of its existence is clear.

“That’s how they triggered it,” Thracce says, his voice low. “Someone was close enough to time it perfectly.”

 

Voss scans the ground and catches a glimpse of torn paper half-buried in the debris. He bends down, brushing aside the debris to uncover the remains of the dispatch note. It’s torn and smeared, the text barely legible—damaged beyond recognition, almost as if on purpose. Voss frowns, flipping it over once before tossing it aside.

“Dispatch note’s unreadable,” he mutters. “We’ll need Callista and Helena to dig into the records. See if we can trace who sent this crate or where it was supposed to go.”

 

He straightens up, scanning the mess around them one last time before dusting off his hands. His brow furrows as he looks over at Thracce, who’s still meticulously inspecting the remnants.

"Alright, let’s wrap it up,’ Voss says, his tone tightening as the heat and buzzing flies press in on him. ‘We’ve seen what we need to. Let’s not waste any more time here."

Edited September 16 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Sister Helena turns to Sophia and Lucas as they finish up at the security office. “That’s all for today. We’ll pick up again tomorrow.”

Callista Drakon nods briefly, her expression calm but commanding. “Thank you both for your cooperation.”

Sophia and Lucas exchange glances, a wave of relief passing between them before they nod back.

“Good night, Inquisitor,” Sophia says, her voice betraying a trace of exhaustion.

Lucas adds with a more formal tone, “We’ll be here at noon for the late shift tomorrow, but the morning shift has instructions to help you in any possible way. Good night from me, too.”

Helena and Callista approach the elevator, the doors sliding open smoothly before them. Inside, the cabin is illuminated by a soft glow that filters through a semi-transparent panel in the ceiling made from plascrystal, casting an even, neutral light. The air inside is sterile, carrying the faint scent of industrial-grade purifier. Callista presses the button for the basement, and there’s a brief, gentle jolt as the elevator sets into motion, beginning its smooth descent.

Helena folds her arms, her expression thoughtful. “Markward zu Rosenstein left a real mess in the archived security files. Dozens of cuts and deleted recordings, all conveniently timed with insurance reports for missing or damaged high-value goods.”

Callista’s eyes narrow slightly, her fingers tapping the side of the elevator panel. “Handled by the same clerk, I assume?”

Helena nods, her voice taking on a sharper edge. “Always the same. It doesn’t take a genius to see that he was running a small racket here. Whatever slipped through those gaps was covered up neatly.”

Callista tilts her head, processing the information. “Makes sense. Zu Rosenstein had control over customs—probably thought he could get away with skimming a little off the top. So that mirror... he likely helped himself to it too.”

Helena shifts her stance, a bit of tension lifting from her face. “I did manage to find something about that. Good call on storing it in the sanctified booth—whatever it is, it’s dangerous.” She pauses, then adds, “I pulled some strings and contacted Archivist Estoria Veldan from the Ordos Xenos archives. She owes me a favor from Veridus Prime, where I pulled her out of a collapsing library during a purge.”

Callista’s eyes flicker with interest. “Go on.”

Helena continues, her expression tightening. “Estoria’s been sitting on classified files for years, but even she was nervous about this one. The file is locked away under the name Twilight Lens, and its security rating is practically untouchable—far beyond what we have clearance for. I didn’t get direct access, but Estoria managed to pull a few details before she had to back out.”

Callista raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Twilight Lens?”

Helena nods, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Yes. The file was archived shortly after the failure of the Emperor’s Webway Project. The safety warnings alone are severe—this thing is dangerous. Estoria said the few fragments she could find indicate it should’ve never been out in the open.”

Callista frowns, her eyes darkening. “I wonder whether he even knew what was in that box he stole it from, and if so, who tipped him off. Given the danger of that thing, I see at least grounds for a manslaughter charge for the informant. Wouldn't take much extra knowledge about that thing to make it premeditated murder.”

Helena exhales softly, a hint of weariness creeping into her voice. “Exactly. Whoever allowed this to be in his reach— whether through negligence or intent—could be facing more than just charges for aiding and abetting embezzlement and insurance fraud.”

The hum of the descending elevator underscores the weight of their conversation, the metallic walls steady and silent as the cabin descends.

Callista’s gaze briefly drifts to the elevator’s control panel, her mind still turning over the implications of the Twilight Lens. After a beat, she shifts her focus back to Helena. “Well, it’s nearly dusk. I suppose we either need to drive back or stay here for the night. Did you organize sleeping arrangements?”

Helena’s expression sours slightly. “Yes. There are bunks in the dormitorium—ten of them. Rhauko and Fenix take up one or two at most. We’ve got the rest.”

Callista arches an eyebrow at Helena’s tone. “You don’t sound particularly pleased.”

Helena grimaces, her eyes narrowing with irritation. “It’s not the sleeping arrangements. It’s Voss. He mumbles in his sleep. And Thracce? He snores. Loudly.”

Callista’s lips curve into a faint smile. “At least we won’t need much sleep.”

Helena lets out a quiet sigh, rolling her eyes at the thought of another restless night.

The elevator gives a slight jolt as it reaches the basement level, the doors sliding open with a soft hiss. A cool draft sweeps in from the corridor beyond, where the dim lighting casts long shadows along the walls. Helena and Callista step out, their footsteps echoing faintly as they make their way toward the dormitory.

Edited September 21 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

The security office hums quietly, the air thick with the aftermath of a day spent under the Inquisition’s unrelenting gaze. Monitors blink, casting an eerie light across the room, where Lucas Reiner and Sophia zu Rosenstein sit at their desks. The barrier tape around Markward’s desk and the door to his private room hangs like a cautionary warning, untouched. Outside, the sinking sun bathes the quickly gathering clouds in overblown expressionist colors—fiery reds and purples swirling above the mountains, almost too intense to be real.

 

Sophia rubs her temples, her face weary. “I thought the questioning would never end. That nun—Helena—knows the Departmento Munitorum codex better than I know my own name.”

Lucas smirks, leaning back in his chair. “I was expecting them to start quizzing us on ancient shipping regulations.” His hand brushes lightly against the desk, a brief, absent movement as his eyes flicker to the clock for a split second before returning to Sophia.

Sophia snorts, standing and stretching..

“If I don’t get to the breakroom soon, I’m going to collapse. I’ve been holding it in since the Inquisition barged in.”

Lucas waves her off. “Too much information, Sophia. Way too much information.”

She rolls her eyes, smirking. “Yeah, well, try surviving without me for five minutes.” There's a tiredness to her laugh, but it’s genuine.

 

Sophia grabs her access card but leaves her jacket draped over her chair. As soon as the door closes behind her,Lucas’s demeanor shifts. His casual smile fades, and he glances nervously toward the clock on the wall. Time was running short.

 

He moves quickly, activating the private comms terminal. The screen flickers to life, revealing Di Maglio’s face, his features tense but controlled.

“Lucas,” Di Maglio’s voice carries a smooth edge, “I appreciate you keeping the microphones open.”

Lucas nods. “Of course. So, what’s the next move?”

Di Maglio leans in slightly, his expression grim. “The situation is worse than I expected. We need to act now.”

 

A cold pit forms in Lucas’s stomach. “What exactly do you want me to do?”

Di Maglio’s voice is steady, calm, as though he were giving directions for a routine task. “First, I need you to acquire something personal from Sophia. Something small. Something she won’t miss immediately.”

Lucas hesitates, his hand gripping the edge of his desk. He glances nervously at Sophia’s empty chair. “Why?”

““Trust me on this, Lucas. You’ll understand later.””

Lucas swallows hard, a flicker of shame gnawing at him. With a clenched jaw, he rises and crosses to Sophia’s desk. His fingers hover just above the fabric of her jacket, trembling slightly. The cool, soft material brushes against his skin as he slips his hand inside the pocket. The small, neatly folded pocket square feels almost delicate between his fingertips. The silver-stitched zu Rosenstein crest gleams faintly in the low light. Lucas stuffs it into his own pocket, feeling his pulse quicken, his breath shallow.

“Got it.”

 

Di Maglio’s smile widens slightly, all charm. “You’re doing great. Now, let’s take a look at today’s manifests, shall we?”

“There are 22 scheduled flights,” Lucas protests. “Sophia’s going to be back any minute.”

“Then make it quick. Just the shipping companies and destinations.”

Lucas sighs, pulling up the manifest and rattling off the names as fast as he can. Halfway through, he pauses, straining his ears as a faint sound echoes from the stairwell—footsteps, or maybe just his imagination. His muscles tense, ready for Sophia’s return at any moment. He exhales shakily and resumes the list. He’s halfway down the list when Di Maglio interrupts, his eyes lighting up.

“Wait—Intertransfers Inc., heading for ZR Freight Processing at Port Ghyre. That’s the one.”

Lucas pauses, frowning. “Intertransfers Inc.? What’s so special about that?”

 

Di Maglio leans forward, his tone sly. “It’s owned by the zu Rosenstein clan. 'ZR Freight Processing' is their branch office at Port Ghyre—a small, inconspicuous distribution hub. Perfect for sending something through without attracting attention.”

Lucas looks back at the screen, confused. “So? What’s special about that?”

“Imagine how damning it would be if that mirror were found on that flight,” Di Maglio says, his voice low and deliberate. “The zu Rosenstein name directly tied to such an item. The Inquisition would have all the evidence they need.”

 

Lucas’s stomach twists. “Sister Helena secured it in a sanctified booth, and Sophia tagged it as ‘no access.’ There’s no way I can get to it.”

Di Maglio’s tone shifts suddenly, the smooth charm hardening. 

“You’re not about to let me down, are you, Lucas? You’ve always found a way before.”

 

Lucas shakes his head, he feels his shoulders tension up. The air in the room is thick, like a noose tightening around him. “I’m not comfortable with this. If anyone finds out, this could all trace back to—”

Di Maglio’s voice lowers, dangerously calm.

“Stefan and Andreas. Such bright boys. It would be a shame if their scholarships were… reconsidered.”

Lucas’s heart skips a beat. “You said the board was on their side.”

“They are. For now.” Di Maglio’s smile is thin, like a predator playing with its prey.

"But tides change, Lucas... as you well know. One day, everything’s in your favor, and the next... Well, it's just the way of things, isn't it?

Lucas clenches his fists at his sides, his mind racing. He’s about to speak when Di Maglio continues, his voice like a knife.

“And little Katherine. Such a delicate girl, with so many… unique needs. You know, Lucas, how the Di Maglio Foundation For Excellence always strives to support even children like Katherine. I'd hate to see such potential... overlooked. You understand.”

For a moment, Lucas is frozen, the weight of his children’s future crushing down on him. An image of Kathy, hugging her beloved bunny for comfort, flashes in his mind. His resolve hardens. He turns back to the terminal, his fingers moving across the keyboard.

 

“Sophia’s not the most creative with her passwords,” he mutters, typing the first combination, that comes to his mind. His fingers falter on the keys as the screen flashes red. Incorrect. He tries again, frowning. Another failed attempt. His pulse quickens, frustration bubbling up.

“Damn it…” He forces himself to think. "Maybee..." He blinks slowly. "Lets... try....". His fingers pound the keyboard in a rapid staccato, before he hits the enter key once more.

This time, the screen flickers. The login screen vanishes, and Sophia zu Rosenstein’s access profile finally opens in front of him. A wave of relief washes over him, but it’s tainted—cold, like stepping into a trap he’s set for himself.

 

Lucas exhales slowly, as if the air had been sucked from the room. Di Maglio’s voice cuts through the silence, approving and cold.

“You’ve done well, Lucas. Now, let’s proceed.”

Edited September 17 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

The sound of footsteps in the stairwell makes Lucas flinch. His hand moves instinctively, switching off the screen in a hurried motion as he half-turns toward the door. The handle clicks, and Lucas forces a casual smile onto his face, hoping Sophia doesn’t notice the tension that still grips him.

Sophia steps out, stretching her arms above her head, then grimaces slightly, holding her lower back. "Getting old," she says, with a wry smile. "I didn’t even realize how stiff I got sitting there all day."

Lucas forces a laugh, mimicking her stretch. "Yeah, the Inquisition grilling us for hours can do that." He watches as she leans into the stretch again, clearly relieved.

Outside the tower, the sky darkens rapidly, clouds gathering in thick layers above the horizon, blotting out the last traces of sunlight underneath. The wind howls around the building, shrill and unrelenting. A loose piece of tarpaulin, lifted from the cargo yard below, spins erratically outside the window. It rises, falls, and twists in the air, like a wild specter taunting him with its unpredictable dance.

"You know, Wilhelm von Kessel should be here within the hour to take over the night shift," he says, sounding casual. "I can handle things till then. You can head out early if you want."

"If you hurry, you might get home before you’re drenched," he adds. His eyes drift back to the tarpaulin, still caught in its wild frenzy. It hovers for a moment, then spirals away, disappearing into the swirling clouds. "Storm’s definitely coming."

Sophia turns to him, her face lighting up with surprise and gratitude. "Really? You sure? I mean, you’ve had a long day too."

Lucas nods, waving her off. "I'll manage. Go ahead, beat the storm."

Sophia grabs her jacket from the chair, still looking out the window. "Thanks, Lucas. You’re a real protector of widows and orphans, you know that?"

For a split second, a wave of shame rises in Lucas, but he forces it back down, summoning a smile. He chuckles lightly, though the sound feels hollow in his chest. "Yeah, well, don’t expect too much."

She laughs again, quickly grabbing her jacket, flashing one last grateful smile before rushing to the elevator. Lucas watches her go, his stomach churning with unease. "Thanks again, Lucas!" she calls back as she steps inside. The elevator doors close with a soft thud, leaving him in the eerie quiet. As the soft thud of the elevator doors echoes in the silence, relief washes over Lucas, but it is fleeting. The moment she leaves, the reality of what he is doing crashes back in. Alone again, and no one to shield him from the storm already bearing down on him. The knot in his stomach tightens.

For a brief second, his hand hovers over the switch. He doesn’t want to turn it back on. A part of him wants to sit in the silence just a moment longer, to avoid what he knows is coming. But there is no escaping it. Di Maglio is waiting.

Taking a deep breath, Lucas switches the screen back on. Di Maglio’s face reappears instantly, watching him closely.

"Back to business, then?" Di Maglio says smoothly, his tone easing slightly.

"As you say, Sir," Lucas’ voice has a grim undertone, and he begins opening windows and switching flags to finalize the new freight orders.

Di Maglio watches Lucas work silently for a bit. Only the howling of the wind outside and the clattering of keys are heard.

"Now, Lucas," Di Maglio's voice breaks the silence with casual curiosity. "Aside from our special item, what else is on that flight?"

Lucas hesitates, pulling up the manifest again. "Mostly a shipment of dogs," he mutters.

"Dogs?" Di Maglio sounds genuinely puzzled.

"A specific breed," Lucas explains. "Some hybrid of Bernese mountain dogs. A local breeder specializes in them. The Adeptus Mechanicus finds them ideal for conversion into special K-9 units. They’ve paid extra to keep the dogs out of cryostasis, just anesthetized for transport. The life support system for the cargo bay takes up most of the space, and it’s an odd shape, so there are these gaps between the containers. The box with the mirror fits perfectly into one of those."

Di Maglio arches a brow. "Interesting. Those dogs must cost quite a bit with all those extras."

Lucas shrugs. "Customer demands, ZR Freight delivers," he says, quoting a half-forgotten slogan. "Not like the Adeptus is short on funds to pay for their eccentricities."

Di Maglio chuckles lightly. "Well, let’s hope the Inquisition has no curiosity for dogs like we do for mirrors." His tone drips with ease, as if smoothing over the gravity of their conversation.

"By the way, Lucas, after your shift, come meet me in person. There are things best discussed away from prying eyes."

Lucas freezes for a moment, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow. His stomach tightens painfully. "Where?" he asks, forcing his voice to stay neutral.

"Hangar 12." Di Maglio’s voice holds a false warmth. "I’ll be there. I’d hate for us to leave anything… unresolved."

Edited September 21 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

The rays of the afternoon sun, which had turned the cargoyard into an oven over the course of the day, are pushed back by advancing shadows. The ambient light fades, as if night were approaching fast, although it is still too early in the day.  

The team has gathered near the corner of the Adeptus Arbites post by the elevator’s exit, a blocky, utilitarian structure made of dull gray plastcrete, blending into the rest of the spaceport’s functional architecture. Though simple, it houses space for ten enforcers, with lockers, equipment storage, and two holding cells tucked inside. Its flat roof slopes to a visible drain for runoff.

A wide, reinforced window faces the security tower and gate, its surface slightly smudged from the relentless weather. Behind it, Sergeant Ralkon sits at a metal desk, his stern face bathed in the stark light of a desk lamp. His pen scratches methodically against a stack of paperwork, though his eyes occasionally lift to scan the cargo yard beyond the glass. Nearby, a weapons unloading sandbox sits next to the door, which is fitted with a simple step.

For a brief moment, a spray of fine drops paints a marble pattern of wet circles onto the dried out platcrete ground. The smell of old dust, like from an old attic, with a hint of ozone mixed in, fills the air.

Callista gestures for the team to move further along, away from the post, seeking a spot where they can discuss their findings without prying eyes or ears.

A gust of wind picks up, swirling around the group. It pushes them forward, not uncomfortably at first—more like a release from the earlier sticky heat of the day. It carries with it a low, eerie hum, the oscillating pitch of cables overhead, vibrating like some distant, ghostly choir. A tarp has come lose from one of the wagons, waiting near the feeder road towards the runways, and rattles angrily in the breeze.

Overhead, the clouds boil with slow, churning movements, layering into thick, impenetrable darkness. In the distance, faint thunder rolls through the hills, a warning of what's to come. Each step the team takes seems to carry them closer to the heart of the approaching tempest.

Callista glances around to ensure they’re out of earshot from the Arbites post. The air around them thickens, feeling charged with anticipation, as if the very atmosphere is holding its breath. “We’ve made some progress, but the pieces don’t fit together yet. The mirror... its origins are troubling, and I doubt that’s all we’re dealing with.”

Thracce walks a bit ahead, his eyes sweeping the path. “Could be an organized smuggling ring. Zu Rosenstein was definitely involved, but there’s no way he’s the only one.”

Callista nods thoughtfully. “Agreed. It’s too well-coordinated for just one man. Di Maglio might be our next lead, but we need more before we can act.”

Another brief shower strikes the cargo yard, this time with light hail. The small hailstones bounce off the ground in tiny arcs before rolling to a stop and slowly beginning to melt. Their sharp impacts feel like needles on the skin, and the group instinctively lowers their faces to shield their eyes and sensitive lips.

 

Fenix Kol stands near the bio-waste container where Voss and Thracce had recently conducted their inspection, his stark white novice robes fluttering in the breeze like a ghostly silhouette against the approaching storm. Calm and methodical, he directs a pair of wastewardens to clean up the scattered debris left behind, their lobotomized faces unchanging as they follow his precise gestures, unaffected by the swirling wind and shifting light.

A loader thrall waits nearby, its servos whirring quietly. The wastewardens, their tasks seemingly complete, gather around Fenix, their lobotomized expressions unchanging despite the chill now gripping the air. At Fenix’s signal, they march obediently toward the entrance of the great hall. Meanwhile, Fenix himself stands firm as he directs the loader thrall to return the container to its place against the outer wall.

As they cross the yard, Interrogator Voss watches Fenix work. The Interrogator’s brows furrow slightly. “That Fenix Kol... there’s something about him. Doesn’t he seem a little too calm in all of this?”

“Look at him,” he adds, “Doesn’t even feel the cold.”

Callista follows Voss’s gaze to Fenix, watching as the thrall obeys his directions. “They’re conditioned to ignore discomfort,” Callista replies softly. “Cold, hunger, thirst. The Omnissiah’s teachings focus their mind elsewhere.”
Voss shook his head slightly, still watching Fenix. “Conditioned or not, it’s like nothing phases him.”

As the loader thrall completes its task, Fenix gives a final command, sending it back toward the cargo yard. The thrall seems to plod off without a sound, as its heavy footfalls are swallowed by the building gusts.

A crushed paper carton, having evaded the wastewardens’ attention, seizes its chance and tumbles toward the line of parked freight vehicles. It sneaks under a food truck’s wheel, only to be freed by a sudden gust, launching it over the truck’s cabin in a triumphant leap. The wind picks it up again, carrying it over the perimeter fence. Fenix watches, hands on his hips, shaking his head before turning back to scan for any servitors needing his attention. “But we shouldn’t dismiss him entirely,”

Callista adds, her eyes narrowing. “Rhaukos and his apprentice have access to more than we can fathom. Fenix may know more about this mirror than he’s let on. Keep an eye on him.”

As Callista speaks, she catches a small smile playing at the corners of Helena’s mouth. It’s subtle, but not enough to escape Callista’s attention. Raising an eyebrow, Callista asks, “What’s amusing you?”

Helena hesitates, waving her hand dismissively at first. “Oh, nothing. I don’t want to spoil the sense of mysticism you two are feeling.”

Callista’s curiosity piques, and she exchanges a look with Voss. “You’re not getting off that easily. What is it?”

Helena sighs, trying to keep her expression neutral. “Well... there’s something they don’t tell you when you talk about ‘conditioned to ignore discomfort.’ One of the best-kept secrets in cloistered life: functional underwear.”

Voss looks at her, puzzled. “Underwear?”

Helena grins, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “Yep. Every Adeptus Sororitas monastery can produce it themselves. Some of the cloisters even earn extra funds by selling it. You see, teaching novices discipline and subjugating their bodily needs is fine, but it’s much quicker—and frankly more efficient—to just give them the right clothing.”

Callista can’t help but smile, amused at where this is going. “And what does this have to do with Fenix?”

“Well,” Helena continues, “the Adeptus Mechanicus are some of our most loyal customers. The Magi don’t need it, of course, not once they’ve replaced most of their flesh with implants. But for their novices? Functional clothing keeps them from getting sick and losing valuable time. So while I don’t know if there’s anything particularly special about Fenix, he’s clearly smart enough to know what to wear under those robes.”

Voss gives a deadpan look, his usual skepticism barely shaken. “So, the big mystery of the Mechanicus… is good underwear?”

Helena chuckles, pulling her hood tighter against the wind. “Efficiency is their mantra, after all.”

The wind wails louder now as they approach the large gates of the Great Hall, the heavy metal creaking in the gusts. Cargo crates are stacked against the far wall, their outlines barely visible in the eerie, pale light. Each step feels heavier, the weight of the atmosphere pressing down upon them.

Voss pulls his cloak tighter against the biting air, his brow furrowed in concentration. The storm looms like a physical presence, a dark omen bearing down on the group. His eyes narrow as he glances over his shoulder, surveying the cargo yard one last time before speaking. “We can’t forget Di Maglio. He’s slippery. He’s made sure nothing sticks to him, but if there’s anyone who could have orchestrated this...”

Callista walks with purpose, her cloak billowing slightly behind her. Her focus remains steady, fixed on the path ahead. “He’s involved,” Callista agrees. “But we’ll need more than suspicion. I’ll meet with him in the morning. Until then, we wait.”

Thracce shifts uncomfortably, his armor clanking softly. His eyes dart to the horizon as if expecting the storm to erupt at any moment. He grunts, his voice low. “Feels like we’re dancing in circles, waiting for the storm to break. I don’t like it.”

Callista glances at Thracce, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. The wind howls around them, a cold draft cutting through the group. Her voice softens, but her gaze remains sharp. “No one does. But it’s in the quiet moments that the real answers tend to slip out.”

As the group presses on, a tarpaulin ripped from one of the wagons catches the wind and flutters erratically, twisting in the gusts as it’s swept upward along the security tower. The wind carries it higher before it disappears into the swirling mass of clouds overhead.

“Storm’s definitely coming,” Thracce grunts, glancing upward as another distant roll of thunder rumbles.

A cold draft follows them even as they enter the central lane through the Great Hall. On their way to the dormitorium, they pass the massive gates of the refectorium, designed to admit even the largest iron stevedores and ironbeasts. The dull metal gleams faintly in the fading light, hinting at the cavernous space within.

A soft glow spills from the library door, casting faint shadows. The group moves past, heading for the dormitorium where they’ll spend the night.

“Get some rest tonight,” Callista says quietly. “Tomorrow, we move. Whatever Zu Rosenstein was involved in, it’s far from over.”

Inside the dormitorium, the air is warmer, but it does little to chase away the creeping tension that lingers, as though the impending weather were closing in from outside. The narrow rows of bunks feel cramped under the weak light from fluttering lumen strips, casting shifting shadows across the walls. The silence here is thick and oppressive, a sharp contrast to the furious noise outside.

Sister Helena wastes no time settling in. She sits on the lower bunk and pulls out her rosary, the beads slipping through her fingers as she begins her quiet prayers. The faint click of each bead breaking the otherwise still air.

Interrogator Voss, his movements stiff and tired, walks over to Callista. He waits for a moment, watching Helena, before leaning in to speak in a low voice. "Inquisitor... I hate to ask, but... could you talk to Sister Helena?"

Callista arches a brow. "What about?"

Voss glances toward Helena again, his expression a mix of frustration and exhaustion. "The rosary. She’s been at it since we arrived, just like every other time we’ve had to bunk together. The constant clicking... I’m not going to get any sleep at this rate."

Callista's lips twitch with restrained amusement. "Perhaps you should join her in prayer, Voss. It might help."

Voss lets out a long, weary sigh, his shoulders slumping as he shoots Callista a resigned look. “That’s not exactly the kind of peace I’m after, Inquisitor.

Edited September 21 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Anton stands in front of the cafeteria map, his eyes scanning the intricate layout of the hangar grid for what feels like the hundredth time. His fingers trace the indexed descriptions, mentally ticking off each location he’s already searched. The refectorium, the dormitorium minor—Rhauko’s pompous names for the automated servitor repair shop and storage garage—those were clear. He’d been there. Even scoured around the giant transformer and tanks at the back. Nothing. His search had been thorough, bordering on obsessive, but still, Markward's stash eluded him.
The only interesting thing he encountered, were Rhaukos servitor skulls patrolling the grid in regular intervals. Anton hadn't realized how many of them Rhaukos had, as they were rarely active in the cargo district, where Fenix extended Rhaukos control. Anton had tried to evade them, although he knew, they likely wouldn't even register him, their task was to coordinate the hangar grid's servitor after all. Still, he didn't like their blinking eyes appearing behind him unexpectedly, and left a constant feeling of being watched with Anton.

Anton sighs heavily, the cold biting at his skin, a sharp contrast to the sticky humidity of the earlier afternoon. The sweat had soaked through his clothes then, and now the icy wind announcing the incoming storm seems to mock his efforts. His body shivers, but whether from the chill or from the exhaustion gnawing at his bones, Anton isn’t sure. The creeping signs of withdrawal don’t help. His cravings had driven him all over the hangar grid, pushing him into this wild goose chase, and now a dull shame gnaws at him. What had he expected to find?

His finger slides down the map to the road axis—the refectorium and dormitorium minor at the end. He’d even gone so far as to avoid the six rented compounds, knowing Markward wouldn’t have stashed anything there. The man hated the renters, constantly quarreling with them. They weren’t part of the search equation. Anton’s mind ticks over the possibilities again—eighteen hangars, five of them empty, nine holding ships waiting for service, and the rest filled with specialized servitors rarely seen outside the cargoyard or great hall. He hadn’t dared check Rhauko’s smaller transformer sheds—access denied, even to Markward.

All that’s left is the cafeteria, marked by the familiar blue dot on the map. “You are here,” it declares in a circle of tiny lettering. “I’m mostly deep in the dung,” Anton mutters to himself, hearing Markward’s manic laughter echoing in his head. His stomach churns, and he realizes with a sinking feeling that his withdrawal is creeping up fast. He needs to get home soon to take the edge off. And Frida… oh no. He left her waiting in the car all day. By now, she’ll be furious. His pulse quickens.

Anton looks up, eyes following the feeder road that leads from the loading compound back toward the great hall. The distance between him and the parking lot feels impossibly long. Thankfully, the cafeteria’s visitor shuttle sits parked under the canopy, next to a pair of rollways. He eyes it with relief, but then something else catches his attention.

A unique shuttle approaches from the distance, one Anton instantly recognizes—the navigator’s special edition with the glass cupola. Designed to isolate its passengers from the unpleasant planetary atmosphere, and there’s only one person who occasionally leaves the navigator's tower in that vehicle. Di Maglio.

Anton sighs deeply, his heart sinking. Dealing with that man’s arrogant theatralics is the last thing he can handle right now. He looks around desperately for a place to hide. His eyes fall on the large garbage can near the wall of the nearest hangar. It’s not ideal, but it’ll have to do. Di Maglio will pass, get whatever he’s here for, and leave. Then, Anton can make his escape.

Anton crouches behind the garbage can, watching as Di Maglio parks his shuttle right in front of the hangar exits. The navigator steps out, and to Anton’s dismay, starts moving materials around in the pile right next to him. “What are you doing there, spaceboy, getting your fingers dirty with planetary mud?” Anton thinks bitterly, stifling a groan.

He crouches lower, hoping Di Maglio won’t notice him. With any luck, he’ll find what he’s looking for and drive back to his tower, leaving Anton to slip away and finally get back to Frida.

 

Edited 8 hours ago by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

A low, metallic drone fills the air as a spacebound vessel is being loaded in the distance. An iron stevedore clanks and hisses, moving entire containers from the wagon train behind an ironbeast into the vessel’s massive hull. The loading compound is bustling with activity, but from Hangar 12, it feels distant, like a world apart. On the horizon, the jagged silhouettes of mountains loom under the heavy, cloud-covered sky. The eerie light breaking through casts a strange glow over the scene, a sign of the storm creeping ever closer.

Despite the thick, clouded sky, the wind, which had whipped across the compound minutes earlier, suddenly dies down, leaving an unsettling calm. The silence deepens, the air growing heavy, as the center of the tempest draws near.

A staff shuttle pulls up in front of Hangar 12. Lucas Reiner steps out, scanning the area. His eyes catch the familiar Navis Nobilite shuttle parked nearby, its distinctive cupola easily recognizable. Still, there’s no sign of di Maglio. Lucas waits, hands fidgeting at his sides, before stepping away from the shuttle, his gaze shifting to the shadows around the hangar. The quiet feels unnatural, as if the air itself is holding its breath, making his pulse quicken.

Anton crouches behind his garbage can, trying to remain invisible. His heart pounds in his chest as he shifts his weight to one side, desperately hoping not to be seen.

From the shadows, di Maglio emerges, walking calmly toward Lucas, carrying a long suitcase in his hand. His cold smile is as controlled as ever.

“Why did you want to meet me here?” Lucas asks, frowning.

Di Maglio walks closer, his voice casual. “You served in the Imperial Guard. You know how to handle a rifle.”

Lucas’s expression hardens, unease creeping into his features as he watches di Maglio.
“That was decades ago. I haven’t touched a firearm since.”

Di Maglio stops, placing the suitcase down in front of Lucas. He unclicks the latches with a deliberate motion, his smile widening slightly as he speaks softly.
“Then it’s time to change that.”

He opens the suitcase, revealing a sleek hunting rifle with a periscope. The metallic glint catches the dim light from the hangar, casting a cold glow across Lucas’s tense face.

Lucas feels his stomach twist as di Maglio’s intentions become clearer, a creeping sense of dread settling in. He doesn’t know what’s coming, but it’s nothing good.
“What the hell is this?” Lucas asks, apprehension growing in his voice.

From his cramped hiding spot, Anton strains to catch the conversation. Something about the Imperial Guard. For a moment, he wonders if it’s just an old war story, a harmless exchange. But the tension in Lucas’s voice keeps him on edge, and the mention of weapons sends a fresh wave of unease through him.

Di Maglio responds to Lucas smoothly, his tone almost soothing, “You’re going to take this up to one of the balconies in the great hall. Find a spot with a clear view of the dormitorium door.”

Lucas hesitates, uncertainty etched on his face as he slowly reaches out, taking the gun from di Maglio’s grip.

“You’ll place Sophia’s pocket square at the position, then wait. When anyone from the Inquisition comes into view... you shoot. Just enough to get their attention.”

Lucas blinks, his grip tightening around the firearm as if the enormity of the task is sinking in deeper with every word.

Di Maglio continues, “Once the shot is fired, you leave the rifle and the pocket square and get away. Quietly. No one should see you. Simple.”

Di Maglio hands Lucas the weapon, the silence between them growing heavier. Anton shifts again, his foot scraping against the ground ever so slightly as he strains to hear.

“Time to get their attention, Lucas. You know where to set up,” says di Maglio quietly.

Lucas stares at the gun, his grip tightening. His mind races, images of his family flashing before him, the weight of what this might cost him setting in.
“You want me to set up in the great hall... and shoot… at the Inquisition? You’re serious? Shoot at the Inquisition?”

Anton’s pulse quickens. The conversation has taken a darker turn than he expected, and he suddenly wishes he hadn’t stayed to listen.

Di Maglio’s eyes narrow, his tone clipped and direct. “No need to overthink it. Accuracy doesn’t matter. One shot is all it takes to stir the hornet’s nest. No one needs to get hurt. The sound alone will be enough.”

Lucas grips the firearm tighter, his mind racing, glancing at di Maglio.
“Sophia... you’re setting her up for this, aren’t you? This will—”

Di Maglio steps closer, cutting him off sharply. His voice drops, cold and hard.
“Don’t pretend to be naive, Lucas. You knew from the moment I came to you what this was. So don’t waste my time with second thoughts.”

Lucas flinches but remains silent, his discomfort painfully obvious. Anton, still behind the garbage can, shifts again, his breath shallow as the pressure builds.

“My military service was... decades ago. I’m not the man you think I am,” Lucas protests, trying another angle.

Di Maglio’s smile grows more calculating, more dangerous.
“Decades ago, maybe. But you don’t need to be a sharpshooter for this. Just pull the trigger, and the Inquisition will do the rest.”

Anton’s breath catches as the pieces fall into place. A rifle, a shot, the Inquisition. His heart pounds in his ears, his legs cramping from crouching so long, but he doesn’t dare move. If they see him now, he’s dead.

Lucas stands silent, marveling at the way the hangar's lumen stripes reflect off the sleek, blackened barrel. The hesitation on his face is unmistakable. Di Maglio sighs, his patience thinning. He leans in, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper.

“You’re not getting out of this, Lucas. I know about your dishonorable discharge. And the forgeries you had to commit, to wipe it off your record. You think the Inquisition wouldn’t be interested in hearing about that?”

Lucas’s face tightens with panic, but his feet remain planted, frozen in place. Di Maglio’s eyes flash with annoyance, and he turns the screws tighter.

“Your family home... It would be a pity to see it taken away. But, if you do as I ask, I can make it better. More than better, actually. A luxury estate—safe, comfortable, for your family to enjoy.”

He pauses, letting the words sink in before delivering the final blow.

“Do what I ask, or your family will be left with nothing. But help me out here... and they’ll live in luxury.”

Lucas’s shoulders sag slightly. The weight of the decision is finally too much. He closes his eyes, gripping the rifle as though it is the only thing holding him upright.
“Why me?” he asks, his voice barely audible.

In the distance, over the mountains, a low rumble of thunder rolls closer. The storm’s approach feels inevitable, just like his surrender.

Di Maglio smiles darkly, stepping back as if the victory is already his.
“Because you’re useful, Lucas. And because you don’t have a choice.”

The silence lingers for a long moment. Then, with the storm building again in the distance, Lucas nods, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Guilt gnaws at him—Sophia would never forgive him for this, and he’s not sure he can forgive himself.
“I... don’t have a choice, do I?”

Di Maglio straightens, satisfaction evident.
“Good. Now get into position. The Inquisition’s getting closer to shutting this place down. We can’t afford any loose ends.”

Edited September 19 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Di Maglio stands near the edge of the road, his back to the garbage can, watching as Lucas drives off in the shuttle. A faint smile touches his lips, savoring the satisfaction of knowing that his scheme is already set in motion. The storm clouds above churn, darkening the sky, but he pays them no mind. He’s in control.

Anton, crouched behind the garbage, feels a cough rising in his throat. He’s held his breath for far too long, and his lungs are burning. Panicked, he clamps a hand over his mouth, stifling the cough, but the motion throws him off balance. He topples sideways, crashing into the garbage can and sprawling to the ground.

Di Maglio turns slowly, his expression cool and distant. His eyes narrow, studying Anton with detached curiosity, as if inspecting a newly discovered insect species. Anton scrambles to his feet, heart racing, forcing a nervous grin onto his face.

"Uh, hey there!" Anton blurts, dusting himself off clumsily. "Subordinate security officer for Markward's crew, Anton Fischer, here. You, uh… you probably haven’t noticed me before, Mr. Di Maglio, Sir." His voice wavers slightly. "You’ve got all kinds of important… Navigator stuff, and rarely leave your tower and all. I was just—" He clears his throat, shifting on his feet, "—doing my rounds, checking on a few things. Seems like, uh, rough weather to be out for some fresh air, Sir."

He tries to sound casual, but his voice cracks. The jovial tone he’s trying to project feels thin, fragile. Anton’s eyes dart nervously, and he realizes that his show won’t work. Di Maglio is unreadable, and the silence stretches ominously.

"Look, uh…" Anton pauses, glancing nervously at Di Maglio, as if testing the waters. "I might’ve overheard a bit of a, let’s say, spicy conversation just now." He shifts uncomfortably, waiting for any reaction but getting none.

But don’t worry, I’m a reasonable guy. Really, I am." Anton forces a grin but stumbles over his words. "I, uh… I get it. Sometimes, decisions have to be made. You know, tough ones. Harsh, even. Stuff that… that people wouldn’t understand." He glances again, almost pleading, hoping to gauge Di Maglio’s reaction.

Di Maglio offers no response, his eyes still locked on Anton, expression unchanging. Anton’s pulse hammers in his ears. He starts to feel bolder, encouraged by di Maglio’s silence.

"Now, uh…" Anton’s voice cracks, and he clears his throat, trying to regain composure. "A small... regular addition to my salary, or even a one-time payment, might, uh, help keep things… quiet." His eyes dart nervously, searching for any sign of approval from Di Maglio. "We could, um… maybe set up a working relationship. Mutually beneficial. If that’s something you, uh, think would work."

Di Maglio produces a smile. "Very reasonable," he says, his voice soft, almost amused. "I’ve been looking for someone like you. A capable assistant, to help me with some tasks ahead."

Anton blinks, not expecting this. The offer feels... too good. Di Maglio steps closer, and Anton stiffens. "You’ve shown initiative. I like that. Here’s what I want you to do: tomorrow morning, call my secretary. Tell them the salary you receive from ZR Freight Inc. I’m prepared to offer the same amount on top, just to retain your services."

Anton’s eyes widen. He tries not to show his surprise, swallowing hard. "Well, I… I’ll just get back to my rounds, if it’s okay for you, then, Sir." He winks awkwardly at di Maglio and turns to leave, making his way toward the canopy near the cafeteria, where the visitor shuttle is parked.

As Anton walks away, di Maglio’s smile fades. He waits a few moments, watching Anton’s steps become more confident, the distance between them growing. Then di Maglio reaches into his coat and pulls out a slim dart pistol.

He assumes a straight sideways posture, steps his left foot forward to steady himself, and calmly raises his right arm with the dart pistol. Drawing a breath, he closes his left eye, aligning the sights perfectly with Anton’s silhouette. As he slowly exhales, he lets his finger find the right amount of pressure on the trigger. The dart hisses through the air, striking Anton in the back of the neck.

Anton stumbles, his hands flying to the back of his neck, but his limbs grow heavy, unresponsive. The world tilts, his vision blurring as the paralytic takes hold. His legs buckle, and he collapses to the ground, eyes wide with helpless terror. He can feel everything—he just can’t move.

Di Maglio strolls up to him, unhurried. Kneeling beside Anton’s limp form, he removes the dart from his neck with deliberate precision, examining it for a brief moment before tucking it away in a small metal tube. He smoothly returns the pistol to its shoulder holster under his coat.

"What a tragic end…" Di Maglio murmurs, standing and looking down at Anton’s frozen face. "… to even such a worthless life."

Without another word, di Maglio hauls Anton’s body into the luggage compartment of his personal ground shuttle.

For a brief moment, the world fractures into blinding lights and deep black shadows as a thunderbolt arcs toward the roof of the security tower, at the far end of the complex, behind the navigator tower and the vast dome of the great hall.

A series of sharp, static cracks fills the air, like the splintering of a massive tree trunk being torn apart—violent, jagged, louder than distant thunder.

A light shower of hail starts to tingle onto the tarmac and the corrugated metal arcs of the hangar roofs, before quickly turning into a massive downpour.
The storm has finally broken.

A siren near the loading compound gives off three low honks, warning the lighter servitor variants to seek shelter. The skull servitor overseeing the compound retreats into its transparent birdcage above the working area, while the wastewardens, fuel regulators, train-slaves, and a lone lawncutter from the nearby meadows fall into a steady procession toward the road axis and the refectorium at its end.

The storm quickly worsens, the hail starting to fall in heavy, icy chunks, clattering against the cupola of di Maglio’s shuttle. He accelerates down the feeder road toward the navigation tower.

But soon, the shuttle is forced to slow as the spotlights of an ironbeast approach through the downpour—its hulking, mechanical frame barely visible as a dark silhouette behind the lights.
Di Maglio pulls the shuttle off to the side, making way for the inbound titan. He looks back at Anton’s motionless body, then drags him out of the shuttle, positioning him directly in the ironbeast’s path.

Retreating under the warmth of his shuttle's cupola, di Maglio watches with quiet satisfaction as the ironbeast rumbles toward Anton. The massive machine doesn’t slow as it barrels into Anton’s body, tossing him aside like a ragdoll.

The ironbeast begins to decelerate gradually, its massive weight causing the tires to skid slightly on the wet, ice-covered road. With wagons in tow, it can’t stop suddenly, but the impact registers somewhere deep in its mechanical system, forcing it to slow. The sound of grinding metal and the groan of its suspension fills the air as it tries to balance its load. It finally lurches to a slower pace, the storm and hail making visibility poor, the machine unable to immediately sense what it hit.

The beast halts, its sensors blinking rapidly, trying to make sense of the impact. For a moment, it hesitates, the gears within its body ticking in a pattern almost resembling contemplation. After a brief pause, the ironbeast emits two sharp honks—mechanical, automatic, as if to issue a final warning. Still, nothing lies within its sensor range. Confused by the absence of an obstruction, it lingers briefly, then shudders back into motion, resuming its march toward the loading compound, the mystery of the impact left unsolved.

Di Maglio waits inside the shuttle until the torrent recedes just enough for the hectically reciprocating wipers to clear his view of the road ahead. Then he drives off, the shuttle picking up speed as he heads back toward the navigator tower, the cold smile returning to his face.

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

The rain has eased from the first onslaught of the storm, now falling in a steady downpour that soaks everything around the spaceport. In the background, the base of the security tower stands still, while the corner of the Arbites post juts out to the right. Stacked containers, slick with rain, sit to the left, half-obscured by the sheets of water. The world is grey, heavy with wetness.

Sergeant Ralkon stands outside the Arbites post, his feet comfortably spread in a stance of authority, hands clasped behind his back. His peaked cap is protected by a transparent foil, and a matching cape hangs from his shoulders, shielding his black dress uniform from the weather. The rain is ignored, rolling off him as though it doesn’t exist. At his right side hangs the heavy holster for his bolt pistol, ever-present but undisturbed.

Through the curtain of rain, a white staff shuttle with red markings appears. Its sleek body bears the logos of the spaceport and the Adeptus Arbites crest on the hood and doors—clearly visible despite the gloom, an unmistakable announcement of authority to anyone nearby. The shuttle parks neatly in a marked spot, and two enforcers emerge, their helmets gleaming with moisture. Their lighter uniforms, designed for hot conditions, cling to their bodies, soaked from the unrelenting downpour, but they, like their sergeant, pay no mind to the rain.

Selma Drayk, the driver, pulls a lascarbine from the fixture behind the seat, while the other enforcer, Darius Rhost, the patrol leader, jogs through the rain toward Ralkon. Rhost stops five paces from his superior, halting sharply and snapping to attention—feet together, back straight, hands rigid at his sides. Ralkon mirrors the movement, assuming the same rigid posture, waiting in silence.

Drayk joins Rhost, standing beside him, carbine slung over her back.

After a beat, Rhost takes two steps forward and salutes. “Perimeter Team reporting back from Patrol, Sergeant Ralkon, Sir!”

Ralkon returns the salute, holding his gaze for a few seconds longer than needed. His voice, even in the rain, is clear and commanding. “Enforcer Rhost, report on your patrol.”

Rhost rattles off the report as if by muscle memory. “We left control point 4 as scheduled at 22.23 zulu, continued the patrol along the fence in designated shuttle, checked the wagon canopy on foot, then arrived back. No unusual observations, Sir!”

Ralkon’s brow twitches slightly. “What was the condition of spotlights and cameras along the fence, Enforcer Rhost?”

Rhost hesitates for a moment, thinking. “Didn’t witness any flying sparks. The cameras were still blinking, and the spotlights worked, except for mounts Alpha-7 and Juliet-11. They’re still out of order, Sir.”

Ralkon’s face remains impassive, though his tone is edged. “Any signs of tampering at the wagon canopy, Enforcer?”

“No, sir. No signs of tampering, and no unauthorized persons spotted.” Rhost pauses, then adds, almost as an afterthought: “Enforcer Drayk had an encounter with a potentially aggressive Loader Thrall. She skillfully de-escalated the situation via swift and decisive evasive maneuvering, Sir.”

Drayk shoots Rhost an irritated glance, her upper lip curling slightly in distaste as she furrows her brows and shakes her head, but she keeps silent.

Ralkon remains stoic, his voice dry and serious. “Your heroic efforts will be duly noted, Enforcer Drayk.”

He raises his voice into a sharp, parade-ground tone. “Perimeter Patrol, reeee-lease!”

Both Drayk and Rhost assume more relaxed postures, spreading their feet and clasping their hands behind their backs, while Rhost steps back to his original position. Ralkon’s tone lightens, carrying the ease of a seasoned commander used to the routine.

“Well done, gentlemen! Now secure your weapons, get inside, and change out of these washcloths you call uniforms. Take a hot shower and help yourselves to a warm beverage, for the Emperor’s sake. And tell Caltan and Sanz to take a peek out of the Emperor-forsaken window before they choose their patrol uniforms. I can’t live with the thought of all my command getting sick and infecting the populace with the bubonic plague or something. Dismissed!”

As the enforcers relax, a soft chime echoes from the security tower. Ralkon turns his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as the elevator arrives at the ground floor. His gaze lingers on the closed doors for a moment, but before he can give it much thought, they slide open.

Wilhelm von Kessel stumbles out, his face pale as ash, his eyes wide with fear. His hands shake uncontrollably, the tremors visible even as he clutches his arms tightly to his sides. Sweat drips from his brow, his short brown hair matted and damp. His uniform, though standard for an operations officer, hangs loose on his frame as if he has been wasting away. He darts forward, his body jerking with every step, glancing over his shoulder toward the top of the tower as if expecting something to leap out after him.

He attempts to run past the enforcers, his feet splashing in puddles left by the rain, but Sergeant Ralkon steps in his path, his voice sharp. “Von Kessel, why have you left your post?”

Von Kessel’s breath comes in ragged bursts, his words stumbling over each other. “I’m done! I’m quitting—immediately!” His voice trembles as he speaks, his body shaking with each shallow breath. “I’ll find something else,” he gasps, his eyes darting frantically to the top of the tower. “I’d rather beg in the streets than ever set foot in that tower again!”

Ralkon furrows his brow. Panic wasn't new to him, especially after a thunderstrike. People always got jumpy when the heavens opened up, but this was nothing unusual. Just weather. He had dealt with this kind of fear before—calm it down, keep it rational. “You worried about that thunderstrike?” Ralkon’s voice was measured. “It happens—nothing to panic over.”

Von Kessel interrupts him, his voice cracking. “I’m not talking about the forsaken weather. I’m talking about that THING up there in the office!”

Ralkon blinks, taken aback. His eyes flick to his enforcers—Rhost and Drayk—who are in the middle of securing their weapons by the sandbox outside the Arbites post. Von Kessel seizes the moment, slipping past Ralkon and sprinting toward the perimeter gate, his footsteps splashing erratically in the puddles.

Von Kessel takes his chance, slipping past Ralkon and sprinting toward the perimeter gate, his footsteps splashing erratically in the puddles.

Rhost shifts slightly, his eyes flicking to Ralkon, unsure whether to pursue. For a moment, he seems ready to take a step forward.

Ralkon watches von Kessel run, his brow furrowing. After a brief pause, he raises a hand in a quick, dismissive gesture. “Let him go.”

The Enforcers stay put, refocusing their attention on securing their weapons.

Ralkon’s eyes still follow von Kessel as he dashes through the perimeter gate and vanishes from sight, heading toward the parking lot.
With a sigh, he turns back to his team. “Rhost, Drayk, I’m afraid your hot shower has to wait. Go up there and find out what spooked that loon.”

Edited Thursday at 05:13 AM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Rhost calmly reloads his autopistol, while Drayk powers up the lascarbine. Together, they move toward the elevator door.

Ralkon’s voice catches them mid-step from behind, filled with anger. 'Perimeter Patrol, a-teeeen-tion!'.

Both enforcers freeze mid-step, pivot sharply, and stand at rigid attention.

“Don’t you dare enter that motherfondling elevator in clear sight of my very eyes! Yes, it’s probably a false alarm, and yes, that old kook likely took a nap in front of his monitors and woke up from a bad dream! But the Adeptus Arbites are always prepared for the worst! I haven’t checked that elevator’s engine room for tampering, and unless you’ve recently developed psychic powers, you don’t know any more than I do! Use... the... Fiery... Stairs!”

He points to the auxiliary stairwell door, barely visible in the shadows beside the elevator. The enforcers hesitate for a brief moment, unsure if they’re dismissed to continue the task.

Ralkon fires off another shout, with enough force to damage eardrums. “And stop slouching like a pair of senile grandmas off their meds! Rhost, I want your voxcomm crackling in under two minutes to confirm you’re standing in front of the chair that moron just fell out of! March! March! March! Maaaarch!”

Rhost and Drayk bolt toward the staircase door, pulling it open before sprinting up the stairs. Their boots echo against the metal steps as the door slowly swings shut behind them, leaving only the fading sound of their ascent. Ralkon turns on his heel, stomps to the door of the Arbites post, rips it open, and bellows inside.

“Alarrrrm! Alarrrrm! Get off the bunks and the toilets, you lazy slugs! Arbites commando, assemble in front of the post in strike team gear, NOW!”

Ralkon’s voice rings out, firm and direct. “Corporal Varus, autogun and stun grenades. Volk, Haltz, stormshields and power mauls. Caltan, Santz, shotguns and frag grenades. Varn, bring out that darn heavy stubber!”

Ralkon waits outside the post, his eyes scanning the doorway as the enforcers come stumbling out, some still looking sleepy, all of them clearly surprised. One by one, they assemble in line before him, shaking off their grogginess. Ralkon checks their gear with a practiced eye, ensuring each weapon and piece of equipment is in place as the rain continues to fall steadily around them.

Ralkon addresses them in a calm, self-assured tone, his voice cutting through the rain. “Gentlemen, ladies, our beloved colleagues from the security office found it in their hearts to inspire me for a readiness drill. We will exercise an assault on the office—up the stairway and through the door—to pay our gratitude for the favor. Assume hostiles sighted but as of yet unidentified. I want you to focus on—”

His words are cut off by the sudden, unmistakable sound of a salvo fired from an autopistol above. Ralkon’s eyes widen in disbelief as he stares upward at the dark windows along the office front. Two brief flashes of light—likely from a lascarbine—illuminate the windows from within.

Ralkon’s left hand begins to pat down his left leg, and nestles out a vox-comm from the cargo pocket. He pulls out the antenna, presses a button and speaks into the vox-comms reinforced mike. “Perimeter Patrol, report in.”

Edited September 25 by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Sergeant Ralkon releases the button of the vox-comm and listens to the noise coming from its speaker. The speaker emits static, with frequent sharp bursts from the storm, but no reply.

He takes a few steps and presses the button again, eyes fixed on his thumb to ensure it’s fully engaged. “Perimeter Patrol, we have signs of shots coming from your position. Report in immediately!”

Again, only the interference from atmospheric waves answers.

“Enforcer Darius Rhost. You have to pull out the antenna completely, so I can hear you in this weather. Press the button on the right side of the vox-comm and keep it down while you speak. And if you managed to break that thing again, then go to the next window, open it wide, and shove your ugly head out of it so I can enjoy the sight of the tears running down your moronic cheeks!”

Ralkon waits again, pacing a few steps forward and back.

No reply, no movement from the security office’s glass front. He puts the vox-comm back, grabs the stormshield out of Volk’s hands, and rushes toward the tower door. He draws his bolt pistol, brandishing it over the rim of the shield, his eyes locked on the staircase ahead.

“Arbites strike team, follow me! For the glory of the Imperium of Man!” His voice is a battle cry, filled with the unwavering authority of a man ready to charge into danger.

He leads the way into the tower, charging up the stairs, the shield held high, his bolt pistol ready. The strike team follows close behind, weapons drawn, as they storm upward into the unknown threat above.

The stairway ends at a small platform encircling the outside of the elevator shaft. The light is faint, cast by low-powered lumen strips serving as emergency lighting. A small white box on the wall emits a glow, displaying the icon of a person walking toward a stairway, with an arrow pointing downward and a green rectangle labeled "Emergency Exit."

The floors of the stairway and platform are made of profiled metal sheets, punctured with small holes to prevent moisture from pooling on them.

The sound of boots echoes up the metal stairs, accompanied by the heavy breathing of the enforcers.

Sergeant Ralkon stands on the platform, his bolt pistol raised in both hands, aimed directly at the door to the security office. His shield rests on the ground, leaning against his leg.

As Volk reaches the top of the stairway, Ralkon removes his left hand from the pistol and motions for Volk to take back his shield and assume position to the left of the floor. Volk retrieves the shield and steps into position.

One by one, the enforcers reach the top of the stairway. Caltan, with his shotgun, takes position behind Volk. Haltz and Santz, wielding a second shield and shotgun, move to the right of the door. Corporal Varus stands next to Ralkon, her autogun also trained on the door. Varn arrives last, struggling with the heavy stubber, and sets it up in a prone position in front of Ralkon and Varus, the weapon pointed at the office door.

Ralkon waits, listening as the heavy breathing subsides. He raises a hand, signaling to each enforcer in turn until they respond with a raised thumb, acknowledging their readiness. When all are accounted for, he taps Corporal Varus on the shoulder, raises his left hand to his mouth in a pantomime of pulling the pin from a grenade, and points toward the door.

Varus nods, slinging her autogun over her shoulder. She pulls a stun grenade from her belt and moves to the right side of the platform. Across from her, Volk stands ready. Varus motions, and Volk cracks the door open just enough for her to toss the grenade inside. As soon as it’s in, Volk pulls the door shut.

The grenade detonates inside with a deafening bang, and a flash of intense light escapes through the door’s cracks.

Volk yanks the door wide open. Haltz and Santz rush in together, shouting, “Adeptus Arbites, drop your weapons!” Haltz crouches low behind the stormshield, while Santz moves just behind, aiming a shotgun over Haltz’s head. They vanish around the right side of the doorframe, leaving the center line clear for the firing team.

As the door swings fully open, Varus’s eyes widen in shock. “Sarge… there are bodies.”

Ralkon’s gaze flicks down to the center of the room where two lifeless forms lie sprawled on the floor. “Focus on the breaching team’s safety first,” he says sharply, his tone commanding. “No distractions.”

Santz’s voice echoes from inside: “Right side clear!”

Volk enters next, crouched behind his own shield, with Caltan close behind, shotgun raised as they move in tandem to secure the left side. After a brief moment, Caltan’s voice calls out, “Left side clear, room clear!”

Ralkon takes a deep breath and lowers his bolt pistol. He motions for Varus to follow and strides forward, entering the security office. He sweeps the room for threats, then points sharply toward the bodies. “Varus, check for signs of life.”

Outside, heavy clouds crawl toward the windows, arcs of lightning slicing from the sky. A few seconds later, thunder rolls through the room, echoing off the walls as if the storm itself was responding to the flashbang.

Ralkon’s eyes fall on the door to Markward’s quarters, still sealed with Inquisition barrier tape. He walks over, his left hand gripping the door handle. With a sharp motion, he signals Volk and Caltan to join him.

Without hesitation, Ralkon tears through the barrier tape and yanks the door open. Volk crouches behind his shield as he enters, while Caltan follows closely behind, shotgun raised to his cheek.

“Right side clear,” Volk reports.

“Left side clear. Room clear,” Caltan echoes.

Ralkon exhales, finally relaxing. He holsters his bolt pistol and flips the switch on the wall. After a brief pause, the lumen strips activate with a buzzing sound and begin to light the room.

Once the room is secured, Ralkon steps closer to the bodies. Slowly, he circles around them, finally allowing the weight of the sight to settle in. Varus is already kneeling beside them, methodically checking for any signs of life, though the pale faces of Drayk and Rhost leave little doubt.

“They’re gone,” Varus murmurs, her voice strained.

Ralkon takes a steady breath, his eyes tracing over the scene. The storm outside howls louder, as if echoing the chaos within. He turns one of the desk chairs around, dropping into it heavily, his eyes locked on the bodies.

“What the... factory-made salvation of mankind happened here?” he mutters under his breath.

Edited Thursday at 12:01 AM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Frida stands at the entrance of the great hall, staring out into the storm. The rain pours down in relentless sheets, drumming against the ground in a steady, deafening rhythm. She pulls her jacket tighter, though the cold has already seeped through.

Her thoughts drift back to the afternoon. She spent almost four hours searching the hall, floor by floor, corridor by corridor, weaving between Stowage Thralls stacking pallets and Manifest Thralls sorting containers along the conveyor belts on the upper levels. The air buzzed with mechanical hums and the occasional whirring of scanners as Regulator Thralls inspected goods for customs violations. She had to dodge a speeding Luggage Servitor at one point, nearly getting knocked over as it whizzed past on a mission. It seemed like every corner of the hall was crowded with servitors, endlessly busy with their assigned tasks, oblivious to her search.

The Loader Thralls lumbered near the industrial lifts, transporting massive crates as Dray-Bound Servitors moved pallets along the marked lines on the floor, all following the colored routes painted to guide their movements. Overhead, the automated cranes on their web of rails dangled ropes and lifted goods toward the platforms on the balconies. The constant movement felt overwhelming at times, but she pressed on, determined to find Anton.

At one point, Frida stepped into the industrial elevator, finding her place in the corner of the open platform where a safety cage waited for human use. The servitors paid her no mind, and the elevator didn’t move. She frowned, realizing it was waiting for one of the largest cargo servitors—the Iron Stevedore. Moments later, the floor beneath her began to vibrate with the heavy stomping of its feet. The platform creaked as the massive servitor arrived, carrying an entire cargo container across its reinforced arms. The platform shifted slightly under her as the elevator jolted to life again, and the winches groaned in protest, the engine’s pitch rising sharply with the added weight. She watched the counterweights pass by on the walls, wondering just how much more the system could take before something snapped.

She had combed through the ground floor, the first floor, second floor, even climbed up to the crane-operated space under the roof, weaving through this sea of activity. Yet, nothing. Every hallway, every nook—empty. Each passing moment only deepened her frustration.

As Frida crossed another floor, a Wastewarden stopped its crisscrossing pattern and beeped loudly, its optical sensors swiveling to focus on her. She sighed, realizing it had decided she was a potential source of waste. The small servitor followed her at a few meters' distance, occasionally letting out an irritating beep, like a mechanical dog begging for scraps. She tried to shake it off, but it kept following her, persistent in its task. Finally, she spotted a fire ladder leading up to the next floor and, with a huff of frustration, quickly climbed it, leaving the bothersome Wastewarden beeping at the base, unable to follow.

By the time she finished searching the hall, almost four hours had slipped by, and a flicker of panic hit her. Maybe Anton had driven home after all. The signal system she’d set up—maybe it had failed. Maybe the guards hadn’t told him to honk the car horn, or he’d been too stubborn to do it. Perhaps Fenix missed it or hadn’t run the signal test.

She didn’t want to pass the guards again—there were only so many excuses she could make—so instead, she found a spot by the perimeter fence, just close enough to see the car park. Anton’s car was still there, empty.

She turned back toward the cargo yard, retracing her thoughts. If Anton had gone to the hangar grid, he would’ve taken one of the staff shuttles. That was the logical choice, the only reasonable option. No one would walk that distance, not in the baking heat during the afternoon, with Ironbeasts hauling wagons along the feeder road. She hadn’t seen any shuttle missing earlier, but she went over to the canopy anyway to be sure. Four parking slots. Four shuttles, all accounted for.

Anton couldn’t have gone to the hangar grid.

Her eyes were drawn to the security tower at the southern corner of the great hall. It didn’t make much sense, but at this point, she couldn’t leave anything unchecked. She met Fenix on the way and asked if he’d seen Anton, but he hadn’t.

Once inside the tower, she climbed the auxiliary stairs. The sound of the office door opening above, that nun’s annoying voice, like a schoolmaster dissatisfied with a high school student’s answers, was audible for a moment from within before the door closed again. Frida crouched low on the stairs, not wanting to be seen by anyone. Through the gaps between the spiral stairs and the elevator shaft, she saw Lucas Reiner opening the door to the break room underneath the office. She waited until Lucas returned to the office, then she checked the meeting room herself, the toilets, even the broom closet. No trace that Anton had been here recently.

She reached the upper platform with the office door, silently pulled down the fire ladder from the ceiling, and climbed up to the elevator’s engine floor, hoping no one would see the lowered ladder while she was up there. Just dusty boxes and the whirring of the elevator engine from inside its cabin greeted her. Still no Anton.

She was running out of ideas about where Anton could be: he wasn’t in the tower, he hadn’t gone to the hangar grid, and if he’d been hiding somewhere in the yard, Fenix would’ve seen him.

So she returned to the great hall, determined to comb through it again, every corner, every shadow. Another four hours wasted, surrounded by servitors endlessly carrying out their tasks, and still, no sign of Anton.

Now, standing at the rollgate, Frida sighs. The relentless movement of the servitors continued behind her—Train-Slaves coupling wagons, Stowage Thralls stacking boxes—completely oblivious to her search. Her options were running out. She has to get to the hangar grid after all. Maybe Anton, drugged as he was, thought it was a good idea to walk there on foot.

Shaking her head, Frida readies herself to run through the rain toward the wagon canopy.

Edited Thursday at 10:31 AM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Frida waits out another intense wave of rain, the downpour hammering the ground around her. When the rain quiets down slightly, she seizes the moment and starts making her way across the cargo yard toward the wagon canopy. She doesn’t run but moves at a fast pace, eager to get out of the weather. As she moves, she plots her path in quick bursts, avoiding obvious puddles and using the cover of the great hall’s walls and the bit of overlapping roof. She sticks to less windswept spots near stacks of crates or containers where the rain isn’t as harsh, though it still drenches her.

The wagon canopy is a simple structure—a corrugated roof supported by metal posts, mostly designed to store wagons for Ironbeast trains when they’re not in use. There are more spaces than wagons under the canopy since the spaceport doesn’t have an excess of them. Train-Slaves frequently access this area, guiding wagons to and from the Beastloop, where they’re coupled to waiting Ironbeasts. The staff shuttles are parked off to one side—an afterthought, really—chosen for its convenient location between the outer gate and the security tower, where anyone needing a shuttle would likely approach.

Despite her best efforts, Frida is soaked by the time she reaches the canopy. She shivers slightly, feeling the cold seep into her bones. As she steps under the shelter, she notices one of the staff shuttles is missing. Then, she hears the distinctive whirring of a servo motor and spots a shuttle approaching from the Beastloop. For a brief moment, her heart leaps—it must be Anton returning.

She almost steps into the spotlight and waves, but something stops her. The figure at the wheel—it’s not Anton. She ducks back into the shadows by the wagons, her eyes narrowing. The driver is Lucas Reiner.

Frida frowns. Reiner should’ve left the spaceport long ago. His shift had ended nearly an hour ago. What is he still doing here?

She watches as Lucas parks the shuttle, his face grim and his posture stiff. A bad feeling creeps into her chest. She briefly considers approaching him for help, but something about his demeanor puts her off. His body language screams tension, and he looks like someone with a heavy burden on his mind.

She watches as Lucas retrieves a long box from the shuttle—maybe an instrument case or something similar. He looks around cautiously, sticking to the shadows as he moves across the yard, clearly trying to avoid attention. Frida stays hidden, watching him disappear into the great hall.

Once he’s gone, she takes a deep breath and steps out of the shadows. She approaches another shuttle, swipes her keycard, and starts the vehicle, her thoughts still swirling with questions about what Lucas is up to.

Frida raises the shuttle’s hood, to have protection against the rain. She switches the gear to drive, hits the gas, and the shuttle accelerates, slowly first, then starting to pick up speed a lot quicker, pushing her slighty back into the seat.  She passes along the Great Hall, a black shape cut out of the roving deep grey sky behind. The security tower first—its sleek lines and disk-shaped top jarring against the gothic bulk of the Great Hall, like a foreign body grafted onto its southern end. Further along, the integrated spire of the navigator tower rises, seamlessly part of the cathedral-like hall, crowned with radar dishes and antennas that complete its imposing silhouette.

Passing the Beastloop, she sees Train-Slaves coupling wagons to a waiting Iron-Beast. It reassures her; the feeder road will likely stay clear unless another Iron-Beast arrives from the compound.

Following the curve of the road, the flight district opens before her. Rain taps against the windshield, the wind wails, and the shuttle’s servos hum steadily—filling the silence as Frida’s thoughts drift. What had she been doing all day? Hours combing the spaceport, risking her health, her reputation. And for what? Anton. Always Anton.

"You’re such an idiot, Anton. You never think about how I feel." The words ring in Frida’s head as she drives, sharper than she expected. She remembers her life before the spaceport—back when she had friends, people to spend time with. Working shifts had made it hard to keep in touch, and one by one, those friendships faded away. Then came Anton, the first real friendly face at the office. The first person to treat her like more than just a cog in the machine. "And I’m the bigger idiot for caring," she mutters, her frustration simmering, the words lingering as the rain beats against the shuttle.

When he confessed to using obscura, it had shocked her, but in a strange way, she felt flattered by his trust. That feeling hadn’t lasted long. The more she learned about his addiction, the more she realized how much of his life revolved around it, leaving little else. And yet, somehow, caring for him had slowly begun to fill her own life in ways she hadn’t expected.

 

Suddenly, she slams on the brake, her eyes fixed on the meadows beside the road. Was that a shadow? Something lying in the grass? She blinks, trying to focus, but sees nothing now. Maybe she imagined it.

She hesitates, wanting to keep driving, wanting to reach the hangar grid—but what if she missed something important? Reproaching herself, she reverses the shuttle, eyes scanning the grass. There—she sees something. A shape. Her heart skips a beat as she turns the shuttle, angling the headlights to shine into the meadows. There’s something there, lying in the grass.

Frida drives the shuttle off the road into the mud, making sure it’s safely out of the way of any Iron-Beast trains, and jumps out. Her breath catches as she approaches.

It’s a body. It’s Anton.

Edited Thursday at 01:10 PM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Frida kneels beside Anton, her hands trembling as she checks for signs of life. His body is cold to the touch, and her own fingers are nearly numb from the freezing rain. She feels for a pulse at his wrists, then his neck—nothing. She presses her hand to his chest, but there’s no movement. Placing her palm in front of his blue lips, she feels no warmth, just the icy draft of the storm blowing past, mixing with the drizzle.

Not ready to give up, she digs into her purse and pulls out a small makeup mirror. She holds it in front of his nose, turning it to see if it fogs. For a second, she thinks she sees a faint mist, but it quickly vanishes. Was it real? She’s not sure, but does that even matter now? Her heart races as she looks around, desperate for something, anything that might help.

Frida lowers Anton’s head gently onto the grass and rushes to the shuttle. In a frenzy, she kicks the side of it with all her might, but it doesn’t respond. Frustration boiling over, she kneels, pulls at the wet grass, and begins stuffing handfuls into her purse. Using her mirror to dig, she tears a sod out of the ground and stuffs it inside. She slams the purse shut, then swings it with all her strength, smashing it down onto the shuttle’s hood once, then again.

The purse bursts open, and mud, makeup, her wallet, and keycards go flying. But a small blinking light on the back of the shuttle has begun to rotate, and a panel on the side springs open, revealing two illuminated buttons. A friendly female voice chimes: “At Di Maglio/Zu Rosenstein interplanetary freight port, we always want our visitors and staff to be safe. It appears you’ve been involved in an accident. If you need technical or medical...”

The buttons show a cogwheel on one and a cross on the other. Frida starts hammering the button with the cross symbol. The voice stutters: “We are saddened to hear you are experiencing medical problems. A member of the security tow... Please stay calm. A medical servi... Please think about your own protection and safety first. A Cryo-Med Servitor has been dispatched to your location and will arrive shortly to evacuate patients in critical condition.”

Frida stands, her legs weak, barely able to support her. Her eyes follow the feeder road toward the lights of a cargo lander, which servitors are busily loading in the compound. She looks to the right, along the row of hangars, disappearing into the dark. She knows, hopes, that a servitor has awoken from the Dormitorium Minor, where the hangar grid’s unused servitors are kept.

She turns back toward Anton’s body, her steps unsteady. Kneeling down beside him, she gently lifts his head, his wet hair clinging to her hands like the fur of a kitten, picked up by a small child, soaking wet, and purring from pain, as a car had broken its tiny legs. The child had run to its mother. Mother had come from an agricultural planet. She arrived on Holy Terra with the stream of pilgrims, working her way up through a soup kitchen. She knew, how to handle animals, how to treat them, how to save them.

She remembers how her mother had gently lifted the hurt kitten, then pointed out a man in a clown costume in the crowd. Frida had eagerly turned to search for the clown, her eyes scanning the sea of pilgrims. But she couldn’t find him. Behind her, she heard a sharp snap, followed by the whirr of the waste grinder. When Frida turned back around, the kitten was gone. Her mother had told her the kitten was with the Emperor now, but Frida didn’t believe her. The Emperor sat on his golden throne in the Himalayas—he didn’t live in the biowaste container under the kitchen sink.

Frida wipes the raindrops from Anton’s face, tears slipping down her own. “You’re such an idiot,” she whispers, her voice soft, her hand trembling.

 

Edited Thursday at 03:46 PM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

[i]Once, in the twilight of the universe, Isha, the goddess of life, found herself wandering through a forest of withered trees. The world was not what it once had been. Where there had once been blooming flowers, now only blighted leaves clung to crooked branches. The air was thick with the stench of decay, and yet Isha moved among the dying woods with gentle hands, searching for something—anything—to save.

Among the rot and the fetid pools, she found a figure hunched beneath the shadow of a great tree. It was Nurgle, the god of decay, cradling a garden of pestilence in his hands. His touch turned life to filth, yet his expression was one of care, even tenderness. In the writhing mass of decay, there was a small blossom—barely alive, its petals blackened at the edges. Isha recognized it at once.

“You have taken it,” she whispered, her voice heavy with sorrow.

“I have preserved it,” Nurgle replied, his voice like the groaning of ancient trees. He smiled, proud of his work. “This is how life survives—through death, through rot. Look how it clings, even when the world around it fades. It owes its existence to me.”

Isha knelt beside him, her hands trembling as she reached for the flower. She could see it still held a spark of its former beauty, but the touch of Nurgle had corrupted it beyond saving. The roots were tangled in the filth, and though she wished to free it, she knew the flower would never survive outside this dark soil.

“You hold it too tight,” she said softly, “and you have strangled the life out of it.”

Nurgle frowned, confused. He had nurtured the flower with all his attention, binding it to his world of decay, believing it was safe in his care. But as Isha touched the fragile petals, they crumbled in her fingers, turning to dust. She wept, for she had seen what it could have been, and for what it had become.

Still, she could not leave it. Even in its corrupted state, even in its brokenness, she could not turn away. She stayed with Nurgle in the garden of rot, her tears falling upon the soil, not to cleanse it, but simply to mourn. For though Nurgle had never meant to destroy what he loved, he could not understand that life needed more than just the safety of his grip—it needed to grow beyond his embrace.

And so, Isha stayed, bound to the garden as much as the flower had been. She could not save it, but neither could she walk away.[/i]

Edited Thursday at 03:33 PM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Taking Sergeant Ralkon's words as a direct question addressed to her, Corporal Varus looks around the room and attempts to answer.

 

"The wall over there looks like it was hit by a salvo of bullets, but it wasn't aimed straight." She holds an arm with an imaginary pistol forward and sweeps it in a wide arc from bottom left to top right.

Ralkon follows the trajectory of her gesture: an elongated mark on the linoleum on the floor, with a piece of plaster from under the right corner of the windowsill missing right behind it, the remnants of a toppled water cooler to the right, a huge broken screen with a shard pattern indicating two impacts—the right one diagonally above the left—and finally the small and clean, but unmistakable hole of a bullet, punching through the soft white metal ceiling boarding.

"Rhost was always quite proud of his fire discipline and tight grouping on the range, so..." she tries to finish her explanation but can only shake her head and raise her shoulder. "I don’t know what went through his head," she mutters, then halts briefly, irritated by her own choice of words. She points at Rhost's body. "The back of his upper neck, right underneath his skull... burn marks consistent with a lascarbine at close range, burn channel upward through the skull, exiting at the forehead. Looks like he was executed from behind, while standing, then dropped to the floor."

She turns her eyes to Drayk's body, not believing what comes out of her mouth next: "Selma... then seems to have shot herself underneath the chin."

Only soft breathing, someone's uniform rustling from adjusting their stance, and a low buzz from the ceiling lights fill the room. Ralkon rubs his clean shaven skin. Then his voice, calm but with a grave undertone, addresses all the enforcers in the room: "Does someone know anything about Drayk having beef with Rhost?"

The enforcers exchange glances. It's Volk who replies first: "No Sir, they actually seemed like good pals. Some jokes about them inviting us to their engagement or getting a hotel room together, but I don't think that was part of their deal. Just two comrades vibing well, Sir."

"Sergeant Ralkon," Corporal Varus raises her voice again. "I am not a licensed investigator, but zu Rosenstein's suicide, von Kessel running in a panic, and"—she motions toward the bodies beneath her feet—"that seems like a lot of people acting really strange in quite short order."

"You will make a damn good investigator, Varus." Ralkon turns around, studying the buttons on the desk behind him. "And probably a better one than the clown queen in charge of this... cluster of fun we're having right now."

Ralkon finds what he was looking for and jabs a series of numbers into a panel with his index finger. One of the screens lights up, briefly filled with a static snowdrift, which switches to a helmeted head in front of a room in low lighting. The soldier looks up, surprised and slightly groggy: "Imperial Guard, third European Homeguard Division, second AA-section of first independent battalion,…” he takes a breath, “Corporal Huber on night vigil, what can I do for you?"

Edited Friday at 12:25 PM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

"Sergeant Ralkon here, Adeptus Arbites, and currently acting head of security of the picturesque spaceport you see right outside your window. We have two dead enforcers here, and I want you to report..."

Huber tries to cut Ralkon short in a calming voice: "Sergeant... Ralkov? I don't know how you assume we can help you with an accident at the spaceport. We are manning an AA... an an-ti air-craft in-sta-la-tion of the Imperial Guard over here and can't leave our post. Don't you guys over there have a bunch of equipment to deal with the situation?"

Ralkon's temper flares up again: "Corporal Huber, I didn't call you for your cherished feedback about a situation you know two vats about. We have officers down, and signs of ongoing psychic attack! Get your beehive out of your comfy seat and get me your commissar-on-duty onto the screen, NOW! Make that half an hour ago, if you can!"

Huber leans forward, obviously reaching for a button underneath the screen. Then he turns in his seat, leans over a side support and shouts and waves to someone off-screen. A quick dialogue seems to happen, with Huber raising his hands and shrugging his shoulders repeatedly, then leaning even further out of his seat to point towards a back corner of the room with an outstretched arm, shouting a command. His head follows someone get up and leave. Huber turns towards the screen again and reaches for the same button. Huber's voice is heard again, a muffled exchange of hectic voices in the background. "Sergeant Ralkov, Commissar Goldbek will speak with you shortly, I advise you to adjust your tone when speaking with her, she won't..."

A hand in a white glove, dressed in the typical black sleeve hem of an imperial commissar, shoves Huber from behind. He turns around and looks up, and the glove motions him to leave his chair. Huber hastily obeys. An elderly woman, hair torn back from the forehead into a tight bun, sharp lines marking her features, wearing a commissar's mantle, drops into Huber's empty seat. She takes her time to correctly put the black peaked cap on and makes sure no quill has a chance to peak out underneath. Then she turns towards the screen, looks down a moment, hits a button, and starts to speak in very deliberate, controlled syllables:

"Sergeant Ralkov, I am Commissar Goldbek. I just got woken from a sweet dream by your voice shouting at the men under my control. I was informed that you demanded consultation with me immediately because you are panicking about a xenos attack on your position, and I don't like one single detail about any of it. Explain yourself!"

Edited Friday at 02:33 PM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Sergeant Ralkon takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and slowly exhales, focusing on his breathing. He then opens his eyes again. "Sir, Commissar Goldbek, Madam, Sir, excuse my frayed nerves at the moment, and allow me to fill you in on the situation as I am currently aware of." Goldbek leans slowly to the side, her elbow on the armrest, indicating her willingness to listen. Her eyes remain fixed on Ralkon, her right brow slightly raised in attention.

"I am Sergeant Ralkon, currently acting head of security of DiMaglio/Zu Rosenstein Interplanetary Freight Port. I assumed command this morning at o-five-zero-seven zulu, when the body of my predecessor, Markward zu Rosenstein, was discovered at the foot of the security tower. We had witness reports that he voluntarily opened a window and jumped, apparently deciding to end his own life, which would constitute an act of heresy for a man in his position, as even when filled by civilian..."

Goldbek raises her hand, waving with her fingers away twice, indicating that she is aware of the legal implications and not interested in a refresher lesson.

Ralkon gathers his thoughts, while Goldbek pulls a notepad and a pen from her inner pocket, without letting her gaze wander off his face.

"I... I called in the Inquisition to investigate, and an Inquisitor Callista Drakon with her retinue arrived within an hour. She..."

Goldbek scribbles on the pad, then underlines the words twice with decisive strokes, and raises her eyes again to taxate Ralkon. She drums the end of the pen impatiently on the top of the notepad and interrupts: "Inquisition, which branch?" Ralkon is taken off guard, his eyes darting left and right. "I... I had called the Ordos Haereticus, assuming it fell under their jurisdiction, but Drakon never specifically stated she was from Haereticus, and she couldn’t have arrived from Vienna in that short time. The Ordos Xenos has a research post around here in the mountains, maybe..."

Goldbek impatiently circles the end of her pen in the air, pushing him to continue with his report.

Ralkon gasps for air, then continues. "Drakon conducted her investigations throughout the day, and the spaceport resumed operations. This evening at 22.29 zulu, I received a report from perimeter patrol..."

"Sergeant Ralkov!" Goldbek interrupts again, raising her voice. "This Callista Drakon from an unspecified branch of the Inquisition, what were the results of her investigation, and where is she now? Why aren’t you consulting with her instead of bothering me and my men in the middle of the night?"

Ralkon snaps, defending himself with volume: "How on the Emperor's Holy planet am I supposed to know that! I’m just the head of security here, responsible for protecting everyone's life and well-being! Who in their right mind would find the time in their busy life to inform a tool like me about anything? I guess she drove back to her research post and is enjoying her cozy pillow right now! I don’t know when she left, and she didn’t leave me a number to call her up! And ... it’s Ralkon—with an N!"

During his rant, Goldbek had slowly leaned back into her seat, her eyes fixated on her notepad, watching her own pen scribble furiously while she slowly nodded repeatedly. As Ralkon falls silent, she looks up again, blinking once, slowly: "Are you done with your outburst, Sergeant Ralkon ... with an N? Can we proceed with what you actually have been informed about? You received a report from perimeter patrol at 22.29—what were the contents?"

Ralkon, trying not to turn red from the reprimand, regains his calm tone. "Perimeter patrol didn’t report anything unusual, but as we were finishing, civilian von Kessel exited the security tower in a panic and ran past us. He shouted something about a thing in the tower and that he would prefer begging in the streets over resuming his duties. I sent perimeter patrol up the tower to investigate, and assembled the post into a strike team to be able to react, should the situation turn critical. While assembling the team, we heard shots from the security office, and I decided to lead an assault. All we found were the bodies of the patrol. It appears they shot each other."

Ralkon takes another breath: "Look, I know the Army doesn’t think highly of the Arbites, but I can assure you, we have drills and regulations to prevent one of my men from firing a wild salvo into the wall and the other from executing her comrade and then herself by accident. I spoke with them seconds before, and they weren’t suicidal."

Goldbek’s expression seems softer for a moment, though it could be a mirage from the low lighting. "And so you concluded the pattern of events indicated a possibility of psychic attack." She looks to her side, leaning over to press a distant button repeatedly before refocusing on Ralkon. "And I agree. This chain of events is highly suspicious and demands immediate action.

Edited Friday at 07:29 PM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Commissar Goldbek’s peaked cap blurs near its top as her gaunt features lean so close toward the camera that she slips out of focus. "Sergeant Ralkon, I need you to do something for me." The crisp, precise staccato of her usual speech gives way to a conspiratorial legato, her vowels stretching smoothly, each word rolling almost like a note in a song. "Find the conference option on your vid-comm, and set up a second screen. I want to introduce you to someone. No rush—he won’t be here for a minute or two.”

Goldbek leans back in her chair, turning it to the right, her gaze away from the camera, likely toward a door. Her gloved fingers begin to twirl on the armrest, a slow, syncopated rhythm building.

Ralkon remains silent, realizing her grand request had merely been an office task—setting up a conference line, no less.

He grimaces at Goldbek’s disengaged silhouette, his mouth pulling tight as his brow furrows. His lips silently shape the words, 'So we’re playing stupid games now, are we?' His chin dips in a deliberate nod before he forces himself to focus on the desk.

He studies the buttons, switches, and keyboards in front of him. His hand hovers over one button before he presses it—nothing happens. He tries another, and the second screen sputters to life for a moment before falling black again. With mounting frustration, he waves Corporal Varus over, who stays just out of the camera’s view.

She silently points toward a corner of the desk. Ralkon leans over, carefully reading the labels on a panel of buttons before selecting one. This time, the second screen stays on.

Varus points to another part of the desk, and Ralkon begins typing, hesitantly at first. As prompts appear on the screen, his movements become more fluid, the rhythm of his fingers triggering faint muscle memory. The new screen fills with churning static, like a blizzard caught inside a box. Ralkon squints, to read the tiny letters in the black line above, then leans back in relief.

Goldbek remains turned away, gently rocking her chair from side to side, still waiting for her announced guest. Her fingers have settled into a slow waltz.

Ralkon beckons Varus closer and whispers near her ear, "Corporal Varus, I want you to take Volk and Haltz and check the elevator engine room for signs of tampering." He points upward. "Then the meeting room below, for someone or something hiding there. It’s probably nothing, but proceed carefully, just in case. Use the fire ladder to reach the elevator engine." He gestures toward the door. "It’s built into the ceiling. Easy to miss."

Varus begins to turn, but Ralkon stops her with a hand raised. "Before you go, the main risk likely won’t come from outside. Make sure you clearly communicate your intentions with each other, and avoid unnecessary movements. If anyone starts acting off, even a little, the others need to be ready to take them down and disarm them—no hesitation.” He lowers his voice. “It could even be you. Make sure to prepare Volk and Haltz for that, too."

He looks around the room at the rest of the waiting enforcers. "Instruct Caltan, Saltz, and Varn to evacuate Rhost’s and Drayk’s bodies, then have them stay down at the Arbites post.
He points to the floor, emphasizing “down”
“Have them treat the bodies with as much dignity as possible, but as much force as necessary.
I want them all," he gestures around the room, "out of here ASAP."
Ralkon refocuses on the screen just as Goldbek lifts her head in greeting to someone entering the room. With a graceful hand, she gestures toward the empty chair beside her.

Edited Saturday at 08:41 PM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

"Allow me to introduce Imperial Device Mandazini to you, Sergeant Ralkon." Goldbek's voice is as dry and flat as before, but has now adopted the pacing of a quick and triumphant march.

The whirling static on the second screen is filled and replaced by the image of a pale human head over a silver robe, adorned only with a brooch portraying the aquila of the Imperial Guard. Above the robe sits an impractically bulky piece of jewelry, a necklace of small boxes and woven wires, that is tightly fit all around the neck. Ralkon has seen this type of jewelry before. It's an explosive collar, designed to take the wearer's head off, once an integrated switch is activated by radio signal.

The head above the collar has neither hair nor brows, the pale complexion in front of the darkness behind it makes the face appear flat, almost featureless. The gaze is humbly lowered, the eyelashes, although not tinted, contrast starkly from the whitish shape.

"Don't let the pleasant exterior fool you, Sergeant Ralkon. Mandazini is a despicable mutant, tainted with psionic powers. The Emperor's mercy spared it from extermination as an infant; Mandazini is classified as an auxiliary weapons system of the Imperial Guard." The face on the screen has remained perfectly still during the proclamation, reduced to a bust to modesty.

"Mandazini can't be allowed to permeate beyond my personal zone of control, Sergeant, but I consent to putting its extensive training in classifying phenomena associated with the warp and the taint of corruption at your disposal. Mandazini?" Her pronunciation of the name combines a question and an order with a fanfare announcing a spectacle.

The straightened fingers of her white gloves meet at the height of her collar bones. A moment later, she gently separates and rejoins them, a brief applause for the instruments entrusted to her, before sinking back into her chair, satisfied with her elegant solution to a complex problem.

Mandazini raises their head. As their eyes seek Sergeant Ralkon's face, the drooping tear sacs under the pale iris reveal a sliver of mucous membrane, underlining the pupil floating above.

"Sergeant Ralkon, as I have understood, there might be a number of discorporated souls currently at your position?"

As Mandazini speaks, Goldbek’s gloved fingers shift lightly, adjusting an invisible imperfection on her wrist.

Ralkon blinks, taking a moment to translate the question. "Yes, three people have died here within the last 24 hours. Two cases of apparent suicide, one victim of a blue on blue..." Ralkon's eyes seek the word at the tip of his tongue in the air above him. "...execution?"

Mandazini's eyes close again, as they lower their head. "So, possibly two instants of internalized aggression, and one act of betrayal." The head stays still, then weighs slightly from side to side, as Mandazini ponders the implications. The eyelashes open again. "Your Adeptus Arbites post, is it equipped after IEN 8.6?" Sergeant Ralkon is taken aback by the question and has to think for a brief moment. He hears the door to the staircase open and turns his head to see Corporal Varus entering the room, offering a silent salute to report fulfillment of tasks. "We must be still at IEN 8.4." Ralkon looks at Mandazini again. "We aren't exactly high priority for equipment upgrades." Mandazini offers a sympathetic nod.

"That is regrettable, but will do. There should be a locker for specialized gear at your post. It should contain an olive metal case, about the size of a standard ammunition box for small arms, with the words 'oculus detector, anti-psionic defense of all troops, authorized personnel only' printed in white on the top."

Ralkon turns his head to Corporal Varus, who is still standing at attention between the doors to the staircase and the elevator, and starts to open his mouth. She halts him with an outstretched palm, then quickly flashes her outstretched thumb twice to indicate that she is in the know, and turns toward the staircase door. Ralkon stops her with a wink, then pulls a key card from his lapel, and leans towards her with an outstretched hand, holding the card. Varus darts to get the card, offers another silent salute, then vanishes into the staircase. The clattering of her boots descending the stairs in a hurry is silenced by the door, slowly closing behind her.

"My adjutant is retrieving it as we speak," Ralkon reports to Mandazini, who replies by slowly nodding their head in approval. Ralkon takes a deep breath, then swallows and adjusts his seat. Goldbek, still leaning back, lets her fingers trace a deliberate triangle over her crossed legs, her index fingers patting together lightly, like a conductor controlling the tempo of a performance only she can hear.

Ralkon's eyes wander from Goldbek to Mandazini, to the door, and back again. The awkward silence in the room ends when the light above the elevator pings, and Varus and Varn carry a heavy box between them into the room, then struggle to lower it silently next to Ralkon. The metal case hits the floor with an audible thump. Varus kneels before it, opens the lid, then looks at Varn and points towards the staircase. Varn nods, salutes, and leaves.

Ralkon clears his throat. "It's... been a while since my last refresher briefing on that thing. I remember it's turned on by flipping the switch on the lower right corner, but that's about it."

Varus finds the switch, the case begins to emit a low whirring sound, and indicators light up.

Edited yesterday at 05:55 AM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

“Sergeant Ralkon?” Mandacini’s voice sounds clean and weirdly child-like, and their clean pronunciation of every syllable makes it easy to understand, but the monotonous pitch, and the slowness, with which they form their words makes Ralkon wish to grab through the screen and shake them alive. “On the upper left side of the oculus is a circular screen. It should be displaying a white s-shaped curve.” “The oscillator, yes I remember that, it functions as warp spectromo..mo…”

The microphone almost fails to pick up Goldbek’s quiet sigh. Her eyes roll upward, a silent prayer for the Emperor’s patience as she waits for Ralkon to grasp the obvious.

Mandacini states it out loud, without shifting their tone: “It’s the immaterium shield spectroanalytic sensor display, commonly known as warp spectrometer, you remember that correctly, Sergeant Ralkon. How does it look to you?”

Corporal Varus pushes the oculus closer to Ralkon, and turns it around.

“The s-curve isn’t really smooth, lots of jagged spikes.” Goldbek’s eyebrow moves up slightly.

“Does the curve itself fluctuate in amplitude?” Sergeant Ralkon studies the curve for a while, then shrugs. “Looks stable to me, as far as I can see, if I ignore the noise. Around…” Ralkon strains his eyes to make out the tiny numbers on the right side of the oscillator. Corporal Varus holds out both hands to signal the numbers with her fingers. “17…” Varus extends a thumb, too. “between 17 and 18, is that good?” Goldbek pinches her lips, the numbers playing out in her mind, her head tilting slightly as she considers the implications.

Mandacini continues with their own questions: “Those spikes, how high do they go?”

Both Ralkon and Varus stare at the oscillator. Varus starts to signal with her fingers again, but Ralkon has already turned back toward Mandacini. “27 to almost 30 is what I see. Look Mandacini, it’s really been awhile, since…”

“27 to 30 is unusual. How many of those spikes are on the screen at one time?” Ralkon turns back towards the oscillator. After a moment: “I see three. five now. Back to four…” Goldbek nods, impressed by the high numbers.

Continuing in the exact same tone and rhythm, Mandacini suddenly seems to change topic. “Sergeant Ralkon, how do you feel?”

“How do I… what now?” Ralkon stares at Mandacini’s inscrutable expression. He feels how one of his lids starts to twitch. “Mostly irritated by your question. What do you mean, how I feel?”

 

“Does anything around you look, sound or smell highly unusual?” Ralkon looks around the room. “Well, the windows are almost completely covered by clouds, now, and there are raindrops running over them like in a carwash. I haven’t heard thunder for a while…” A distant grumble begs for correction. “Thunder is less frequent. Well, it’s the same darn weather you are having above your bunker across the road right now, so you can just open a window, if you need more details. Look? Looks like the same boring old security office I know. Smell? Well, Markward’s full ashtray has been stinking up the air all day, and the wastewarden didn’t go near it, as there is barrier tape all over the desk. And since I opened that guy’s private door… I always wondered why he is so heavy with the perfume, I think I solved THAT mystery now.” As if Mandacini had given Ralkon an idea, he points to the door to Markward’s chamber, and Varus jumps up to close it. “Is that unusual enough? How does all of that help you with…”

“How certain are you, that you are currently not dreaming?” Mandacini’s questions keep cutting through Ralkon’s insistence, without ever modulating their patient melody.

Ralkon leans back in his chair, and looks baffled at Mandacini. “Dreaming?” Ralkon sits straight, hands on the armrest, his eyes wandering aimlessly around, searching for the most solid, real thing in sight. “I wouldn’t come up with that stinky ashtray in my wildest dreams, so I am rather certain, I am awake.” He shakes off the creeping doubt with a nervous jerk of the neck.

Goldbek’s eyes look ready to escape their sockets, as if to go plead for mercy before the Emperor’s Throne. She shakes her head in disbelief, cutting off their escape route.

Mandacini still isn’t done: “In the upper right corner of the oculus is a number display. What does it read?”

Ralkon turns his head again, twitching his eyes. “34 if I am not mistaken.”

For the first time, the disbelief in Goldbek’s eyes isn’t aimed at Ralkon’s ignorance. The number hits her, sharp and unsettling.

“Look Mandacini.” Ralkon raises his eyes in an almost pleading manner to the mutant on the screen above the desk. “Can you please explain to me like you would to a 5-year-old….”

“34? That can’t be! Can you check again?” Mandacini’s tone has slightly changed, they almost show an emotion. Fear? Excitement? Goldbek sits up straight in her chair, staring at Ralkon, awaiting his confirmation. Ralkon nervously looks at the oculus again. “34.4 to be exact. That’s what it says.”

He hears Goldbek’s chair roll back, as she jumps up. “I have to leave you two right now. I have to get ready to report up the chain.” Mandacini again, their tone has returned to the same steady monotonous singsong as before. “Is the number going up or down?” Ralkon has his eyes wide open, shaking his head in silent desperation, as he turns back to the oculus. “34.5 now. It’s going up. Slowly.” Mandacini raises their eyes, the mucous membranes of their drooping tear sacs becoming even clearer visible, but their gaze still doesn't meet Ralkon’s. Instead, they seem zoned out to a spot far above, while Mandacini processes the discovery. Goldbek’s voice, talking to someone in the back, with a lowered voice, but not low enough to prevent the microphones from picking up her whispers. “Does my coat sit right?... Then brush it off, already, quick. Here is my brush. Command notices these things more than you’d think.”

Ralkon has had enough. “Mandacini! By the Emperor’s golden toilet bowl! Please, please, please with sugar on top, explain to me what is going on.” Mandacini finally hearkens to Ralkon’s pleadings. “The number you just read is the strength of the shield, protecting our reality from the surrounding immaterium….”

Goldbek is silently heard hissing in the back again, blowing off some steam, mostly to herself: “The tone this washed-up cop has on him, unbelievable. I bet he is hoping for medals, for bravely storming an empty office. I am gonna make sure he finds a reprimand for foul language in his files instead.”

Mandacini turns to the side, motioning to someone, then raises their other hand to cover the microphone before them with long spindly fingers. Corporal Huber’s face appears briefly before the chair that Goldbek has just left, reaching hastily for a button beyond. The light from the nearby screen makes his skin look almost as unhealthy as Mandacini’s, then the screen turns black. Goldbek’s voice is even more muffled, but her words are still clearly audible. “What’s he gonna do about it? Stalk me with parking tickets? Call his buddies on me, to tow my car – again?” A door is heard banging shut. Mandacini’s face turns back toward Ralkon.

Edited yesterday at 05:53 AM by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Mandacini’s eyes are closed, their head lowered in humility again. “The shield protecting reality from the immaterium is strongest here on Holy Terra, as above us, the Emperor sits on his Golden Throne in his palace on the highest peaks of the planet, his soul a lightfire of reason and his love for mankind. It is the light of the Emperor’s living soul, which allows the Navis Nobilite ….”
The solemn monotony of Mandacini’s angelic voice recalls childhood memories of sitting through liturgies in Ralkon, and he catches himself at the verge of dozing off. He pushes his shoulders back and blinks forcefully. He had asked for explanations “like to a 5-year-old,” and by now, he is simply grateful to get anything from Mandacini
“..to navigate the immaterium with capital ships. Without this beacon of rationality, the worlds beyond our solar system would be isolated, unreachable for the Imperium’s guidance, and would revert to decadency or fall prey to the everlasting threat of xenos enmity.”
Ralkon tries to follow Mandacini’s words, but his nostrils flare as the stale stench from the ashtray mixes with the humid air of the room. His brow furrows, and his eyes briefly shift towards the messy desk.
 “The strength of the shield is measured in credence per souls, or cps, the scale normed at 100, based on its strength atop the roofs of the Imperial Palace. The shield’s strength falls to 0 only in the whirling centers of the seven greatest known foul warpstorms: the Eye of Terror, the Maelstrom, the Great Rift, the Screaming Vortex, the Hadex Anomaly, the Emperor’s Wrath, and the Sabbat Worlds.”
A low rumble of thunder rolls through the weather, accentuating the peril Mandacini’s words convey. The window shudders briefly under the force of the wind. Ralkon flinches, momentarily distracted by the sound of raindrops pelting the window. They grow louder, more insistent, as though the weather were striving to prove itself, eager to rise to the cosmic scale of the warpstorms that Mandacini described.
Ralkon struggles to keep his attention fixed on Mandacini’s words, his mind straining to process the growing tide of information.
 “The local value on Holy Terra rarely dips below 90, and only in the foulest backwaters and hidden places, where complacency and inertia have crept into the holy administration and the rites of the Ecclesiarchy. An Imperial world with a cps value under 50 would be considered under threat. A value under 25 is one of the conditions that must be exposed to warrant condemning an entire world to the edict of rigorous Exterminatus.”

Ralkon hears a soft rustle from Corporal Varus, as she retrieves a small rosary and makes the sign of the Emperor across her chest before kneeling for silent prayers.
“34 cps... I would be wary, if I saw that value on an oculus, while on a patrol in the Khyber belt, outside the Solar System’s planetary spheres. Right here on Holy Terra….” Mandacini lifts their head, even tilts it back to fill their lungs, to show their outrage by raising the volume of their voice, their unsettling eyes wide open now: “Unbelievable!” 
Ralkon’s drowsiness has disappeared, staring at the screen in front of him, then starting to study the office around him with wide-open eyes. Another gust of wind howls outside, rattling the loose frames of the windows. 
Mandacini’s head sinks back forward, their shoulders heaving and sinking for a while before they regain their dignity.

“The Emperor’s holy shield has been attacked, the perils of the immaterium draw near, and threaten to subvert reality as we know it. That is why I inquired about your perceptions and your sense of self. The pattern of spikes you saw indicates, that the attack happened recently, and was breaching a stable shield configuration with immense force.” 
As the weight of Manzini’s words sinks in, Ralkon finds himself gazing at the ground right in front of the tips of his boot, his fingers grabbing and releasing the armrests repeatedly. Faint memories from foundational lessons in anti-psi-defense for all troops tell him, that he needs to get his breathing under control, and recall the glory of the Emperor’s faith within him to steel his immortal soul. He forces himself to lean back into his chair, close his hands in prayer, and starts to murmur litanies under his breath. “O Emperor of Mankind, as thou sattest… as thou sittest… on your everlasting… throne?…

Mandacini’s sermon still fills the room: “As the cps value ticks up, it shows that the attack is over, or has at least paused. The attack couldn’t have been initiated from outside Holy Terra’s atmosphere. An attack of sufficient magnitude to reach all the way to the ground would have raised numerous alarms from various and redundant sentry systems. It must have been originated locally. The first suicide you reported, especially if it was committed by an individuum already deeply steeped in taint and corruption, could have played a role in it, but a single heretic’s foul act shouldn’t have approximated the impact we are witnessing here. Sergeant Ralkon, I seek not to imply an oversight in your vigilance, but rather to dismiss a remote possibility. If a ritual orgy had taken place at the security tower, involving scores of heretics, hour-long chants, and multiple human sacrifices, you couldn’t have missed that, could you? 
Ralkon abandons his muddled prayers, his attention sharpening as Mandacini’s words begin to align with his gnawing worries. “Na, couldn’t have. And we would have found signs and traces of it all over the place.” The reminder of his duties grounds him, allowing Ralkon to reconnect with the honor of the Adeptus Arbites, the steady determination to serve and protect settling once again at his core. His gaze shifts to Corporal Varus, kneeling on the ground, steeped in prayer. A sense of calm follows. “What happened to my men, then?

Mandacini slowly sways forward and back, weighing probabilities. “The weakening of the shield in itself likely triggered the curiosity of presences in the immaterium, seeking entry to manifest within our reality.” 
Ralkon’ posture is firm but attentive now, his eyes narrowing as he considers the threat.
“But without indulging in a complete lesson on the taxonomy of warp phenomena, I doubt that anything so close to Terra would be powerful enough to break through the remaining shield and creep into the souls of servants of the Emperor, duty-bound to fulfill their oaths.

"Much more likely is that the first lost soul—however they managed to multiply their foulness to such an extent—was transformed upon their death into a wraith, now haunting the scene near its discorporation. The panicking civilian must have been the initial victim that spurred its cravings, but the wraith couldn’t hound it beyond the bounds of its domain. Your men must have encountered the wraith in a state of rage and desperation, and it pounced on souls that were not its to claim.
Ralkon glances to the corners of the room, a habit formed from years of vigilance. The thought of a wraith haunting his ward gnaws at his sense of duty, but he stays rooted, his chin lifting as Mandacini continues.
"If it knew your men in life, before its discorporation, it might have exploited flaws in their soul’s fortresses, breaching them for a tragic moment—enough to cause your men’s physical demise. Those souls, however, could not have nourished the wraith, as they did not neglect their duties of their own will. Instead, the strain would have weakened it. With the shield slowly recovering, it is doubtful the wraith will ever regain enough strength to be more than a lingering background annoyance. Once the cps rises above a value of 40 or so, the ordained ministry of the Imperial Ecclesiarchy should be able to purify the office and reopen it as a workplace”
Ralkon lets his eyes drift from the monitor to the clouds beyond, his shoulders tensing as his mind sluggishly sifts through the weight of Mandacini’s words.

To his surprise, the image on the other monitor sputters back on. Commissar Goldbek is back in her seat, heaving for air and shaking her head in utter disbelief. “Sergeant Ralkon, I hereby officially inform you…” She needs another attempt to steady her breath, pulls the cap from her brow, and throws it on the desk before her. Long, unflattering wisps of grey hair descend around her haggard features. “…that Command, in their infinite wisdom, is sending an entire platoon of mechanized infantry to your position. No Valkyries available, we are still a backwater here, and even if we had them, the weather is a mess.” She blows away a strand of hair that has started to drop toward her mouth.
“Three Chimeras' worth of infantry and a Leman Russ are on their way. It’ll take time—three hours under ideal conditions, but…” she weakly circles a finger above her head… “these are mountain passes, and we mentioned the storm already. The platoon has embedded pioneers to clear fallen trees, but an avalanche would force them to reroute.
Goldbek pulls a handkerchief from her lapel, wipes her forehead, then leans for her cap and starts to nestle it back on. Ralkon watches her for a moment, considering his next words. “Commissar Goldbek, if you’ve got maybe and per chance any outstanding bills for a towed car… send them my way. I can make them disappear in the spaceport accounts

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

As the elevator door closes, Ralkon looks at the back of Corporal Varus's helmet and shoulders and can’t help but feel proud about the way she wears the uniform of an Arbites Enforcer. Earnest, confident, untiring in her duty, quick in her mind and on her feet. He catches himself wishing he had a daughter like her and suppresses a chuckle so she won’t hear. “You are getting old. Sergeant Velos Ralkon, you are really getting old now.”

Even the moment between the elevator door closing and the slight jerk as the cabin begins descending seems to last far too long. In the low light of the cabin, Ralkon feels like the day had drawn on forever. Just closing his eyes for a while would feel so good.

Zu Rosenstein’s body, and Magos Rhaukos' first instinct to just clean up the scene and continue with the work. Something must have gone wrong when that guy got his brain implants. A certified genius, yes, astonishing how he had turned the whole spaceport around in just a few years, but mad as a hatter. Ralkon was glad he’d finally found the grit to cancel that strange agreement about the Arbites shipping bodies from the communal morgue to the spaceport to meet the demand for bio-components for the servitors. How did Ralkon ever agree to that nonsense in the first place?

That freakish explanatory letter from the Munitorum:
“In the interests of ensuring the continued operational efficiency of the Adeptus Arbites, and pursuant to Munitorum Regulation 6728-D, it has been determined, by the Council of Logistics and Supply,…” What was that even supposed to mean?

“…in alignment with the preservation of Mankind's longevity, effective immediately, all power cells utilized by Arbites personnel are required to possess an expiration date no more than 28 solar cycles into the future. Utilization of cells with prior or ambiguous expiration designations…”
“So now there are expiration dates on the powercells for our lascarbines? This makes absolutely no sense!”
Fenix’s insidious laughter… what did that hyena constantly find so funny?
“Yes, translated into human language, that’s exactly what it means—that’s why the carbine won’t fire. And since you copied the form's pattern exactly, instead of reading through the attached explanations, you got a month’s worth of expired power cells now.”
When that conversation took place, the first snow had been beginning to settle on the cargo yard, but the memory still upset Ralkon.

Fenix, always the weasel, always with a nose for the rathole:… “They put the modifications on the cells, though, not on the weapons. Just remove the official adapters and put them on commercial cells, and you no longer have to deal with that nonsense.” As if the salary of a spaceport NCO could cover supplying an entire Arbites post with ammunition.

And Fenix’s disgusting, shift-eating smile as he stood next to the pallet of boxes that Loader Thrall had toppled right under his nose. “Oh my! How could that have happened? Bad servitor, bad! Now I have to walk all the way over to the Great Hall and go looking if we still have enough duct tape behind the sanctuarium. That will take me hours to find. Well, if Anton Fischer or Markward spot the pallet first, at least the pilgrims will have access to cheap power cells soon.” Sergeant Ralkon has visions of pulling the elderly novice into a quiet corner and beating some respect before the law into him with a shock maul.

His jaw begins to hurt from the fantasy, and Ralkon tears himself out of it, afraid that Corporal Varus could hear him grind his teeth.

Edited 14 hours ago by Ya Evyl Aunty

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Sergeant Ralkon looks exhausted as he enters through the door of the cramped Arbites post. The rain is still plattering against the observation window, taking up most of the wall above his desk. He throws the peaked cap with the glittering wet protection foil still on it next to the unfinished paperwork, then hangs the equally moist rain cape over a coat rack in the corner. The door opens again, Varus enters behind, and the gushing sound of the downpour follows her into the room, before she closes it behind her. As Varus begins to neatly pack away her equipment, Ralkon plunges into the chair at his desk. “Gentlemen,…” His voice sounds tired, but he finds his determination again, “…that was a lot of exciting entertainment we just had together, but we aren’t here for vacations.” He swivels the chair around towards the passage to the bunk room. “Caltan, Saltz, you should have long been on perimeter patrol by now.” He checks the clock on the wall. “Skip the first two control points, proceed right to three, resume the patrol as per assigned order from there. If you get moving, you should be able to catch up on schedule. I’ll enter a note to the watch book, so you won’t get into trouble.” His eyes peer into the murky bunk room, where groaning shadowy figures begin to climb out of the three story bunks. “Volk, Nadia Kroll is standing at the gate for almost three hours by now, and probably wonders if you forgot about her in search of a new crush. Get ready to release her, so she can get a hot soup or something, before she turns into an icicle.” As his eyes adjust to the darkness, his right brow raises in suspicion. He heaves himself out of the chair, and approaches the bunks of Rhost and Drayk. The blankets are neatly folded into an accurate geometric pattern, the pillows untouched. “Where did you put the bodies?” “We met Fenix in the yard.” Varn’s voice sounds muffled, as he already put his helmet on. “He offered to bring them into the sanctuary. We thought it was more dignified, then…”

A memory echoes in Ralkon’s head, Rhaukos’ crinkly emissions:  "Sergeant Ralkon, were there any irregularities in the lascarbine's energy output or power matrix during your field test?"

“Fenix? Novice Fenix Koll?”  Ralkon trumpets like a wounded elephant. He turns around towards his desk, grabs his helmet from the rack on the wall, opens the visor, turns on the integrated mike, and blows into it sharply. Varn and Caltan cringe from the sudden noise in their ears, and Ralkon blows again, before he puts the helmet over his head. His typical bellowing baritone is now almost silent, but sharp as a rattlesnake’s tail, coiling up to strike. “Gentlemen. Stop treating Fenix Koll as the harmless old chap, he pretends to be. Anything..” he shakes his hand to emphasize the word “Anything, that is wrong with this spaceport leads somehow back to Fenix Koll. Even Markward zu Rosenstein was decent, before he came here. I still have a reprimand in my files for being lax on duties.” The notion of the reprimand weirdly sounds like a cherished memory, a mark of honor for the person, that filed it.
“Don’t talk with Fenix, don’t accept his help or any gifts from him. He is poisonous, vile, constantly worming himself into every soul around him!”
Rhaukos turns to his men: “Striketeam, assemble to prepare for urgent arrest!” Corporal Varus’s voice sounds shy: “Don’t we need a warrant for that?” “Not in prevention of imminent crime!” “What crime?” “Defilement of your fallen comrades mortal shells!”

Edited 11 hours ago by Ya Evyl Aunty